Zentmeister

"When the old gods are forgotten, they do not die—they wait."

In the year 1025, the Viking Age wanes.
Iceland bows to Christ. The Althing governs by law. And the gods of old fade to whispers.

But in the far Westfjords, something stirs.

Vetrúlfr Úllarson, a former Varangian captain and exile, returns from the East with foreign gold, forgotten warcraft, and a hunger no man can name.

He comes not in peace, but to raise Ullrsfjörðr from ash and ice; building walls, carving runes, and waging war on behalf of a dying faith.

From Reykjavík to Aachen, rumors spread: a ghost walks the North once more. Some call him the son of Ullr. Others, a wolf-cloaked demon.

But all will know his name.

and when the Valkyries call, he will answer.

Valkyries Calling

The wind howled outside like a choir of wolves, dragging sleet across the sodden rooftops of Ullrsfjörðr. Inside the mead hall, the hearth blazed, flames snapping in rhythm with the woman's breathing.

Róisín clutched the edge of the woven bedding, slick with sweat, her hair clinging to her brow. Her teeth were grit, her gaze burning. She did not scream. She refused. The wives of her line were not known for weakness.

Brynhildr knelt at her side; not as war-leader, not as matron of the house, but as seiðkona. Her hair was unbound, her cloak cast aside. Painted runes adorned her hands and brow, glowing faintly from ash and salt.

"Steady," she murmured. "Breathe. He is nearly here."

Not it. He. She had seen it in her bones weeks ago. The old ways still whispered when she dreamed; and the child growing in Róisín's belly was no ordinary bairn.

The Son of Frost and Flame