Valkyries Calling-Chapter 47: Valkyries Over Færeyjar

Gilli had rallied the village’s defenses — or what little remained of them. These were no warriors of the North, no skjaldmær or herfjǫtur.

They were fishers, shepherds, and landfolk who held spears only when necessity demanded.

Yet now they formed a ragged shield wall atop the village’s high hill, the wooden homes below ablaze with fire and panic.

From the dark vale below came the howling; like wolves given form in men. Laughter followed, sharp and cruel.

The cries of women and children echoed up the slope, swallowed by the storm.

And through the rain and fire came a single figure, walking unafraid through the flames. Not a hulking húskarl clad in iron, but a familiar face to them all.

No, it was a familiar face to anyone in the village: Trǫndur í Gøtu.

Shield slung to his side, sword glinting in his fist, he raised his voice like a seer at the þing, a voice thick with the fury of a forgotten age.

"You took everything from me; my family, my gods, my very way of life! But now I have returned! Sigmundr fell to my sword, and so too did his son! You are the only one left, Gilli! We end this here and now!"

Gilli turned to those beside him;

eyes wide, pleading, fearful. They begged him, silently, to step forward. To end it, one way or another.

He knew his role. As representative of Færeyjar that had bent the knee to Noreg, he understood this moment.

You bitter old draugr! I was there at your baptism! I saw you bow before the white god! And now this — this savagery! So be it! Let us end this in the old way!"

Not another word was spoken

He broke from the shield wall, axe raised, charging like a maddened bull. Tróndur met the onslaught with shield and steel, and their blades sang.

---

The storm poured down upon the burning village, yet the flames burned hotter still — as if mocking Freyr’s mercy.

Some claimed it was seiðr from Ísland, dark magic that gave Fáfnirsfangr its dragon-fire. Whatever its origin, it spread like a curse upon the land.

The villagers soon surrendered. Too few of them remained, and none could match the fury of Vetrúlfr’s reavers.

Vetrúlfr himself stood quiet amidst the cinders, expression unreadable. His húskarl Gormr approached, soaked to the bone and red with blood.

"My Lord," he said, "we’ve found Trǫndur. He’s in hólmganga — with a local chieftain. At the hilltop."

Vetrúlfr’s eyes gleamed. He passed Gormr and clapped a hand on his shoulder, his palm leaving a blood print on the man’s lamellar.

"Then let us bear witness to saga in the making."

He climbed to the crest, where the duel raged. Two men, old and bloodied, their breath coming in broken growls.

This was no dance of elegant blade craft. It was rage, grief, and will. One man clung to the gods of the past. The other, to the church and the cross.

Both were bloodied and cut beyond reason.

In the case of Gilli, the wounds were so deep one could see the bone, and yet he still fought, still endured, trying his best to protect what was behind him, and what he believed in.

Trondur was equally marred. Neither men were exceptionally skilled, but they were giving their all to the fight.

Yet unlike Gilli whose expression showed his will fading with each cut he received. Trondur licked his wounds like a wolf, and counterattacked with more aggression for every grievance he suffered.

A flash of lightning, it happened so quickly, but it was over by the time it was over. Both had struck, both had dealt a fatal wound. freёweɓnovel_com

Trondur stood, defiant of the blade in his chest, while Gilli crumpled to the floor, his vigor flooding from the open wound that gushed from his neck.

The look on his face was not one of comfort knowing he was going to his heavenly father in heaven. But fear, dread, and hatred.

And as Trondur lost the strength in his legs, falling to his knees, his expression was the exact opposite, pure bliss, as he clutched his sword tightly to his chest, dropped his shield and reached towards and empty space in the air above him.

"I go to my forefathers... With honor... To Valhǫll.""

And then he fell, lifeless as Gilli who lie by his side. The Christian villagers performed the sign of the cross, as they knelt on the ground, dropping their weapons, and sobbing as thy prayed for salvation.

But none would come for them, as Iceland’s warriors moved forward and secured them.

Vetrúlfr did not speak. He stared at the corpse of Trǫndur, not in grief, but something deeper. Envy.

In the flicker of fire and the veil of rain, he saw them. Valkyries. Winged and ethereal, descending in silence.

They took Trǫndur’s soul; or so Vetrúlfr believed. The vision vanished. The body remained.

There were no words to speak, not at first, and when Vetrúlfr was brought back to the world around him, after taking a deep breath of the cold and salty air, he realized that the Valkyries were gone, and so too was Trondur.

He had not known the man long, and his skill with the blade was sloppy. But his plight, his will. It was not just iron; it was Damascus steel.

Unbreakable, yielding, but in the end returned to true form.

For this, Trondur had gained Vetrúlfr’s utmost respect as the man knelt in the blood, and mud, saying his farewell to one of the few men in this life who had earned from him that which many sought: Admiration.

"One day I too shall fall. And when that day comes... we will drink together in Óðinn’s hall. Rest in peace, brother. You have earned your place."

Vetrúlfr turned to one of his oathsworn, and gave him an order.

"Lay him to rest with full honor. And give him a share of my treasure. The Christians took everything from him. Let us give him something to boast about in Valhǫll."

Not a word was spoken in acknowledgement of Vetrúlfr’s orders. None had to be. It was a level of respect that each of his warriors hoped one day to earn themselves.

After this, a short but brutal campaign would be waged to subdue the seventeen other islands.

And when the Vegvísir flew above them all, Vetrúlfr’s domain would have expanded, creating a bulwark in the south to prevent Christians from entering his world.

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