Valkyries Calling-Chapter 46: Blood Moon Rising

Having already said his goodbyes to his wife and unborn child, Vetrúlfr and his men cast forth from the harbor of Ullrsfjörðr, armed and ready to seize the islands of Færeyjar.

Fáfnirsfangr slipped into the waves like a dragon returning to its primordial sea.

Had it been a Christened vessel, it might have borne the name Leviathan for the way it glided with effortless menace across the deep. But this was no Christian ship.

The ochre vegvísir stood proudly upon earthen-black sails, while the bronze draconic motifs on the prow shimmered beneath the hard sun like the fangs of a slumbering wyrm.

Two dozen knǫrr flanked its sides; each fearsome in its own right, but dwarfed by the dreki that led them.

For a land like Færeyjar, Vetrúlfr did not need to summon the full might of Ísland. Merely his own fleet and those loyal jarls who had pledged their oaths beneath the banner of the White Wolf. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

It would be a long journey southward, to the liminal bridge between the pagan north and the kneeling Christian world. Perhaps it was because of this that Vetrúlfr desired it most.

Beneath the tarp canopy stretched over the ship’s midsection, Vetrúlfr sat poring over vellum and rough-drawn maps, his finger tracing coastlines as he conferred with his húskarl, Gormr.

"The Færeyingar are little more than sheep-herders and fishmongers," Vetrúlfr said. "Much like Ísland before we cast out the cross. Each stýrimaðr knows the plan. Now we wait and see who keeps to it."

Gormr offered no response. His eyes had drifted to the aft, where their uninvited guest, Tróndur í Gøtu, rowed alongside the other men, muscles taut with age-honed strength.

"Are you sure you trust him?" Gormr asked. "What if he leads us into an ambush? Ármóðr sent word; many Faroese chieftains are loyal to Óláfr Haraldsson. This could be a trap."

Vetrúlfr cast a glance over his shoulder. Tróndur’s eyes were fixed ahead, his motions rhythmic, his jaw set like he rowed against the tide of fate itself. Then Vetrúlfr looked back to Gormr.

"Look into his eyes, Gormr. Those are not the eyes of a traitor. They belong to a man who carries an old wound... a vendetta unpaid. I trust his hatred more than I trust his words."

The ship fell into silence once more. Only the roar of the waves and their clash against the oars could be heard.

The journey was long, but they had the advantage. Nobody knew they were coming.

---

The Færeyingar slept in their homes as autumn’s breath howled across the isles.

Rain danced upon turf rooftops, and distant thunder rolled across the darkened fjords. Most slept soundly, lulled by the storm’s rhythm.

But not Leifr Øssurarson.

He felt it in his bones — something was wrong. Ominous. The silence was too deep. The storm too hollow.

Tróndur, the old snake who had slain his father, vanished from the islands. Some claimed he had fled.

Others whispered of secret dealings with Icelandic pagans. But Leifr found no peace in these rumors. They stank of omens.

Try as he might to put these thoughts to the back of his mind and gain some proper rest. He could not.

It was only when his weariness overtook him, and his eyes began to close that he heard it.

Screams. At first faint, mistaken for wind. But then the scent followed; burning pitch, ash, and blood.

They were under attack.

Leifr scrambled to his feet, fumbling in the dark for his blade. He reached for the door, in a bout of panic forgetting his shield, and flung it open like a man possessed.

There he met the blade. Steel sank into his gut.

The pain was white hot, and standing before him was a ghost. No. Not a ghost. A revenant. Tróndur í Gøtu.

Leifr bared his teeth in agony and fury. He lunged forward, impaling himself deeper on the sword just to bring his own down in a final swing.

"If I go to Hell, I’m taking you with me, old man!"

Tróndur met the swing with his shield, kicked Leifr backward, and yanked his sword free.

"Hell is for your kind, Christsworn! I sail for Valhǫll tonight!"

A swift stroke, and Leifr’s head fell to the earth. One of three heads that had dragged Færeyjar into the dark age of Christ.

Tróndur set fire to the house and strode off to find the last name on his list.

---

Vetrúlfr led the charge into the village on Streymoy. From the decks of the knerrir, arrows rained like fire from the heavens.

The dragon ship had come. And with it, the wrath of the old gods.

The villagers, ruddy-faced men with farm hands and dulled blades, burst from their homes. Some bore axes, others fishing spears. None were ready.

Vetrúlfr waded into them with a Dane axe in both hands. His shield remained on his back. He needed only fury.

The first man to charge him was split in two at the waist. Blood bathed Vetrúlfr’s mail and face as he roared, lips parting in a war cry of old.

"Deyið fyrir Óðin!"

Die for Odin.

Another came at him. Sloppy. Predictable. Vetrúlfr ducked under the swing and smashed the man to the ground with the blunt end of his axe pole before splitting his skull.

Gormr rushed to his side, cutting down two more villagers with a flurry of practiced swings.

"I lost sight of Tróndur! He’s vanished!"

But Vetrúlfr was far gone; lost to the storm of battle. A grin stretched across his blood-slicked face as he plunged straight into the defenders’ shield wall.

"Valhǫll!"

He kicked into their line, breaking the makeshift formation like twigs beneath a bear’s charge. The defenders fell like wheat, and he reaped them.

Behind him, Gormr shook his head.

"The gods feast through him. These poor bastards are little more than sacrifice."

On this night, many villages across Færeyingar burned. And by the dawn, a red sun would rise in place of the moon. Mourning the fallen, and ushering in a new era for the islands.

A return to the old ways, a return to the old gods.

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