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 air was knife-cold despite the season. In Greenland, spring was a cruel liarl; the ice merely shifted, cracked, and sighed beneath its own weight, whispering of thaw, yet never yielding.

Vetrúlfr moved at the head of the small column, wolfskin cloak drawn tight over his shoulders.

Beside him, the pale mane of the beast still clung to old blood, wind-matted and stiff. His breath billowed in slow, controlled clouds. He savored the burn in his lungs.

Six men trailed behind him, hardened Northmen whose beards still clutched frost like graveyard lichen.

They carried their shields slung, axes and spears in hand, eyes sweeping the low ridges and hollowed drifts with wary patience.

It had been three days since they left the hall, following the winding fjord northward, then cutting inland through scattered birch and stunted willow.

From the Night They Came