Valkyries Calling-Chapter 45: The Birth of Fáfnirsfangr

Chapter 45: The Birth of Fáfnirsfangr

Athenry, Connacht

Mael Sechnaill mac Cathal sat in his royal chamber, a modest but well-fortified hall of timber and stone, warmed by the crackling hearth as the rains of autumn lashed the emerald hills beyond.

Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the firelight and the candleflames that flickered in iron sconces. The chamber was filled with the scent of damp wool, oak smoke, and old vellum. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

His wife, his sons, and a handful of trusted courtiers stood around him, hushed and wary. In the hands of Brother Ciarán, the court scribe, lay a scroll of vellum; its wax seal already broken, its contents read and reread.

The silence was broken only by the soft murmur of the storm outside.

Brother Ciarán cleared his throat, reading aloud once more, his voice thin but steady:

“It would appear that old goat Conchobar has begun looking into the genealogy of the Uí Briúin girl. I fear it is only a matter of time before he discovers the truth…”

Mael’s brow furrowed. He pressed two fingers to his temple, eyes shut, breathing deeply through flared nostrils. In his other hand, a silver-gilded goblet trembled.

Red wine spilled over its edge, dark and silent, soaking into the wool of his tunic. The fire hissed as a droplet struck it, and then all was still.

“Years,” Mael whispered. “Years of planning, undone by Norse steel and monastic cowardice.”

None dared speak. The air was thick with tension.

“I hid her well,” he continued, voice rising like a brewing storm. “A convent far from prying eyes, tucked beneath the shadow of saints and crosses. Kilmacduagh was sacred ground. Who would dare raise a sword upon it? And yet they did. The Norse came like wolves from the sea and tore it asunder. I thought her lost.”

He turned, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “And now… a whisper reaches me that the Uí Briúin girl lives. And Conchobar, that carrion-feeder, sniffs at the trail. I will not let him take what is mine.”

Brother Ciarán ventured, cautiously: “I understand the girl plays a vital role in your vision for Connacht, sire. But… even if she lives, if she is held by Norsemen; they are not known for their gentleness. Would she still be a suitable bride for your son, if our worst fears are realized?”

Mael’s eyes snapped toward him like a falcon spotting prey. “I did not veil her in innocence for fifteen years just to have her sullied by some frost-ridden savage.”

Silence returned. Then, with deliberate calm, Mael stood. The golden crucifix around his neck caught the firelight.

“If this Viking warlord holds the girl,” he said, voice ironclad, “then he owes me a debt. I entrusted her to God, and perhaps it was Providence that delivered her into his hands. Let him prove himself an instrument of divine will. Let him return her, untouched and unharmed, and he may yet earn my friendship. If not… then he shall burn alongside Conchobar, and may heaven sort the ashes.”

Domnall, Mael’s eldest son, cleared his throat. “And if he claims her as his bride, father?”

Mael did not flinch. “Then we shall summon him not as a king, but as a sword-for-hire. If he values gold, we will drown him in silver. If he values blood, we will give him a war worthy of song.”

He turned to Brother Ciarán. “Send an envoy to Reykjavík. I want a reply before the frost sets in.”

The scribe hesitated. “Sire… word from traders says their capital now lies farther west, in the deep fjords. I dare not speak its name here; it bears the name of their winter-god. They say no Christian may enter those lands without paying a debt of blood.”

Mael’s eyes narrowed. “Then send a Gall-Goídil. One who speaks both tongues. One who can bow without kneeling. Tell him to find this White Wolf. Tell him their king calls.”

Brother Ciarán bowed. “It will be done, my lord.”

—

The dusk of autumn set upon Ullrsfjörðr like a benediction of fire. The harvest had ended; granaries brimmed with barley, rye, and fish. Smoke curled from longhouse roofs. The scent of pine, salted air, and roasting meat filled the streets.

In the great hall, beneath rafters carved with runes and the heads of beasts, the people of Ísland celebrated.

A sacrifice had been made to the Vanir at dawn, a white bull offered with sacred songs, and the gods had blessed the land.

Now the people drank their joy, their bellies full and their hearts lighter than the northern wind.

Róisín sat beside Vetrúlfr, her belly round with their unborn son. Her hand rested gently on her womb as she watched the revelry unfold.

Mead spilled, laughter rang, and children danced to lyres and flutes. Then the doors opened. A hush fell.

An old man entered, bearded and weathered, shoulders broad, knuckles scarred. His eyes burned not with pride, but with sorrow. Around his neck hung a Thor’s hammer, worn smooth by time.

He stepped forward into the light.

“I had heard whispers that Ísland was reborn,” he said, voice hoarse. “That the old gods walk again among the living. That Christ’s shadow was driven out with fire and steel.”

He fell to his knees before Vetrúlfr.

“Then I did not come in vain.”

He bowed his head low.

“You do not know me. I am Tróndur í Gøtu, of Færeyjar. I come not as a warrior, but as a penitent. I betrayed the gods to save my people. I shamed myself before the ancestors. Now I offer my life, my blood, my soul, if it may buy your mercy. Save my people, lord of Ísland. Save us from the fate I once accepted.”

All eyes turned to Vetrúlfr.

Róisín looked to her husband with quiet pleading, hand on her belly.

But it was not he who spoke first.

“If we sacrificed every coward who bent the knee to save his kin,” came a slurred voice, “…then Ísland would be a graveyard.”

Brynhildr stood, cheeks rosy with drink, laughing like a valkyrie.

“Pardon him, boy. The Færeyingar have always been kin. And if they cry for help, we answer. That is our way.”

Still, Vetrúlfr said nothing. He stared, unmoving. The hall grew still once more.

Then he turned his gaze elsewhere.

“Eikþórr,” he said, voice calm, “when will Fáfnirsfangr be ready to set fire to Christendom?”

The red-bearded shipwright choked on his mead. He stood quickly, straightening his tunic.

“Within a fortnight, my king. The dragon only awaits your command.”

Vetrúlfr stood. His shadow fell over Tróndur.

“Then you have your answer. Rise. Drink with us. And tell me of the fire that still smolders in your people’s hearts.”

Tróndur drank from the king’s own horn, and the hall erupted in cheers once more.

That night, by firelight and ale, he spoke of the long struggle; of forty years resisting the priests and their gold.

Of Sigmundur’s treachery. Of kings made puppets. Of gods driven into the sea. And of one last chance for the hammer to rise again.

And Vetrúlfr listened with a storm in his blood and ice in his eyes.

For the war to come would not be one of raiding.

It would be a reckoning.

—

Fáfnirsfangr lay in the harbor like a beast of legend, dwarfing every vessel beside it.

Carved from the heartwood of ancient trees, it stretched long and broad across the cold black waters of Ullrsfjörðr.

The dragon prow, cast in glinting bronze, snarled silently at the sea ahead, its maw concealing a weapon wrought in secret.

A thing not born for trade nor exploration, but for conquest and annihilation.

Men bustled along the docks, piling crates of smoked fish, casks of mead, salted pork, and grain aboard not only the great vessel but the smaller longships flanking it.

Their excitement masked only slightly by the grim knowledge of what this voyage truly meant. War was coming.

Gormr, clad in a heavy wool cloak dusted with salt and soot, stepped beside his King, gazing upon the draconic silhouette before them. He gave a low whistle.

“By the gods… I almost think it would’ve been better if you’d named the beast after Jörmungandr. If such a monster ever released its tail from the depths, truly Ragnarök would be upon us.”

Vetrúlfr scoffed faintly, his hand resting idly on the wolf-engraved pommel of his sword. He kept his eyes on the vessel.

“This is not the world’s end,” he said. “Only the end of their world. The world of kneelers and crosses, of book-bound lies and holy fire. Too long have they burned our groves, stolen our children, hanged our Seiðr, and salted the bones of the old gods. But no more.”

He stepped forward, his voice growing quiet, almost reverent.

“Fáfnirsfangr is the dragon born of their greed; the vengeance their gold has purchased unknowingly. Where her keel carves the tide, fire shall follow. They will remember what we were, and tremble at what we have become.”

Gormr fell silent for a long moment, taking in the terrible beauty of the vessel.

“If there were ever a ship to usher in such a reckoning,” he said at last, “this would be it. I will follow you, my King. To victory and Valhǫll—or to defeat and Helheim. Either way, I am yours.”

A hush fell between them, the wind catching the edge of Vetrúlfr’s cloak and tugging it westward like an omen.

The thunder rolled across the horizon then, low and sullen. A jagged tongue of lightning tore open the sky above the sea.

Vetrúlfr’s gaze turned distant, as if peering beyond the edge of the world.

“If we are to fall,” he said, “then let it be a fall so mighty the gods themselves descend to witness it. Let the Valkyries take us not as broken men, but as kings. Let Hel know she has no claim over us.”

He turned, cloak billowing behind him, and strode toward the gangplank.

Step by step, he ascended the back of the dragon, climbing aboard the beast meant not to flee the storm; but to bring it.

And when he reached the deck, the wind surged, as if the sea itself were drawing breath.

The end was coming. And it would not come quietly.

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