Helgi Oddrsson was the chieftain of another village in the Westfjords, known as Önundarfjörður. It was of little renown or size, and yet, among the Westfjords, it remained one of the most notable settlements.
The goði had received a letter within the fog from Ullrsfjörðr. It was written in a language only his scribe could properly interpret: the runes of their forefathers, rearranged as an alphabet for the purposes of communication and record keeping.
The message was clear; he was being summoned to Ullrsfjörðr by its new goði. In fact, he was not alone. The letter claimed that all goðar of the region were invited to attend a regional thing.
No doubt it was a breaking of tradition, but rumors of a Varangian warrior returning from exile and seizing control of Ullrsfjörðr through the rite of holmgang had spread across all of Ísland. If even half of these whispers were true, then something monumental was stirring in the Westfjords. Helgi, bound by duty and curiosity alike, accepted the summons.
Helgi met several other goðar on the road to Ullrsfjörðr. Their views were a mixture of outrage, curiosity, and, perhaps in the hearts of a few, hope. Hope that the old ways were returning, that reckoning might come for the Christians who had spread across the island.
They were few in number compared to the broader population of Ísland, but their titles carried weight. Still, when they arrived at Ullrsfjörðr, even the proudest among them stood in stunned silence.
The fishing village they had once known was gone. In its place rose a fortress-city, not of timber, but of stone and steel.
The first sight to catch their eye was the watchtower, a lone spire perched high upon the hilltops. Its bronze brazier blazed with eternal fire, a beacon to warn ships through fog and treachery.
Then came the farmlands, split into three sections, two under cultivation, one left fallow. Water flowed through carefully constructed irrigation systems, guided by diverted streams.
Closer to the town, they found moats encircling the walls, filled with mountain-fed waters. Timber bridges crossed these channels, narrow enough for only two men abreast, or a single horse and rider. Each bridge could be dismantled quickly, isolating the city from any force foolish enough to besiege it.
The gatehouse rose ahead, solid and grim. Archers atop the walls wore riveted mail and iron helms, hands never far from bowstrings. Their gazes followed every movement.
From above came a shout:
"Ullrsfjörðr is closed to all but its residents and those goðar summoned to the Thing! Present your letters, or disperse. You will not be asked twice!"
Grumbling, the goðar produced their parchments; grudging, but compliant.
"This is outrageous! Who does this man think he is?!" one scoffed.
Helgi turned to the speaker, calm but firm.
"If you had built such a hold, would you not demand the same respect? Let us see what we are here to witness before casting judgment."
The gatehouse opened. Warriors emerged, each clad in superior armor to any húskarl in Ísland. One among them, clearly a Varangian officer, wore a leather lamellar vest over his brynja, with iron-splinted bracers and greaves.
He read the invitations without ceremony, then gave a shrill whistle. The ranks of guards parted.
"You must be weary after the long march," he said. "There is food and mead waiting. Rest, and when the Jarl is ready, you will be summoned to the Great Hall. A word of wisdom; cause no trouble in Ullrsfjörðr. We have no tolerance for criminals… or spies."
He turned and left without another word. As the goðar passed into the gatehouse, they noted the space between the two portcullises, a killing zone lined with arrow slits and merlons. Any enemy caught between would be torn apart.
It was a design foreign to Ísland. Byzantine, or perhaps of earlier Eastern Roman design. To these chieftains, it was as though they had stepped into a hold built by the gods themselves.
Inside the walls, the town amazed further. Stone-laid streets stretched into districts. Houses of wattle and thatch lined up in organized rows, each near fresh-water wells. Sanitation was evident. Armed patrols moved in units. Ullrsfjörðr was not a village. It was a vision.
Some among them whispered:
"It would appear the rumors are true… times are changing."
Helgi did not respond immediately. But after a long and thought filled pause he said:
"I have been to Reykjavík. I once thought it was the greatest city I had seen. And yet… it is but a shadow of what we see here.
Did you see the men on the walls? Mail shirts, iron helms, spears and seaxes… How much wealth does this Vetrulfr possess to outfit each warrior so? If our worst fears are realized, I know who I will stand beside. But first, I will meet the man who built such a place."
No one disagreed.
When night fell, and Sól fled the sky chased by the wolf Sköll, the great hall of Ullrsfjörðr stirred with life.
The Varangians, Vetrulfr's blood-bound brothers, sat drinking and feasting. They wore scars and steel with equal pride. Each one had crossed a continent to return here, to raise a new order from ice and ash.
The hearth roared. Above it, a throne cast in bronze loomed; a seat not for a chieftain, but a king. Quilted linen and reindeer hide softened its back and seat alike. The armrests bore runic knotwork, carved in the likeness of ancient heroes. Fenrir's jaws snarled from the horn-mounted base.
But the throne was empty.
Until he appeared.
Vetrulfr, clad not in robes of peace, but in leather, iron, and steel. A warrior, not a courtier. His helm was under one arm, his wolfskin cloak flowing behind him. As he sat, Brynhildr, his mother, handed him his drinking horn. Carved with his victories and runic inscriptions while crowned with bronze, and tipped with Fenrir's maw, it was a symbol of legacy.
As she stepped forward, every Varangian rose. Heads bowed. Even hardened killers showed reverence.
The guests watched, puzzled.
"I don't understand," one whispered. "Why are they bowing to that woman? Is she his wife?"
"Hush. Something is about to begin."
Brynhildr's voice cut through the mead-hall like the wind off the glaciers. Calm. Cold. Unstoppable.
"My son has summoned you to offer a choice. For too long, the Westfjords have resisted the Christian yoke, but the storm grows closer. They will tell you to kneel. To dip your heads in oil and call it salvation. But what god allows himself to be nailed to a tree and call it glory?
We are Norse. Our gods do not forgive, they roar! For centuries, we have watched our kin in Germania fall. Even now the Danes, once mightiest of our kind, bow their heads to this foreign god, and his self-righteous zealots who demand all comply with their madness. We are all that remains.
But my son offers more than defiance. He offers renewal. He asks you to kneel, not as vassals, but as kin. Stand with him, and the gods will remember us."
She said no more. She turned and vanished into shadow.
Vetrulfr watched in silence.
No one moved.
Until Helgi rose.
He drew his sword, knelt, and laid it across his palms.
"I, Helgi Oddrsson, goði of Önundarfjörður, offer my life, my sword, and my village. From the moment I saw these walls, I knew the truth... Should you and the Althing come to blows, you would prevail.
I recognize you, Vetrulfr Ullrsson, as Jarl of the Westfjords. And I call upon my brothers to do the same."
One by one, the others followed.
When Vetrulfr rose from his throne, the gods did too.
---
The fog still veiled Vetrulfr's movements in the Westfjords. And as summer crept near, so too did the date of the Althing's summons.
Alfarr's fear deepened.
Though the Goði of Reykjavík had granted him sanctuary, and repeatedly assured him that the Althing would resolve his dispute, Alfarr no longer believed Vetrulfr would honor the call.
This was not a man of Christian virtue or Latin law.
He was a wolf, raised in blood and exile, shaped by years of war in the service of the Bulgar Slayer. What if, hidden beneath the fog, he was raising an army?
Alfarr spoke of these fears often. But the more he did, the more Ivarr dismissed him.
The Goði was young. Too young to remember Reykjavík before papal authority spread across Ísland like a creeping plague. To Ivarr, the thought of one man defying the Althing with force was absurd. Fantasy.
But Alfarr remembered. He had lived among such men. Among heathens who fought duels over insults, who shed blood not for law, but for honor. He had turned a blind eye for years. He had fought village wars over broken oaths and bruised pride.
The Westfjords still held that fire. That madness. That code of might.
If Vetrulfr had used the fog to build an army; if he came not to debate, but to conquer. Then by the time the Althing realized it, it would be far too late.
But Ivarr no longer listened. He dismissed Alfarr's warnings as paranoia. Or worse, as manipulation.
And so Alfarr stood alone, atop Reykjavík's timber watchtower. The palisade groaned beneath the wind. The sky boiled.
He stared west, toward the fjords.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
And he whispered, his voice nearly lost in the storm,
"Our Father in heaven... protect us from what comes."