When Winter Beckoned

By the time the frost began to creep down from the inland ice, glazing the low streams in brittle lace, Vetrúlfr knew it was time to set his ships for home.

Almost a year had passed since he first carved out a foothold on Greenland's stony coast.

A year of war, burning, building, and the old hard laughter of men who understood that kingdoms were made only by iron and blood.

Inside the long hall, fires roared. Smoke curled up through the high vents, catching the smell of roast seal and thick goat stews.

The benches were crowded with huskarls, Varangians, younger Norse warriors who had come to Greenland with nothing but axe and hunger and would now leave it as jarls and thegns.

Heavy cups of dark beer passed hand to hand.

Somewhere near the hearth, skalds sang half-wild, half-reverent verses of how these men had broken the skraelingr in running battles, outbuilt the ice, and hunted down every last lurking spear.