Valkyries Calling-Chapter 62: When Wolves Gather

The hall of Aidhne smelled of peat smoke and damp wool. Thin light poured through narrow slits, catching upon iron rivets and glistening in puddles on the flagstones; remnants of last night’s storm, which had battered the fortress like a siege.

King Conchobar mac Murchadha sat upon his seat of oak and carved boar tusk, his gray cloak heavy across his shoulders, brow furrowed as he listened to the breathless messenger who knelt on the rushes before him.

"...burned, my king. Athenry is nothing now but char and ruin. The Norse came upon it by the river, like carrion crows upon a lamb. They bore casks of some witch’s fire that clung to stone and water alike. It melted the walls from beneath. The High King Maél... he is taken."

Gasps spread among the gathered chieftains. A steward crossed himself in trembling haste. A bard clutched his harp to his chest, as if to still his own heart.

But Conchobar’s face only grew harder, like ice tightening its grip on a branch. He did not look away from the messenger’s pale eyes.

"And this was the work of the one who set our shores not too long ago, was it not?" he asked, voice low.

"Aye, lord. They say he marches with the ghosts of the old sea-kings, that he wears a pelt cursed by the gods of frost. That his hand wields flame as easy as a reaping-hook."

At that, Conchobar’s knuckles whitened on the armrest. His own people whispered enough tales of these returned Norsemen that he could taste their fear, sour on the air.

Too long had Ériu thought herself safe, lulled by church bells and distant Latin decrees. Now the old nightmares prowled again.

From the shadowed edge of the dais, Sister Eithne stepped forward. Her veil was black, her wimple starched so tightly it framed her face like a blade. Her rosary beads rattled against the wooden cross at her breast.

"My king," she began, voice smooth as milk but cold as the Clarin in winter, "surely you see the Lord’s hand in this. He tests your rule, all of Ériu’s sons, by letting wolves run among the lambs."

Conchobar’s gaze flickered to her, wary. "And what would you counsel, sister?"

Eithne’s eyes glinted. "Strike them where their pride is deepest. I hear tales enough from merchants and wandering monks; that the Norse wolf-lord has taken a wife from among your own kin, hidden her away in his frozen halls. If these pagans believe she is theirs by some bloody right, then taking her back will shame them before their gods and yours alike."

Eithne knew not who this wife was. She figured it was among the many sisters from her former priory that were abducted that night.

But she couldn’t have known the truth. Or perhaps her mind would not let her understand it. Regardless, she remained still, whispering a silent prayer under her breath for whatever woman who was unfortunate enough to become the wolf’s bride.

A murmur swept through the court. Conchobar exhaled slowly, the breath hissing between his teeth. The thought of reclaiming the girl, and the honor of his house with her, tangled hotly with the fear of provoking further wrath. Yet pride has deep roots.

"She may be lost to us already," he said darkly. "It is whispered she lies with that wolf by choice. That she has borne him a child."

At this, Eithne’s mouth twisted, her pale hands clasping so tightly the knuckles shone.

"Then we bring her home for penance. If she still has a soul to save. And if not..." She let the words trail off into ominous silence. Her meaning was clear. Better dead than damned.

A silence fell. Somewhere above, the timbers creaked with the weight of wind. It almost seemed the stones themselves leaned closer, eager to hear whose blood would next soak their roots.

Conchobar’s hand fell to the hilt at his side, as if even the steel there hungered for the answer.

He looked away, toward the narrow window slit, where gray clouds rolled over the hills of Aidhne like the backs of vast beasts.

He knew well the scent of opportunity cloaked as piety. But also the weight of insult, carried across seas by burning ships.

His shores had been the first to be sacked, villages razed, its people slain or taken to the sea with those who had come from it.

If Mael and his host were soundly defeated by the same heathens, he alone would not suffice to defeat them. But perhaps this crisis could be spun in his favor. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Mael’s defeat would no doubt reach the ears of the other Petty Kings in Connacht before long. And when it did, Conchobar would have the opportunity to rally them beneath his banner. Perhaps permanently.

Evidently his Marshal had the same idea, tossing Conchobar a silent but approving nod. As it to confirm his own thoughts.

At last, he stood, his chain of bronze and garnet rattling across his chest.

"Summon my riders. Send word to the other petty kings. If these Norse fiends think Connacht is naught but fat sheep for slaughter, let them learn that even lambs have teeth. And Sister..." He cast Eithne a measured glance. "Prepare your prayers. It seems God will soon have much work to do."

She dipped her head, a small satisfied smile ghosting her lips.

---

The plain outside Dún Ailline was scarred by the passing of many feet. Flattened grass and trampled wildflowers bore testament to thousands of boots, hooves, and iron-rimmed wheels.

Overhead, crows wheeled by the dozen, their harsh cries like laughter cast down from the gods.

Between two low hills, the host of the north made camp.

On one side, the banners of Jomsborg flapped black against the sky, rune-marked cloth rippling over sharpened palisades. Longships had been hauled onto the bank of a nearby stream, their hulls dark with river mud, prows crowned with dragon and wolf.

On the other side stretched Vetrúlfr’s legions; a sea of shields painted with the ochre Vegvísir, ranks upon ranks of men armored in eastern lamellar and wolfskin cloaks. Cookfires burned in neat lines, the smoke drifting up like offerings to long-forgotten gods.

Between these camps stood a great pavilion of dark wool, rimmed with iron nails, runes etched into every post. There, beneath a sky churning with bruise-colored clouds, the two warlords met.

Ármóðr entered first, shoulders still streaked with road dust. His cloak was torn at one edge, as if brambles had tried to keep him for themselves. Behind him stalked his lieutenants; men with broken noses and eyes that did not flinch from horror.

Vetrúlfr stood by a long table carved from black oak, a map stretched across it, held down by daggers thrust into the wood. His hands rested by a clay cup of water, untouched.

When he saw Ármóðr, he offered a slow nod.

"You bled the west well," Vetrúlfr said. His voice was low, colder even than the river that wound past their encampment.

Ármóðr gave a half-smile, though his eyes were all war. "And you broke their spine at Athenry. They will not muster another field host. Only hold fast behind walls; like craven children hiding from the storm."

Vetrúlfr’s hand drifted across the map, tapping lightly on a ring of ink that marked Dún Ailline.

"A stronghold. Old. Its roots go deeper than Christ. There are wells beneath the hill, granaries enough to last them the season. They’ll think to starve us."

Ármóðr’s eyes gleamed. "Then let them. We have ships on every river and coast. We can feed off their herds, strip their fields bare, while they choke on their own refuse."

He leaned over the map, voice dropping to a conspirator’s hush.

"Or we can remind them why even stone fears fire."

Vetrúlfr’s gaze flicked up. His mouth curved into something too sharp to be a smile.

"Aye. The casks are ready. The breath of Surtr waits only for the wind to favor us."

At this, a hush fell among their captains. Even hardened Jomsvikings shifted, some fingering the charms at their throats. The thought of that flame, that hungry, unnatural thing, turned even wolf hearts wary.

Outside the tent, the combined armies moved with the discipline of a single beast. Vetrúlfr’s scouts rode between the ridges, stringing tripwires hung with small bells to guard the approaches. Jomsviking smiths worked by lantern-light, hammering arrowheads and driving rivets into shield rims.

From a slight rise, one could see the whole of it: a tide of iron and fur and firelight, coiled around the hill like a serpent waiting to strike.

Ármóðr looked out past the tent’s opening, toward the distant silhouette of Dún Ailline. Its ramparts were only dark cuts against a horizon already bruised by dusk.

"How long do we give them?" he asked.

Vetrúlfr’s eyes narrowed, considering the unseen men huddled behind those walls; priests counting rosaries, archers knocking trembling arrows, children taught hurried prayers they barely understood.

"Long enough for them to see our fires. Long enough for fear to do what steel cannot."

He rested his hand on the hilt of the ancient sword that never left his side, the runes along its fuller glimmering as if catching some hidden light.

"Then," he finished, voice hollow as the deep places beneath the sea, "we send them to their god. And see if he shelters them better than walls."

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