Valkyries Calling-Chapter 75: Stone Halls and Silent Prayers

The road climbed gently toward Ullrsfjörðr, winding through fields studded with sheep and low stone fences.

Ahead rose the settlement proper; if it could still be called that. It was more a fortified city than any village Eithne had ever lain eyes on.

Watchtowers stood at intervals along the curtain walls, their banners snapping the ochre Vegvísir upon an earthen field visible even from the road.

Armed sentries peered down, spears idle in their hands, eyes sharp as hawks.

Sister Eithne shifted uncomfortably as an armed escort guided her towards her destination. Her wrists chafed beneath the ropes, skin raw from the sea’s salt crust.

Yet it was not the pain that hollowed her breath. It was what lay before her.

She had expected rough timber halls, crude longhouses, reeking dung heaps and smoky hearths. The petty courts of Ériu had prepared her for such. But this...

As the guards pushed her through the first gate beyond the harbor, she gazed in astonishment.

The road beneath them was laid with fitted stones, carefully mortared, polished by countless boots and wagon wheels.

On either side, channels of running water cut through narrow gutters; she realized with a start they were aqueducts, smaller than those she had read of in manuscripts, but unmistakable.

The streets of Ullrsfjörðr bustled with life. Norse merchants with rings braided into their beards called out beneath striped awnings.

Children darted past, laughing, clutching hoops or carved wooden animals. Dogs nosed through baskets of fish, and hens clucked lazily on stone thresholds.

Above it all loomed halls of dark timber, roof beams locked in intricate dragon-headed knots. But beneath them... Eithne saw it plainly.

Strong arches and buttresses of dressed stone, columns flanking wide doors. Smoke rose not just from open hearth holes but from cunningly carved chimney stacks that funneled the exhaust far overhead.

When the breeze shifted, she felt a wave of dry, even warmth drift across her face, so unlike the cloying smoke of Gaelic hearths.

Something in the air hinted of cunning channels; hypocausts, the flue fires beneath the floors she had once only read about in dusty texts.

"Saints preserve me..." she whispered, breath catching on the cold air. "It’s like Byzantium itself was carried across the sea."

A gruff laugh beside her. One of the guards escorting her could not help but point out her misbelief.

"Not Byzantium, nun. But built by hands that have seen it. Look there; the buttresses. The vaulting behind those gatehouses. A man who has served under the eagles of Constantinople would know such works."

Eithne’s gaze flicked up. Indeed, over the inner gate loomed a carved lintel, worked with snarling beasts and knotwork; but beneath the Norse savagery was Roman symmetry. Arches stood sure, without sag or gap.

As they passed deeper into the town, her awe warred with her terror. Here were forges and baths that smoked pleasantly, scents of heated metal and fragrant oils mingling.

Laughter drifted from courtyards where men practiced spear forms or wrestled in the dust. Everywhere stood barrels of salted fish, racks of drying herbs, coils of fresh-cut timbers ready to build yet more.

They crossed a stone bridge over a rushing channel, and she glimpsed sluice gates and mills working ceaselessly. Children ran barefoot even here, fearless, sturdy, hair braided with bright beads.

But beyond the simple life, beyond the strange comfort of heated streets and ordered markets, was the wolf’s shadow.

Warriors swaggered in mail crusted with foreign blood. Banners rippled from every roof. And above them all rose the great hall of Vetrúlfr, perched on a defiant hill, its long slope guarded by stone walls and grand gatehouses.

Each carved with rune-stones where dark offerings lay. Crows gathered thick on the ridge beams, their eyes bright, greedy.

Eithne’s cart jolted to a stop. She was yanked from her seat, stumbling. A guard cuffed her shoulder, forcing her forward up the slope toward the hall.

She could hear the laughter within already, the deep voices of Norsemen telling tales of slaughter and spoils. A singer’s harp twanged. Someone’s tankard crashed over in rough celebration.

Her heart twisted painfully. She had been brought to stand before the devil in his den, yet surrounded by walls more cunning and beautiful than any Gaelic king could dream. And for the first time, a gnawing thought wormed through her horror:

If these pagans could build such wonders, warm such distant stone with hidden fires, might they not also craft hearts strong enough to defy the very will of heaven?

She swallowed hard, her lips whispering snatches of Psalms she could no longer quite recall. Before her, the wide doors of the wolf’s hall loomed, carved with beasts that seemed to move when she blinked.

And Sister Eithne, nun, orphan, failed shepherd of lost souls, was pushed through them into the mouth of the wolf.

---

The hall was warm with earthlight and the close scent of mead, pine, and sweat.

Even so, Róisín had poured fresh water into the large basin near the rear alcove where high windows admitted the last cold gold of evening.

Steam curled up around her face as she dipped a cloth, wrung it out, and pressed it to Vetrúlfr’s shoulder.

He sat on a low bench, shirt cast aside, the pale scars and darker new welts of war laid bare.

His thick hair was damp where she had already sluiced it clean, his beard still clung with faint threads of blood and soot.

"You should have your men do this," Róisín murmured, rinsing the cloth again. "Or a thrall. Not your wife."

His pale eyes slid to hers, a wry light in them. "Would you rather another woman’s hands tended me, then? Some pretty thrall from Ériu to sponge my neck and comb out my beard?"

She flushed at that, mouth tightening. "Don’t tease." Her fingers smoothed over his shoulder, lingering at the old white mark where a seax had nearly cost him an arm. "You know it’s not that."

Vetrúlfr caught her wrist gently, pulled it close, and brushed his lips over her knuckles. "I know. But say it."

Róisín hesitated. Then, almost in a rush: "It’s Eithne. I saw her on the docks. Bound like a calf for market. I — I offered myself once in her place. You know that. And now she’s here, and I can’t help but wonder..."

Her voice failed. The cloth trembled in her hand.

Vetrúlfr sighed through his nose, resting his brow against her arm. For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of pine logs and the quiet patter of drips from the eaves.

"She will serve this hall," he said at last, voice low and rough. "Because you ask it; and because she is of Ériu, and there’s something fitting in binding her pride beneath these beams. But she will warm no bed, least of all mine. Not unless she chooses it of her own will. And I doubt that fire burns in her."

Róisín let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Her shoulders slumped, some tight knot in her belly easing. "Thank the gods... and yours both. I could not bear to see her broken more than she already is."

His hands slipped around her waist, pulling her close until she stood between his knees. "I have no need for another woman’s bed. You’ve given me all I ever wanted, Róisín. Lands to fill with our people, our gods honored on strange shores, and a son who stares at me like he already dreams of ships and war."

A small, unsteady laugh broke from her. She threaded her fingers through his damp hair, cradling the back of his head.

"Then swear it," she whispered.

His teeth flashed in that hungry, tender way that always made her knees weaken. "I swear it. By the bones of my father, by Ullr’s name; by the sea that has tried a hundred times to swallow me and failed. You are my only hearth."

She kissed him then, hard, tasting salt and old iron. When they parted, she smoothed the hair from his brow and pressed the damp cloth there once more.

"Good," she said, voice soft but edged with that fierce loyalty he loved best in her. "Then let us see to Eithne’s place in this hall. Before the wolves begin to whisper."

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