Spring broke not long after the Jarldom of the Westfjords was established by those who lived within its boundaries.
In the meantime, Vetrulfr had continued his plans, rallying the men across the Westfjords to his banner. For Vetrulfr's vision of a grand army, it was not the raising of a mass levy of poorly equipped peasants, as was common across the Christian realms.
No, he selected boys and men most fit to bear arms based upon strict criteria: physical capability, discipline, and above all, faith.
Those who swore oaths to the old gods and the Norse way of life; and who met his standards were lifted from the ranks of fishermen, farmers, tanners, and smiths. They became warriors.
Each day began at dawn. Rise with the sun, march ten kilometers in full kit, then drill in the arts of war: spear, seax, bow, and bare-handed combat. At midday, they were fed a hearty communal meal. In the evenings, they trained in tactics, learning how to fight as one.
By the time the final two months passed, and the march to Reykjavík loomed near, Vetrulfr had forged five hundred hardened warriors. Each was armed with spear, seax, brynja, iron-rimmed shield, and a steel helm.
Among them, a smaller number had become archers of such discipline and skill that even the famed Welsh bowmen would have been impressed.
This was the core of Vetrulfr's army, men raised since his return to Ísland, molded by daily discipline and devotion.
In addition, another three hundred auxiliaries were raised from across the Westfjords following the proclamation of the new Jarldom. Though still in training and lightly equipped, they formed a capable reserve and served as garrison forces.
Now, Vetrulfr stood on the docks of Ullrsfjörðr with one hundred forty of his finest warriors. Twenty among them were Varangian veterans who now acted as officers and NCOs each of which had followed him from the East, bled beside him in foreign wars, and who now served as the steel backbone of his fledgling army.
Two ships waited for them: Frostrtönn, and the first of five warships built since Vetrulfr seized control of the fjord. The shipwrights had labored through the snow and sun alike. Sawdust clung to their beards like snowfall. The ring of hammers echoed across Ullrsfjörðr like a lullaby of war.
By midsummer, six longships floated in the harbor; sleek wolves of pine and oak. Not enough for conquest, but enough to set the coasts of Christendom on fire. Vetrulfr chose the two largest of these vessels to begin the first act of his reign of vengeance.
As Gunnar inspected his ship and the fifty-nine warriors under his command, his gaze wandered to the painted symbol that adorned its sail and Vetrulfr's own shield.
"Jarl," Gunnar asked, curiosity in his voice, "for years I assumed this sigil was native to Ísland. But after living here, I've yet to see it anywhere else. What is its origin? What does it mean?"
Vetrulfr was about to answer when a voice rose behind them, arriving with the same chill that rolled in from the sea.
"When I gave birth to your Jarl," Brynhildr said, her voice like a whisper etched in frost, "Ullr granted me visions. I saw the future he would forge. That symbol was carved into the snow the night he was born, surrounding his still form like a stave of fate."
She stepped forward, hands outstretched to the sail.
"It is called the Vegvísir, a stave to guide the bearer through storms and fog, so they never lose their way, even when the path is unknown. It is the gift of his divine bloodline. That symbol was placed in his heart by Ullr—to guide him home."
She turned to Gunnar, eyes glowing with something otherworldly.
"Be grateful, all of you. He has shared this stave with you on your shields, and your sails. That blessing is now yours to carry. Do not squander it."
Gunnar knelt before the sail, humbled while Brynhildr embraced her son and whispered so only he could hear.
"I know where you sail now. Njörðr is watching. Do not fail him. He waits for sacrifice. Should you falter, the Vegvísir will no longer protect you."
She withdrew, vanishing into the mist as suddenly as she arrived.
Vetrulfr gave no pause. He threw his satchel onto the deck of Frostrtönn and climbed aboard, barking orders.
"Move! The hour is upon us! The gods are with us, brothers!"
And with that, the ships departed, sails taut with wind, bound for a destination known only to the wolves that rode upon them, and to the gods that guided them.
---
Two suns had risen and set since Vetrulfr and his chosen men had set sail. Their route hugged the broken coastlines of southern Iceland, longships gliding like wolves beneath a cloak of fog sent by Njörðr himself.
The raid would be silent. Swift. Absolute.
Frostrtönn struck the beach first, its black sail bearing the Vegvísir outlined in bone-white dye. An omen of unerring fate. Vetrulfr was the first to leap from the prow, his leather boots sinking into the wet sand. In his hand, the curved edge of his damascened sword shimmered like moonlit ice.
No war cry. No drum. Only the soft churn of waves and the hiss of wind. His warriors followed behind, filing into a cautious staggered formation. Not rigid, but tight enough to raise a shield wall if caught unawares.
The coastal village ahead was asleep. No sentries. No dogs barking. The chapel stood tall near the town center, its fire-lit windows a lone beacon in the night.
Vetrulfr raised his hand. Fingers shifted; three subtle gestures. Orders.
A massive warrior wielding a two-handed Dane axe stepped forward and brought it down with a crack that shattered the chapel doors in one stroke.
The Norse poured in. No prayers met them. No resistance. The pews were empty. The local priest slept soundly in the room above, oblivious.
Bjǫrn moved swiftly to barricade the priest's door with a stack of benches and broken beams. Down below, Vetrulfr stared at the gilded crucifix hanging above the altar.
Disgust narrowed his eyes.
"Take what can be melted; silver, copper, bronze, iron. The rest… burn it to ash."
His warriors set to work with mechanical efficiency. It was not loot they craved; it was purpose. The stench of holy oil and old incense was quickly replaced by the scent of smoke, kindling, and broken faith.
The priest awoke to a world choking on heat.
At first, only a hint of smoke licking at his throat, a strange sound below. He staggered to the door, reaching for the handle. But it wouldn't budge. Pinned. Blocked.
Then the scent turned acrid, black and thick. His lungs filled with soot. He coughed and gasped, eyes watering. The air shimmered with heat. Panic overtook prayer.
He stumbled to the window. No time to hesitate. No time to plead. He hurled himself out into the night, crashing into the field with a crunch that stole the breath from his chest.
Vision swam.
Through the blur, he saw a shape standing over him. A man in armor. A helm with an arctic wolf's pelt drawn over it like the skin of Fenrir himself.
The last words he heard were spoken in flawless Latin, thick with disdain.
"Your god couldn't save you from a two-story fall. Pathetic."
Steel flashed. The priest's head rolled cleanly from his shoulders.
Vetrulfr wiped his blade on the priest's robe. The execution had been without malice. It was not personal. It was necessary.
He knelt beside the corpse and yanked the golden crucifix from its chain, handing it to one of his men.
"Melt it down when we return to Ullrsfjörðr. We'll press it into bullion. This was only the first sacrifice of the night."
He turned to the others.
"This island once belonged to Njörðr. Tonight, we reclaim it in his name. Go forth and cleanse it. Let none who swear to the cross remain untested."
And so it began.
In the name of the gods of sea and storm, Vestmannaeyjar was set ablaze. Not all were killed. Those who renounced Christ and bent the knee to the old gods were spared. The rest joined their priest in the realm beyond.
What Vetrulfr did that night was more than symbolic; it was strategic.
By seizing the southern archipelago, he had choked off Reykjavík and the Althing from foreign aid. No messengers would sail for Norway. No reinforcements would come from Christendom.
More than that, Vestmannaeyjar would serve as the southern naval base of the Jarldom of the Westfjords. A spear pointed at the soft underbelly of Iceland.
The reckoning had begun.
And none in Reykjavík would even know it. Not until the smoke rose beyond the horizon, and the flames danced in their dreams.