Valkyries Calling
Chapter 21 - 21 A Crown in Blood

21: A Crown in Blood 21: A Crown in Blood The sea gate lowered, and the skiff slipped through the jaws of Ullrsfjörðr unmolested.

The Jomsvikings were indeed surprised to see such a heavily armored force waiting at the harbor to greet them.

Their weapons weren’t raised with hostility, but were at the ready.

A moment’s notice and the uninvited guests would be skewered by a hundred spears which surrounded them.

Knowing that they had entered a realm of true professionals, the Jomsviking representatives were quick to hand over their gifts.

The message these trinkets carried was clear.

Vetrulfr stepped forward, his mother at his side, gaze cold; calculating, and tinged with spite.

These men had forced their way into his home and disrupted an important ritual.

Coronation be damned, Blood Eagle had been invoked, and these mortals dare keep the gods waiting.

“You have thirty breaths to speak your truth, or I’ll return your heads to your Jarl and loose the harbor ballista upon his fleet.” The envoys were quick to bow their heads, anxiety clearly stricken across their faces as they did so.

“Jarl Armodr Ulvsson of the Jomsvikings, seeks an audience with whoever rules this fjord.

We have come a long way to search for our brothers who have gone silent.

We were not expecting such a grand fortress here in Ísland…” Vetrulfr said nothing, he thought diligently on the matter, the words in his throat cut off by a man who stepped forward on his behalf.

“You stand before Vetrulfr Ullrsson, High King over Ísland and Vestmannaeyjar.

Your Jarl would have been wiser to come and kneel himself if he wished for words to be had!” The man who said this was one of the Jomsvikings who had already pledged his life, and loyalty to Vetrulfr, taking part in the last stage of the war against the Althing.

He was now speaking as if the men who were once his sworn brothers-in-arms were now outsiders intruding upon sacred ground.

And this caught the attention of everyone who witnessed it.

What was more shocking was that his fellow brothers, who followed him into Vetrulfr’s service stepped forward, all alive and well as they too made their voices heard.

“You have intruded upon a great Blót.

The gods will not be pleased with your disturbance!

Tell your jarl that the men he seeks are no longer here, and that he should go home to Jomsborg!” Vetrulfr could only smirk at the words spoken by the former Jomsvikings.

When presented with their old master’s call to return, they refused to recognize his authority.

It was a bold profession of loyalty, but from his perspective they had chosen their side wisely.

As for the other Jomsvikings who were clearly staring at their missing sword brothers, yet they rejected the very reality of this bond.

It was a jolting experience for them.

Causing several moments of silent confusion before one stepped forward with his fists clenched and curled.

“What is the meaning of this?

Have you forsaken our brotherhood so easily?” The men stood firm, and by Vetrulfr’s side, refusing to say any more.

And ultimately, it was not a man who spoke next, but rather a woman.

Brynhildr made her presence known as she did the unthinkable.

“Tell your Jarl he has trespassed upon a Blood Eagle in progress.

The gods are watching.

If he wishes to join us in tribute to the gods, then he will have to come to Ullrsfjörðr personally.” A pause, and then a shift in the woman’s tone that was almost bone chilling.

“But if he is to be welcome among us, he and all his men will have to surrender their arms until they leave.

These are not my words, but those of the Tyr….

Do with them as you will…” One of the envoys was about to mock Brynhildr for daring to make such a claim, but the men by his side grabbed hold of him, and forced him into silence with a shake of their head, and whisper beneath their breath.

“Don’t… I can’t explain it, but there’s something unnatural about this place… about everything… You wouldn’t want to anger the gods, would you?” With that, the man who whispered into his friend’s ears stepped forward and bowed with a truly humble gesture.

“We will convey your words, great seiðkona, and I apologize for the brashness of my brother…” After saying this, the envoys piled back into the Skiff, and left Ullrsfjörðr’s harbor, returning to the Jomsviking fleet to relay what they had seen and heard.

Thus the gates closed behind the envoys—sealing the fjord, and the fate of those who dared trespass — Far from Ullrsfjörðr, aboard his flagship, Jarl Armodr Ulvsson was stunned at what he had heard.

Not only had their brothers forsaken their oaths and thrown their lot in with this Varangian upstart.

But the man was now proclaiming himself the High King over Ísland and Vestmannaeyjar.

Just what had happened over the course of the last year in this distant realm?

As much as Armodr wanted to drag his men back by force, and punish them severely for their betrayal.

He felt compelled to see what kind of man could inspire such a treasonous act to begin with?

And thus, he submitted to Vetrulfr’s request.

A Blood Eagle, here in Ísland?

A fortress that should not exist?

And the sudden defection of his own sword brothers?

Something strange was happening here, and Armodr would be damned if he did not investigate it personally.

Thus, he and his men found their way to the harbor of Ullrsfjörðr’s where they handed over their weapons to the local garrison.

After which Vetrulfr did not waste time with pleasantries, but rather led the way back to the beach, where Ívarr still lied bound and chained.

— The sacrificial rite was long and gruesome.

And Ívarr’s death was the furthest thing from painlessly possible.

He did, in fact scream in agony throughout it all.

And in doing so, forsook any chance at redemption the gods had given him.

As for Armodr and his men.

They were shocked… Not because of the blood and gore presented to them, such was their way of life.

No, they were stunned that someone still knew how to perform such a legendary Blót.

Let alone do it justice in a way that appeased the gods.

What came next was the coronation ceremony.

Vetrulfr was properly crowned in the traditions of legendary Norse and Germanic kings before him.

His mother, the seiðkona, had performed the proper blessings, and had placed the crown on her son’s head.

In doing so she cited authority from Ullr himself, blessing his son with a crown worthy of a king and conqueror of divine blood.

The fact that Vetrulfr’s crown was forged from Damascus steel, in a simplistic circlet, without any gilding, or embellishment of any kind.

Had caught the eyes of the Jomsvikings.

And then came the feast.

The hall rang with cheer—victory songs, boasts of valor, and oaths to the fallen.

Those few souls that had been taken by the Valkyries to Valhǫl during the war.

Throughout it all, Vetrulfr did not speak to the Jarl—not once.

This wasn’t his celebration.

He was a guest, one that was barely tolerated.

And Vetrulfr made sure to treat him as such.

Still, Armodr was not petty enough to force himself into the discussion.

No, he observed the Kingdom that Vetrulfr had built, the customs of his warriors, ancient, and yet innovative.

He could not find fault with the new High King.

In fact, the more he witnessed the celebration unfold in the exceptional Great Hall that Vetrulfr had built, the more Armodr, joined along with the festivities.

And before he knew it, he and his men were drinking, feasting, and wrestling with Vetrulfr’s best and brightest.

It was a clash of two distinctive Viking cultures, in a world where they were a dying breed.

And for a single night, they laughed, they fought, they bled, and they shared in joy, like it was not the end of their era.

But rather the birth of a new one.

By the end of the night, Armodr finally managed to speak with Vetrulfr in private, the two of them watching as Gunnar and the Jomsvikings own second in command threw axes at a target to see who had the best aim.

“I must say… I had much doubts when I first arrived here… But I can see now why my men chose to follow your lead.

I wash my hands of them.

They are yours to command from now on.

And though I won’t bend the knee to you, if you have need of our services, call upon us, and we will be there to defend your flanks!” Vetrulfr, grasped Armodr’s forearm, and clasped it tightly with a single shake of solidarity.

And when he did so, his words were like a prophecy woven by the norn.

“Our time isn’t over… Not while I still draw breath!

But if this is to be the end of our days… Then let it be such an end that it echoes in eternity!” With that said, an alliance was forged on this day.

And a High King had been crowned by the gods.

By the time the dawn rose on the morrow.

The tide had already receded.

There, lashed to water-worn posts at the harbor’s edge, what remained of Ívarr still clung to the waking world.

But there was no flesh.

No voice.

Only bone, bleached and split, with ribbons of flesh long since stripped by the sea.

The ribcage had been bent backwards, protruding like a pair of bloodstained wings.

While a raven picked at the sockets.

The blood had dried in strange, curling patterns across the stone; not scattered, but carved, as if the gods themselves had written his fate in crimson runes.

Thus was the fate reserved for the greatest of traitors.

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