CHAPTER 173: THE RETURN OF HEROES

The fleet split as it neared the northern coast, dragon-prows wheeling away like wolves scattering to their dens.

Some ships turned toward the rocky harbors of Svalbard, others to the green slopes of the Faroes, others still to Greenland’s frozen shores where new halls had risen in the years of conquest.

Each hold awaited its share of plunder, its kin and thralls eager for the return of their warriors.

But the great ship Fáfnirsfangr pressed on, her sails heavy with salt and spray, until at last the fjord of Ullr opened before her, a wound of blue ice and granite cliffs, now lined with timbered halls and stout palisades.

Vetrúlfr stood at the prow, his cloak snapping in the wind, and for the first time since leaving London a smile broke across his pale face.

Smoke curled from dozens of hearths along the shore.

New piers jutted out into the water, crowded with villagers, thralls, and warriors waiting to greet their king.

What once had been a lonely inlet was now a living harbor, a capital worthy of gods and men.

The ship ground against the pier with a groan of timbers.

Vetrúlfr leapt to the planks, boots striking home soil, and the air erupted with cheers and howls.

At the front of the crowd stood Róisín, her hair bound in braids of fire, her green cloak bright against the winter sky.

At her side clung two boys: Bránulfr, already tall for his years, his eyes sharp as flint, and little Eirik, who peered out from behind his mother’s skirts with a wolfskin doll clutched in his hand.

Behind them stood Brynhildr, proud even in age, her pale hair gleaming like frost.

To her side waited two thralls: Nokomis, the Skraelingr woman taken from the western lands, her dark eyes watchful and calm, and Eithne, the Irish sister torn from a convent, her face still shadowed by both fear and devotion.

Vetrúlfr strode forward and scooped Bránulfr into his arms, the boy laughing as he clung to his father’s neck.

He set him down only to lift little Eirik high into the air, the child squealing with delight.

"You have grown strong," he told Bránulfr, ruffling his hair. "Soon you will be taller than your mother."

"And I will fight beside you," the boy declared.

Vetrúlfr’s smile sharpened with pride. "Aye. One day you will."

Róisín pressed close then, her lips brushing his cheek.

"You return with the sea itself in your wake," she whispered. "And stronger than when you left."

He placed his hand over hers, their eyes meeting in silent understanding, partners in blood and crown alike.

Brynhildr stepped forward next, her back still straight though years had weighed her shoulders.

"You have not wasted your exile," she said, her voice like the crackle of a fire. "The fjord is full, the walls stand taller. Ullr’s son has returned to a realm worthy of his name."

Vetrúlfr bowed his head slightly, more reverent to his mother than to any priest.

"It is your fire that kept these halls burning. I only fed it with plunder."

He turned then to Nokomis, who stood with quiet dignity, her cloak of sealskin drawn tight.

The High King of the Great North could not help but laugh, as he mocked the woman he had once fought alongside in her homeland.

"For years you have lived among my people, and yet you still refuse to dress the part?"

Nokomis’ face was expressionless. Cold as the icy shores of the land she now resided in.

Her gaze alone spoke all that needed to be said.

"Then you are home," Vetrúlfr said, and she bowed her head, dark eyes gleaming.

Last came Eithne, pale as milk against her dark habit, though the cross had long been torn from her breast.

She lowered her gaze as he spoke. "Do you still pray, sister?"

Her lips trembled. "I pray," she admitted. "But I do not know to whom."

Vetrúlfr’s grin was wolfish but not cruel. "Pray to strength. It answers more swiftly than any god."

Together they walked from the pier, through the crowd that roared and chanted his name.

Up the winding path they climbed, past the timbered houses, the forges belching smoke, the pens of cattle fattened on winter fodder.

At the heart of the city rose the mound, once barren rock, now crowned with a mighty keep.

Its high walls bristled with watchtowers, its gates iron-banded and proud.

When they passed beneath the archway, Vetrúlfr paused to look back.

The fjord shimmered with torchlight, the banners of wolf and spear flapping in the winter wind. His chest swelled with pride.

"The wolf returns to his den," he said aloud, his voice carrying across the courtyard, "and finds it greater than when he left. This is the work of gods and men alike. And it is only the beginning."

The gates of the keep swung wide, and the company entered the high hall of Ullrsfjǫrðr.

It rose vast and long upon the mound, its rafters black with smoke, its carved beams glimmering with gold leaf and painted runes.

In the center roared the hearth, firelight dancing on shields hung like trophies along the walls.

The spoils of England were stacked in gleaming heaps.

Ingots of silver, chalices stripped of their crosses, reliquaries smashed and smelted into bars, all were piled before the high seat.

Bolts of silk from the south, casks of wine from Francia, and the fat of English herds crowded the storehouses.

Vetrúlfr mounted the dais and raised his hand.

"Behold," he cried, his voice filling the hall. "Rome’s gold, England’s bread, the wealth of Christendom itself, and all of it ours! We carried it over sea and storm, by the strength of our arms, the edge of our steel, and the will of the gods who favor us still."

A thunder of shields answered him, iron on oak until the beams themselves shook.

Men shouted, women wept for joy, thralls bowed low as if to an altar.

Then the feasting began.

Casks were cracked open, the wine spilling red into horn and cup.

Platters of roasted oxen, salmon from the fjords, and bread baked from stolen English grain were borne to the tables.

The hall resounded with laughter, the clash of mugs, and the bellowing of sagas sung by the skalds.

Yet amidst the revelry came solemnity. At Vetrúlfr’s signal, a hush fell.

The warriors stood, horns raised high, and the skald began to recite the names of the fallen.

One by one, the voices of the hall echoed each name back, until the rafters rang with the memory of those who had crossed the sea but did not return.

"They feast now in Valhǫll," Vetrúlfr said, his eyes sweeping the hall.

"But their glory lives in us, in every raid, every conquest yet to come. Let no man forget them, nor their blood which bought this feast."

The hall roared in answer, horns tipped and emptied, the dead honored as brothers of eternity.

Then the skald struck his harp, and the songs of the wolf-host rose again, filling the night with fire and steel.

Vetrúlfr leaned back in his high seat, Róisín at his side, his sons gazing wide-eyed at the splendor, and felt the weight of empire settling around him.

He had returned not as raider, but as king. And the wolf’s den was no longer a refuge. It was a throne.

Later, when the horns had emptied and the songs had waned to murmurs, the high hall lay in a haze of smoke and embers.

Warriors slumped at the benches, bellies full, faces glazed with drink.

Only a few skalds still plucked their harps, their voices fading like wind on the sea.

Vetrúlfr remained at his high seat, Gramr resting against the arm, his gaze turned to the fire.

Róisín had retired with the children, their laughter long since quieted.

The hall smelled of roasted meat, pine smoke, and wine, but beneath it, faint as the tide, something else lingered. Salt.

From the shadows, Brynhildr stepped forward.

Her pale hair gleamed in the firelight, her cloak heavy with runes sewn in silver thread.

She moved not like a mother but like a seiðkona, her eyes sharp as blades, her voice low as the crackle of the hearth.

"You smell of her," she said.

Vetrúlfr turned, one brow lifting. "Her?"

"The Sea," Brynhildr answered. Her gaze bored into him, unflinching.

"I was right. Rán’s interest in you grows greater with every voyage you take. And I am still not sure if that is a boon... or an omen."

For a heartbeat, the hall seemed to still, as though the fire itself leaned in to hear.

Once, such words might have chilled Vetrúlfr to his marrow.

But now he only smirked, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

"It is a boon, mother," he said. "I saw her twice, not in the mire of the sea, but upon the land. Once in Greenland, when my soul was lost to the depths of the frigid sea, and once in Vinland. Since then, not a single ship flying my banners has been accosted by wave or storm. My fleet crosses oceans as though the sea itself clears the way."

He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with a wolf’s certainty. "It is a boon. I am only not sure what price I have paid for it."

Brynhildr’s breath caught. Shock flashed across her face, then a flicker of anger. "And you never told me this?" she hissed. "Never thought to speak of it until now?"

Vetrúlfr’s smirk lingered, unbothered, almost playful. "Would it have changed anything?"

A sudden realization dawned upon her.

"So that is why you build a shrine to her every time you conquer a new hold?"

Her hand clenched at her cloak, but her anger faded quickly into something graver: fear.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"If what you say is true, the gods have set their eyes upon you more than I dared ever believe. Ullr’s blood was enough. But Rán? She is no gentle patron. She takes as much as she gives, and her nets never release what they catch."

For the first time, Brynhildr looked not like a queen nor a witch, but like a mother again.

Her eyes softened, and her voice trembled ever so slightly.

"Pray that the price she takes is not one you cannot bear, my son."

Vetrúlfr only leaned back in his chair, the firelight flickering over his smirk.

He raised his horn in a silent toast to the shadows, as if to a goddess none but him could see.