The shores continued to burn in the flames which the Westfjord fleet and its raiders had lit in their path of destruction.
Until now, Gunnar and the three hundred swords at his back had been difficult to track.
They moved too swiftly, and with complete control of the sea, that by the time the Althing's southern army even heard whispers of their presence, everything in their path had already been reduced to ash and soot.
They vanished with the waves Njörðr blessed them with.
But now, south of Reykjavík, they laid anchor. Choosing to march inland to regroup with the larger host. It was on that path that Gunnar and his men crossed paths with a levy force sent by the Althing to intercept them.
About five hundred men, give or take. Farmers, fishermen—these were not warriors, but hastily drawn townsfolk, armed with spears, round shields, and if they could afford it, a helm.
The wolves of the South sounded no horns… no drums to beat, only their shields, and the whisper of a god behind Gunnar's tongue.
Upon glimpsing the enemy across the field, Gunnar barked a command loud enough for all to hear:
"Shield wall! Fenrir's Maw formation!"
Instantly, the Viking host formed ranks: a thin center line of newer recruits, with light skirmishers at their rear.
Each side of that center was flanked by thicker walls of hardened warriors; Varangians, berserkers, Ulfheðnar. Elite killers cloaked in myth and iron.
As Gunnar's Fenrir's Maw approached, the Althing's larger force took the bait.
Perhaps wary of the animal-cloaked elites anchoring each flank, they rushed to the center, believing it the weak point.
They crashed forward with all their might.
At first, the southern commander laughed aloud, reveling as he saw the Viking center bend under pressure.
"Bah! They bark louder than they bite! Forward—victory is ours!"
Thinking triumph was close, the commander unsheathed his sword and marched into the fray, his personal guard flanking him.
But the further they pushed, the stranger it seemed. He saw only his own men falling, trampled or pierced, while the heathens stood firm, dying in fewer numbers than expected.
Then it struck him.
But it was already too late.
They were surrounded.
The center hadn't broken. It had lured them forward. The collapse was a trick, and now, swords closed in on all sides.
Panicked and clawing to escape, his men died in place, gutted from the sides, crushed from the rear, collapsed atop one another in a chorus of dying screams.
"God help us!"
Bjǫrn led the berserkers; veterans who had earned their hides in blood, men who now formed one of the units encircling the Althing's force.
Shield to shield, they stood like a wall of wolves, blades in hand.
While the enemy wielded long spears, useless in the crush, the raiders used short blades to slip between gaps and thrust in seamless motion, gutting men like pigs in a pen.
They pierced through linen tunics and soft bellies, leaving unarmored levies to collapse screaming or bleed out beneath the boots of their comrades.
This wasn't merely a slaughter. It was a trap. A culling.
A lesson taught to those who knew too little of war, and paid in full against warriors bred to serve as the vanguard that had crushed emperors and dynasties alike.
In the end, not a single one of the Althing's five hundred levies escaped.
All they managed to do was buy a few days' time. Long enough for the villagers between here and Reykjavík to flee for whatever sanctuary they could find.
For many, that sanctuary would be Reykjavík itself. A city of crucifixes, cloistered priests, and timber palisades; the center of Christendom in Ísland.
But even it would not remain untouched for long.
When the battle ended, Gunnar stood over the fallen, gazing across a corpse pile that steam still rose from. He turned toward Bjǫrn, who knelt beside a wounded man, tending to him with surprising gentleness.
"How many did we lose?" Gunnar asked.
Bjǫrn stood upright, patting the wounded warrior's back.
"Five hundred lie dead. They outnumbered us by two hundred spears."
He paused—his voice softer now.
"And yet… not a single shield-brother. Some are wounded, yes, but they'll live. I can't help but wonder where did you learn such a formation?"
Gunnar wiped the blood from his blade on a fallen man's tunic before returning it to its scabbard. He did not look at Bjǫrn—his gaze was fixed north.
"Vetrulfr taught it to me. He said he read about it in the library at Antioch. Enough talk... tend to the wounded. We march soon."
Bjǫrn said nothing.
He only watched the sky.
As the storm broke, and sunlight pierced the clouds above, two ravens descended.
They circled, then landed atop the Althing commander's corpse. Pecking at his throat, they tore loose the crucifix around his neck and took flight once more.
Bjǫrn made the sign of the hammer and whispered a prayer to Odin.
Then he turned and did exactly as Gunnar commanded. OOnly two hundred of the Westfjord swords marched inland with Gunnar to regroup with Vetrulfr and the main host.
The remaining hundred manned the longships, sailing them around the coast to encircle Reykjavík by sea.
Eight vessels, each with a dozen seasoned raiders, now formed a floating noose across the harbor's mouth. No soul would escape the judgment to come. Not by land, nor by Njörðr's waves.
---
After a bloody battle at the Hallowed Hill, which saw the bulk of the Althing's army annihilated. Ívarr found himself stumbling past Reykjavík's timber gates. Collapsed against the palisade, armor stained in ash and blood.
His breath came in ragged bursts, each one stabbing at his lungs like frostbitten knives. His cloak was torn. His sword was gone. The men who had followed him—most of them were gone, too.
Fewer than a hundred had returned with him from the north.
Another hundred, maybe, still held the city from within. But it would not matter. Not now.
He looked back once, toward the dark hills where Alfarr had fallen—where wolves howled in the distance like they carried the souls of the dead in their throats.
He had marched out with fifteen hundred men.
He had returned with barely a tenth of that.
"Why…" he whispered hoarsely, throat dry as the wind. "Why would God leave us to the wolves?"
No voice answered.
Only the silence of a sky without stars.