A seabird screamed overhead as Gunnar stood at the prow of his longship. Fog coiled about the masts like wraiths, thick and clinging.
Behind them lay Vestmannaeyjar, now claimed in the name of the Westfjord Jarldom. Before them, in the gray, ghost-lit distance, a lone knarr fled northward. Its sail drawn tight, as though it could outrun fate itself.
It was a merchant's vessel, small and swift with the wind. But against six longships, it had no hope of flight.
Unaware that Vestmannaeyjar had already fallen to the pagans, the Althing had sent it forth in desperation, hoping to summon aid from the southern seas.
From Frankia, or perhaps even lands under Papal dominion. News of the northern razing had broken their composure, and this vessel had been their plea for salvation.
But Vetrulfr had foreseen it.
Long before the Althing realized the necessity of such a message, he had already prepared the noose. This was the reason he had launched a pre-emptive strike to seize Vestmannaeyjar for the westfjords.
And now Gunnar could see this brilliant foresight unfold before him. His eyes never blinked as he watched the knarr draw closer. Frostrtönn, currently under his command, was one of six in the flotilla now encircling the smaller vessel. He turned, voice calm and sharp.
"Board her."
The knarr was meant for trade, not war. It had but a single sail, no oars, and no fighting men. She was a lamb caught among wolves. There was no escape.
Soon enough, the longships closed on the ring. Grappling hooks bit into timber. Planks were cast, and Gunnar's men crossed onto the knarr with axes and seaxes in hand. The sailors aboard, helpless and afraid, offered no resistance.
Once the prisoners had been subdued, and no hidden arms found, Gunnar stepped forward.
He was tall even among warriors, a mountain of mail and cold judgment. His pale gaze swept over the shivering crew. They dared not meet his eyes.
"Which one of you commands this ship?"
No answer. Only whimpers.
Gunnar's hand moved without pause. His seax flashed, and one of the sailors collapsed, gurgling as his blood painted the deck. With a practiced motion, Gunnar wiped the blade on the dying man's tunic and returned it to its sheath.
The cries that followed were stifled by a single, thunderous shout:
"I shall only ask once more. Who commands this ship?"
The silence broke. A frightened voice shrieked from among them:
"The one with tawny hair! him! He's the captain! I'm just a fisherman! They conscripted me, I swear to God! I know nothing, I'll say nothing!"
Gunnar glanced at the traitor with disdain, then gave a nod.
One of his men swung his axe. The informer's head fell to the deck, and his body was cast into the sea to be claimed by the cold.
Then came Gunnar's final order.
"Spare the captain. Kill the rest."
The execution was swift.
By the time it ended, the knarr's deck ran red with blood, and her hold was stripped bare. Gold, furs, salted fish, wine. Anything of value was ferried to the longships.
Only the captain remained, bound and silent, staring in horror.
Gunnar looked toward the shore. They were not far from land.
He turned to the captive. "You'll live. If you're a good swimmer that is... And you'll carry a message."
The man looked up, blinking through salt and tears.
"Tell your masters in Reykjavík this—"
He leaned down, voice like frost upon the wind.
"No matter how much they pray, no help shall come. Vestmannaeyjar has returned to Njörðr's hand. And any who seek to summon aid from the sea shall find only steel and flame."
With that, he cut the man loose and shoved him overboard.
Gunnar and his warriors returned to their ships. Before departing, they cast torches onto the knarr's blood-slicked timbers. Soon, her mast burned like a pyre.
The smoke rose, black and bold. The shore saw it. Reykjavík would know.
---
Panic now walked the halls of the Althing.
The raids had come swift and brutal. The north lay ravaged. Villages burned. Churches sacked. Priests slain. Yet still the Althing squabbled. Arguing over who would lead the army, how it would be fielded, where to make a stand.
By the time Ívarr, newly appointed Marshal of the Realm, had secured command, Vetrulfr's forces had struck again. Reports arrived by the hour. Each voice brought worse tidings.
And then... a man was dragged through the doors.
Soaked to the bone, skin bluish from cold, lips quivering.
He collapsed before the hearth.
"Get him furs! Wine! A fire!" Ívarr barked, and servants moved to strip the man's sodden garments, wrapping him in warmth. But the chill clung to him like a specter.
Ívarr stood over him.
"You were bound for Vestmannaeyjar. What happened? Where is your crew?"
The man only shook, staring into the flames.
"Speak, damn you! What befell your ship?!"
His voice rasped out, low and broken.
"Six longships... They came through the fog. Surrounded us. There was no warning. No quarter."
"The others?"
"Dead. All dead."
"And you?"
He swallowed.
"They left me alive. Said... I was to deliver a message."
Ívarr leaned in, the room deathly silent.
"What message?"
The man turned to the fire as though it alone could shield him.
"Vestmannaeyjar belongs to Njörðr once more. And the sea no longer heeds Christian prayer. Any who sail to seek salvation… shall find only flame."
No one spoke. No one breathed.
After a long, harrowed silence, Ívarr straightened. His voice was not raised, yet it cut like ice.
"We waited too long."
Nobody dared say otherwise. They knew now that they had taken too long to choose a path forward. And now they were bearing the cost of their indecisiveness.
None of them realize that Vestmannaeyjar had been seized before the war even officially began.
Neither would they learn of this truth. For even if they did, it mattered not. The Sea was now closed to all but those who worshipped its god.