Nobody knew how long the Norsemen had been at sea, only that the air was fresh with the taste of salt, and their rations, though dwindling, were doing so at a proper rate. But Vetrulfr was an experienced sailor, and he knew that any day now, or more precisely any hour, they would be reaching the coastline of their destination.
The storm on the horizon was growing stronger and fiercer. Blood would be demanded in great quantity to appease the gods, and to test the wayward sons of frost and steel who were returning home after being in distant lands for far too long.
Vetrulfr, being a man of strategic foresight, had long since prepared for this eventuality. And when they saw the entrance to the Po River Valley as they approached the Adriatic, he stood up from his seat and howled his commands to the eighty warriors serving beneath him.
"There! Take the mouth of the river and go westward upstream!"
His orders were followed to the letter. And after some time navigating the course he had chosen, it was an abbey with connections to Charlemagne who had once paid patronage to it during his life. The crew made berth along the riverbank and disembarked from their vessel, swords, axes, spears, and shields in hand.
Vetrulfr unsheathed his blade, a sword forged from eastern wootz steel by a Saracen blacksmith in Damascus. Just above the bronze hilt, a golden Tiwaz rune was engraved.
The watery pattern of the multicolored steel shimmered in the sun as Vetrulfr raised his shield and advanced at the center of his men's shield wall. The monks inside had no idea that the old world was calling to them from beyond the false safety which their large wooden doors provided.
A group of monks were in collective prayer as the head of the abbey led them. The stained glass windows of the main chapel dripped with the tears of the heavens, rain falling in lament for the blood that those inside were unknowingly about to shed.
And then it came, fierce and swift, like the bone-chilling kiss of Iceland's frost-laced winds. The doors to the chapel burst open. A tall, broad-shouldered man with pale skin, a beard the color of snow, and eyes the hue of frozen seas stood before them, sword in hand.
The monks knew immediately who these men were. Though Viking raids into Italia had diminished as the 11th century progressed, whispers of barbarians wearing the skins of beasts from the north and raiding coastal villages and river chapels had never truly faded.
And because of this, they screamed in terror and huddled together. There was no escape, the Norsemen had come through the only entrance.
Yet Vetrulfr did not immediately strike. Instead, he walked past the gathering of monks and gazed upon the large gilded crucifix depicting the passion of Christ at the center of the chapel.
His eyes were not filled with reverence, but with disdain. He pointed the sword toward the abbot's throat, his words laced with contempt for the faith he loathed.
"No matter how many times I see it, I truly can't help but pity you all..."
The head of the abbey gazed defiantly at Vetrulfr, undeterred by the sword's tip, pressed so close that a mere swallow would pierce his flesh. His eyes burned with righteous fury.
"Lay down your arms. There is no salvation in blood. What you need is the boundless love of God!"
Vetrulfr stepped forward without a word.
His hand shot out, seizing the man by his embroidered collar. With a casual tug, he ripped the golden crucifix from the priest's neck. The chain snapped with a weak jingle. He held it up, turning it slowly in the firelight, examining it like a foreign relic from a dead civilization.
Smooth. Untouched. Gleaming. Gold that had never tasted blood. His voice was calm, but cold enough to make the flames shiver.
"You Christians always speak of how powerful your god is. And yet he's always shown nailed to a tree. Dead. Beaten. Weeping."
He paused, gazing at the crucified figure, arms outstretched in agony, eyes cast downward in eternal defeat.
Then, slowly, he reached beneath his cloak.
From the folds of wolfskin and leather, he withdrew a second pendant, older, darker, heavier. A rough-forged Wolf Cross, tarnished silver with the wear of decades. Blackened by fire. Weathered by frost. Etched by blood.
The two symbols, Christ's clean gold and Thor's war-worn silver, hung in contrast between his fingers. One divine and defeated. The other savage and standing.
"You embody the spirit of a god crucified," he said, voice low but sharp as the edge of a blade.
"But I embody the spirit of a wolf, forged on Thor's anvil, hardened in war."
He turned toward the brazier. Without ceremony, he released the crucifix. The gold hissed as it struck the coals, metal curling and blackening in the flames. No miracle came. No angel wept. Only fire.
He let the Wolf Cross dangle for a moment longer, its silver catching the firelight in flickers like distant lightning on northern snow. Then, with deliberate care, he pressed it back to his chest, against the heart it had never stopped guarding.
The silence that followed was deafening. One of the monks lunged forward, enraged by the desecration, his face red, his voice shrill with fear and fanaticism.
"You have no power here! This is hallowed ground! A house of God! Leave, demon of the North!"
Vetrulfr turned slowly, his expression unreadable, shadowed by the firelight. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile:
"A demon, am I? Then allow me to show you fools what true power looks like... before I send you to your god myself. After all, Njörðr demands a great sacrifice from us as a test of our faith, and I am so glad you have all volunteered for our blót."
Without another word, he drove his blade into the monk's chest. The man's fury turned to astonishment as the Damascus steel drank from his still-pumping heart. His eyes dimmed. No divine wrath descended. Only silence.
And then the slaughter began. Blood, bone, and sinew splattered across the chapel. The Norsemen tore through the monks with merciless precision. No sanctuary held. No prayer heard.
By the end, the abbot's lifeless body was nailed through the chest with a brass candlestick to the very cross that depicted his own crucified lord. Only one monk survived. The young man knelt, wailing and praying for salvation. Gunnar stood before him, his axe raised high, ready to finish what had begun.
"No, brother," came the voice behind him. "Not him. One needs to live to tell the tale."
Gunnar stepped aside without hesitation while Vetrulfr stepped forward in his place, kneeling before the monk, eyes glowing like coals beneath a glacier.
"You will deliver a message to your emperor, the one who falsely claims the name of Rome while cowering in that gilded brothel called Aachen."
The monk's lips trembled yet no words came in response resulting Vetrulfr's gaze hardened while his voice became a storm, a physical manifestation of the gods wrath here on Earth.
"Tell the sons of Charlemagne that the gods have taken shape in flesh. That their wrath walks again."
He rose, stepping back slowly, his cloak sweeping with the motion, wolfskin caked in blood and ash.
His blade lifted like a prophet's finger.
"Tell them the son of Ullr has returned. That he comes to settle a debt two centuries unpaid, forged in the blood of the Saxons. Paid for in fire. Signed in ruin."
Vetrulfr then cast a glance over his shoulder towards the frightened monk. A final look. A final warning.
"Tell him this. Word for word. Or I'll carve the runes into your skin myself."
Then came the order, his voice like Thor's thunder which broke the storm behind him.
"Burn it."
---
It took some time for word to reach the King of the Romans, Conrad II, who just a year prior had inherited the throne from the last of the Ottonian dynasty.
The monk, pale, soot-streaked, and trembling, had only been granted entrance to the palace at Aachen after his so-called "hysterical" claims had been properly verified. And when they were, he knelt before Conrad and spoke the words he had committed to memory with terror etched into every syllable.
Conrad remained silent for a long while.
The last of Charlemagne's bloodline had perished the year before, leaving him the heir to a throne now transitioning from a feudal kingdom into what would soon be recognized as the Holy Roman Empire.
Whoever had launched the attack, this self-proclaimed son of Ullr, clearly did not know that the Carolingian line had already ended. Which meant he had been gone from the world's stage for some time.
At Conrad's side stood his inner circle, nobles, advisors, clergy. Chief among them was his master of whispers, who leaned in to murmur his insight.
"Basil's death in Constantinople has had greater consequences than we anticipated. It would seem the Bulgar Slayer's passing has unleashed the wrath of Norsemen kept too long in imperial service. If that is the case, this may be more than just another raid. It may be an omen of a blight returning to our shores."
Across from him, the court chaplain's voice rose, inflamed with fury and conviction.
"Heathens! Savages! They desecrate a holy abbey simply because Charlemagne once blessed it with his favor? Blasphemy!"
The steward, more measured and perceptive, stepped forward with a darker suggestion.
"The message delivered makes it clear: this is a declaration of war, not only against Christendom, but specifically against the Empire and those tied by blood or legacy to Charlemagne.
Vengeance for the Saxons, long thought buried. But one question disturbs me most of all: how did a Northman know that the Abbey had once received the patronage of Charlemagne himself?"
He paused, his tone sharpening.
"This is no mindless brute. He is Varangian, yes, but a learned one. He knew what he struck and why. And if that is the case… may God have mercy on us all."
Conrad said nothing as murmurs rippled through the chamber. Debate erupted, some questioning whether this was a lone fanatic, others fearing a larger movement among the Norse. A few dared to suggest divine punishment for forgotten sins.
At last, Conrad stood.
"Enough," he declared, his voice ironclad. "See to it that this monk is fed and clothed. He has suffered enough without your squabbling."
He turned his gaze on the others, his jaw set.
"As for this raider… this 'son of Ullr', we have more pressing matters than some ghost from the ice. The cowards have vanished back into the wilderness from whence they came, leaving no trace of their homeland. Let them. When they show themselves again, we will burn them at the stake for their crimes against the Empire and Christendom."
The chamber fell into silence. No one dared to challenge an emperor's decree, though many disagreed in the privacy of their thoughts.
The master of whispers and the marshal exchanged a glance, each already formulating contingency plans, quiet preparations for a threat that might not be so easily dismissed. But for now, the king's word was law.
And far to the north, the Varangians sailed for Iceland, untouched, unchallenged, and unconcerned. They had sent their message in blood, ash, and iron. No fleet pursued them. No retribution followed.
This had only been the first taste. The gods had not been forgotten. And Vetrulfr had shown the world that the sons of the North remembered, and still hungered for reckoning.