Valkyries Calling-Chapter 60: Ashes of Athenry

The black skies of Ériu wept mist as the scouts arrived.

Two riders crested the ridge at dawn, their horses soaked and steaming, their cloaks marked by ash and blood.

They bore no standards, only the gleam of wolf-tooth clasps at their throats, and the rune of Ullr stitched into their sleeves in thread blacker than pitch.

The guards at Ármóðr’s camp parted without question. Word had already reached them: Vetrúlfr’s eyes had come.

Inside the command tent, Ármóðr leaned over a table carved from driftwood marked with bone-pegs and blood-ink.

His captains stood in a half-circle; weathered men of war, silent but alert. The fire pit in the center hissed and snapped, smoke trailing upward into the hole cut in the canvas above.

When the scouts entered, they did not bow. They stood tall and removed their hoods; both were young, but hard-eyed and gaunt, their faces wind-worn and serious.

"You come from the east," Ármóðr said, not as a question, but a statement.

"Aye," the elder of the two replied. "From Athenry. Our King lays siege to its ring fort even as we speak. The high king fled behind its walls with what few men would ride beside him. But it is only a matter of time before he is dragged out and forced to his knees."

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Ármóðr’s face. "And the army?"

"Gone. Bloodied on the shores where they met us. It’s the same as we expected. The Christians have few warriors and rely mostly on farmers with little more than spear and shoddy shields to defend themselves. They broke the moment our walls crashed against theirs. And were cut down where they ran."

Murmurs passed among the captains, some smirking, others crossing themselves with old pagan signs.

"The message is clear, then," Ármóðr said.

"Aye," the scout continued. "He means not to conquer, but to curse. He told us to give you this."

The younger scout stepped forward and unfurled a strip of boiled leather, etched with fresh runes; cut deep, hastily, as if done on horseback. Ármóðr took it in his scarred hands and studied the symbols by firelight.

His eyes narrowed.

"It’s a path," he muttered, tracing the runes with a fingertip. "Through the passes of Slieve Aughty... straight into Meath."

"A pincer," said one of the captains.

"A pyre," corrected Ármóðr. He looked at the scouts. "He means for us to burn them from both ends. While the western lords flee east, we cut through the middle. Let the rivers carry the smoke to the sea." frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

"When our King has razed what remains of Athenry," the scout said, "he will not march north; he will sail. A smaller fleet, swift and stripped of burden, will move along the inland waters, shadowing the Shannon. They’ll make landfall just east of your line, and together we will seal Meath between us like a lid over a cauldron. No path of escape. No mercy.

Ármóðr let the silence settle. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"So be it."

He turned to his captains. "We move before sundown. Strip the camp. Carry only what we must. Every horse we capture is broken and ridden. Every torch, every oilskin, every scrap of pitch; we take it all."

"And the villagers?" Hrafnkel asked, his hand still resting on his axe haft.

"Let them run," Ármóðr said, voice cold. "Fear travels faster than hoofbeats."

He looked back to the scouts.

"Tell your master the wolves are in motion. And tell him... I see the shape of his vengeance."

The scouts nodded, bowed once this time, and turned to leave.

Outside, the mist had thickened, and the rain had begun to smell of smoke.

Ármóðr stood in the tent’s entrance, watching them vanish into the fog. Their silhouettes melted into the treeline like wraiths.

For a moment, he remained there, listening to the wind drag its fingers across the camp like a funeral dirge.

This war was not for gold, nor glory. Not in the way men once sang of. No sagas would be carved in marble for what was to come. This was an older song — one of ruin.

Behind him, the captains dispersed to rouse the men. Commands were passed by torchlight and whisper. Armor was strapped tighter. Blades were whetted not for ceremony, but for silence.

Ármóðr returned to the map. His fingers hovered over the runes etched into the boiled leather. The path Vetrúlfr had chosen was cruel; not in its violence, but in its precision.

He could almost see it now.

The Petty King would flee Meath, expecting salvation from the west.

Instead, he would find the forests crawling with steel and smoke, the rivers choked with burnt timber, and his rear flank collapsing like rotten bark.

Athenry would fall, yes; but not before its fall drew all eyes to it. All hope.

And when the Irish turned east, running from the storm, they would find the jaws had already closed.

It was not conquest.

It was ritual.

Ármóðr exhaled slowly, then turned to gather his own cloak and helm. The time for waiting was done. The ground was ready. Now it must be sown.

---

Athenry’s walls loomed above the scorched lowlands; ancient stones now blackened at their base by smoke and blood.

The banners that once flew from its towers had been lowered or torn away by wind and fear.

The majority of King Máel’s host lay dead upon the fields east of the city; scattered like stalks after the reaping. The River Clarin ran red for a day and a night.

Now, the longships did not arrive; they encircled.

From the inland shallows to the winding north, the Norse had already taken the coast, the roads, and the hills. What stood before them was not a battle, but a statement.

The town and what few defenders remained crouched like a cornered fox beneath its crumbling curtain walls. And atop the highest mast of Fáfnirsfangr, the Vegvísir banner of Vetrúlfr snapped in the smoky breeze.

He did not march on foot. He did not ride.

He ruled from the water, as his blood demanded.

Atop the deck of his drakkar, Vetrúlfr watched the walled ring-fort with the calm of a man observing a storm already spent. There was no urgency in his eyes, only inevitability.

Six casks rested in the center of the longship. Bound in iron bands, stitched in runes, they reeked of brimstone and sorrow.

Surtr’s Flame; the fire that drowned, the fire that wept, the fire that hungered.

He had not used it at the shoreline. He had not needed to.

But now?

Now he would teach.

---

The longships halted just short of the stone bridge. Vetrúlfr raised one arm.

From the deck of Fáfnirsfangr, two warriors approached the casks. Carefully, with gloved hands and solemn nods, they removed the seals and uncorked the first.

A thick, tar-black substance sloshed within; whale oil, pitch, brimstone, and powdered bone, brewed beneath the full moon, steeped in heat and malice.

The fire-bearers dipped long clay jars into the casks, wrapped each in wax-soaked cloth, then carried them to the mangonels lying in wait outside the ring fort’s stone walls.

A twisted mass of rope and timber that had been retrofitted to throw the jars with wicked speed.

The first shot arced over the river wall and landed in the inner courtyard of Athenry. It shattered like a bone, spilling its contents across the cobblestones.

Then the fire came.

It did not burn like normal flame. It howled. It screamed like a dying god. It clung to the earth, to wood, to skin, and would not be quenched. Buckets of water only made it hiss and bloom wider.

Another jar followed. Then another. The air thickened with smoke and the stench of rendered fat. Chickens caught fire in their pens. Horses shrieked and kicked open their stalls. Somewhere inside the keep, a priest ran screaming through the yard, his robes ablaze.

On the wall, Máel’s face turned to ash.

"Sweet Christ..." he whispered. "What is this?"

One of the younger guards dropped his spear and ran.

A longbowman loosed an arrow at the longship. It missed by a yard. Vetrúlfr did not flinch.

He raised his hand again.

A final cask was loaded; not to be launched, but poured.

As the prows touched land, the fire-bearers upended the remaining barrels onto the riverbank beneath the walls. The pitch slid thick as tar down into the foundations.

Then came the torch.

The walls did not catch immediately.

But when they did, the stones wept smoke.

Mortar crumbled. Cracks widened.

And Athenry; old, pious Athenry; began to burn from beneath its feet.

Inside the keep, panic spread faster than flame.

Máel tried to rally his men to defend the gate, but they would not stand. Some fled. Some prayed. Some simply stared, mouths slack, as the walls themselves glowed orange and began to scream.

Then came the crashl one of the towers gave way, spilling rubble and fire into the courtyard. The gates shuddered as the supports buckled.

The last line broke.

And Vetrúlfr walked through the smoke.

Not charging. Not shouting.

He came like a storm moving across a field.

Behind him came his wolves the Úlfhéðnar, cloaked in soot and blood, bearing axes blackened with ash and runes that gleamed as if alive.

No quarter was asked. None was given.

Yet it was not a massacre.

It was an ending.

By nightfall, the fires had eaten half the city.

Vetrúlfr stood in the chapel, where Máel had made his final stand.

The king was bound in chains and brought before him; a wounded, broken man. His eyes swam with shock, and something far older. Terror.

Vetrúlfr did not spit, nor curse, nor gloat. He simply unsheathed his seax and held it to the man’s throat.

"Tell me... what plans did you have for my wife? Speak, and I may yet grant you mercy."

Silence.

Máel’s lips parted; but no words came. His gaze drifted to where his family huddled in the smoke-stained pews, their eyes wide, pleading for truth.

But still, he said nothing.

Vetrúlfr lowered the blade. Not in forgiveness. In judgment.

"Chain him. Take his kin. They will speak; if not now, then at sea."

Máel’s family cried out, but the Úlfhéðnar did not strike them. They were bound, silenced by the weight of what had not yet been confessed.

Atop the chapel, the Vegvísir banner was raised.

And when the flames began to die, he gave the signal.

The ships would sail north before dawn, to rendezvous with Ármóðr’s host beyond the Shannon.

They would not remain. They would not hold ground.

For this was not conquest.

It was remembrance carved in fire.

And Ériu would not forget.

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