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

Vetrúlfr stood upon the low rise outside his stone hall, the cold wind snapping his cloak back from broad shoulders.

Before him stretched the white-scored fjord. His new fortress crouched upon its flank like a wolf at rest, wooden palisades bristling and longships rocking gently at the quays.

Horses and men came and went along the muddy roads, dusted with spring melt.

Messengers darted among the ranks, bearing the latest reports from the hunting bands that swept the valleys and narrow passes.

Each scroll was swiftly cut open and read. Each breath of news wove itself into the web of his mind. More skraelingr camps abandoned.

More ambushes drawn out by bait carts laden with hides and salted meat, only to be crushed by shield walls and flying columns of spearmen who struck as swiftly as winter storms.

His huskarljar gathered close, faces red from cold, their laughter edged with bright admiration.

The Lessons of Empire