Valkyries Calling

Chapter 54: Echoes of a Forthcoming War

Chapter 54: Echoes of a Forthcoming War

The atmosphere when Vetrúlfr returned to the cave was frigid, taut with dread.

He emerged through the morning mist like a revenant, and no sooner had his silhouette taken form than a blade was pressed to his throat.

The thrall had moved to protect her mistress. But the moment her eyes met Vetrúlfr’s, the blade fell, and she clung to him; fiercely, silently. No words were spoken, her tears spoke for them.

A stark contrast to his departure. He said nothing, yet something in him had changed. Perhaps, for a moment, he really had been draugr.

From the fog, Brynhildr’s voice called out.

“Welcome home, my son—”

Her words halted as her hand emerged from the mist and pressed against his chest. She rubbed gently, almost reverently, testing the warmth of his skin, perhaps

The gods had made their will known. Whether in wrath or deliverance, she could not say.

She wrapped her arms around the girl, holding her close beneath a wool blanket, and spoke a single prayer to whatever powers might still be listening.

Vetrúlfr said nothing.

He rowed.

Toward Ullrsfjörðr.

Toward his wife.

Toward the child soon to be born.

Behind him, the sea whispered.

—

In the heart of the Holy See, Pope John XIX sat on the throne of Saint Peter, a figure carved in solemnity and veiled in incense.

Before him knelt a courier; mud-soaked, weary-eyed, yet trembling not from travel but from the weight of the words he bore.

“Your Holiness…” the messenger began, voice dry as parchment. “We have received troubling reports from the North. The Archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen has heard nothing from his missionaries in Islandia for over a year. Further attempts to reach them have met only silence.”

The man hesitated. His lips quivered as if resisting the rest of his message.

“Worse still… whispers from Connactia speak of raiders. Ships bearing brown sails, marked with pagan staves. Men clad in the skins of white wolves stormed the coasts. They plundered, took Christian hostages, and vanished into the fog of the sea.”

The Pope’s features remained stone-carved, unmoved. The messenger, however, bowed deeper, as if trying to hide from the memory of what he must say next.

“They… they set fire to the Priory of Cella Mac Duach. All were slain. Except the sisters… those young enough, fertile enough to—”

He choked. The words remained unspoken, but they hung in the air like smoke after fire. Pope John XIX gave no sign of shock. He had heard worse in his long dealings with kings and heretics. But the chill that crept down his spine was real.

The memories returned: the attack on Bobbio, just one year prior. A warband of masterless Varangians. Heathens wearing the skin of wolves. Cnut had assured him they were hunted down. Put to the sword.

But now — this?

Dozens of ships. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of these men?

If such word took this long to reach Rome, someone had buried it.

And John had a very clear idea of who that someone was.

“If Cnut lied…” he muttered to himself, more a curse than a thought. “If he dared silence the Church to protect his throne, then he has chosen his enemy.”

His fingers drummed against the gilded armrest. The golden lions adorning it seemed to snarl with him.

“Norsemen…” he said finally, voice like cold iron. “We thought them broken. Humbled before the Cross. We believed we had baptized the sons of Ragnar, turned their steel into plowshares…”

A long pause.

“But it seems we baptized wolves, and now they bear fangs again.”

Silence.

Only the muffled echo of wind through the ancient basilica.

Then, thunder cracked not in the sky, but in John’s voice:

“Send word to Normandy.”

“No finer warriors live in Christendom. I want Duke Richard’s measure. Let him tell me whether his knights will ride should the storm come to our shores.”

The messenger didn’t speak. He bowed deeply, crossed himself, and departed swiftly.

John was left alone — alone with his thoughts, and the ghosts now knocking at Christendom’s door.

“The White Wolf,” he murmured. “A savage. A beast. But perhaps… also an opportunity. If fear can be turned to faith, if the wrath of the North can galvanize Rome, then let him howl. Let him rend.”

He allowed himself the smallest smile.

But it was not the smile of a shepherd.

“Patience is a virtue, after all… but it is a shame I am anything but a virtuous man.”