In the span of a single night, Vestmannaeyjar had been seized. Any resistance was quickly put down, and the Archipelago purged of Christian sentiment through fire and blood. Once more Njörðr reigned supreme over the island chain.
And when all was said and done, Vetrulr spent the morning after a sleepless night, not resting, and celebrating a victory, but cleaning his arms and armor from the blood which slaked their iron and steel.
Gunnar approached the man, watching quietly in deference as his Jarl sat on a small and smooth rock in the bay, watching the waves crash and break across the shore. It was a somber sight, not one of wrath or fury like the night before, but reflection.
Reflection on the beauty of Iceland and its natural world. Finally, after long enough silence had passed Gunnar spoke.
"Vestmannaeyjar is ours. The harbor is secured. They had no ships of war, but a few knarrs remain—fit for trade or tribute. The spoils are counted and await your word."
Vetrulfr did not answer immediately. He wiped the last stain of blood from the blade, oiled it, and sheathed it with a single fluid motion. Only then did he rise, turning his frost-pale eyes toward Gunnar.
"I leave you in command. Half our fleet will remain here. This island must not be held, it must be wielded."
Gunnar's brows furrowed. "And you, my Jarl?"
Vetrulfr looked east, toward the mountains beyond which lay Reykjavík.
"I march with the rest. Three hundred warriors to show them the truth. But you, you will strike from the sea. Burn their storehouses. Shatter their supply lines. Torch their churches and salt their morale. Bleed them slowly while I draw their eye."
He stepped closer, placing a hand on Gunnar's shoulder.
"If they rally, fall back here. Dig in. Hold until I return. But strike hard and fast until then. Remind them that fire belongs to the gods."
Gunnar did not smile. He saluted. "Skál."
And so it was done. Within days, 200 warriors and the fleet's strength were transferred to Vestmannaeyjar. From there, the southern coasts would burn. Meanwhile, Vetrulfr marched across the northern routes, carving a path through the fjords with three hundred spears behind him.
---
The Althing had gathered. In Reykjavík's great hall, the chieftains and bishops sat nervously beneath the Cross, uneasy with the absence of their Westfjord peers. Alfarr sat stiffly, his eyes locked on the door, his hands clenched beneath his cloak.
Ívarr, young and confident in his borrowed robes of piety and power, raised a calming hand.
"Be at peace," he said smoothly. "The sun has yet to reach its zenith. Vetrulfr and the goðar will arrive in time, and we will settle this with words, not blood."
But Alfarr felt the thunder building. For too long, his warnings had been stifled. And now, he felt the maw of Fenrir closing around him. He could not help but stand and speak his thoughts in protest. And yet before he could the doors slammed open.
The doors to the great hall burst open. Rain and wind crashed in behind the figure that stumbled through them, soaked to the bone, wrapped in a patchwork gambeson, half-frozen and wild-eyed.
He collapsed to his knees before the startled court. His breath came in ragged gasps, his words torn from a throat hoarse with exhaustion and dread.
"He's here!"
A moment of silence. Then—
"Vetrulfr… he's come. And he's not alone."
The gathered nobles stirred. A bishop muttered a prayer. A huskarl gripped the hilt of his sword.
The man looked up, his face pale, eyes full of storm.
"There's an army at his back. Steel, shields, and the banner of Ullr. Reykjavík is no longer safe."
And then the hall erupted into panic.
---
Vetrulfr stood outside the gates of Reykjavík, with an army of 300 men at his back armed so masterfully even the most wealthy of emperors would be envious at the sight. But the Althing were not filled with avarice, no it was terror in their eyes.
Any commander worth their salt would realize that Vetrulfr had not come here for the purpose of a siege. There was no camp setup, no defenses built, neither latrine nor trench could be witnessed. Nor could field stakes.
Yet these were men of peace and law. Most accustomed to skirmishes between clan and village. Not full scale siege warfare. The idea that three hundred heavily armed men stood outside their walls was a terrifying enough reality.
And when Ívarr stood upon the watchtower, witnessing the sight, his jaw nearly dropped. Especially as the thunder crackled in the background, heralding the rain along with it. Rain that suddenly burst forth from the clouds, soaking all beneath its might. Then came the voice, echoed as if perfectly timed to the Thunder.
"You have summoned me… Well here I am! Shall we settle this the old way? Or is it war you seek?"
Neither Ívarr nor the Althing knew how to respond to this. Vetrulfr had not come here to argue and debate over legal claims to Ullrsfjörðr, no, he had marched across the north for the sake of killing those who would deny him his birthright.
By the looks of it, he would have his pound of flesh, one way or another. It was up to the Althing to decide how. And after a brief, and rather chaotic discussion, Ívarr marched beyond the safety of Reykjavík's timber barriers with a small retinue of warriors to meet Vetrulfr in between their lines.
Vetrulfr did the same, but when he stood before the young chieftain, face to face, it was clear who commanded the field. Ívarr was draped in wool and Latin pretense. Vetrulfr was steel and shadow and storm.
"So," Vetrulfr sneered, "this is the great goði of Reykjavík? I've seen stronger arms on temple scribes. You stink of incense and fear.
Ívarr forced composure even whilst enduring Vetrulfr's provocations. "You answer the Althing's summons with a horde of barbarians? Is this justice?"
Vetrulfr laughed, and behind him, his men laughed too. Not mirthfully. Rather like wolves scenting blood.
"My justice is steel. My claim is written in blood. I won Ullrsfjörðr by holmgang, when Halfdan fell by my hand and his coward father fled with his tail between his legs. That is law. That is truth. And this army? It's a whisper of what's coming."
He stepped closer.
"I offered peace. You answered with summons and threats. You thought I would come alone, to bow before your court?"
He spat.
"Let me make it simple. I will burn your churches. I will salt your larders. I will raze your markets. Your people will starve. And when they kneel again before the gods of old, it will be your head they offer to Odin."
"My mother saw it. I've dreamt it. Fenrir howls at the gate. Ragnarök comes. And I—I am the sword that brings Surt's flame."
He turned his back without another word.
Ívarr could say nothing. Neither could his men. They stood, frozen, as Vetrulfr marched back to his host.
And from that moment on, the war for Iceland had truly begun.