The winter winds howled against the cliffs of Ullrsfjörðr, shrieking through the stone like the voices of the dead.

Snow lay in heavy drifts along the wharves, but the harbor was not silent.

Knarrs lay moored side by side, their hulls fat with ransom silver, plunder, and steel drawn from every forge Vetrulfr could command.

Smoke rose from the longhouses on the slope above, their fires banked against the endless dark.

The fjord seemed a place outside the world of men, a lair where wolves licked their wounds and sharpened their fangs before hunting again.

It was here that the envoys from the Rus came.

The first sign was the prow of their river-boats, dragging out of the gray sea.

They were not warships, but traders' craft built for the Volkhov and Dnieper, low, wide, and tough, their sides painted in fading hues.

The men aboard wore cloaks of fur, their beards long, their speech roughened with the tongues of the steppes.

Yet the iron helmets and broad axes they bore told of Norse blood in their veins.

These were the children of those who had sailed east generations before, taking wives from Slavic tribes, ruling cities, and bending the rivers to their will.

Vetrulfr stood upon the wharf to meet them, his wolfskin cloak snapping in the wind.

The silver Wolf Cross hung heavy against his chest, dulled by soot and blood.

His pale eyes caught the gray light like chips of ice.

Behind him, warriors of Ullrsfjörðr formed in ranks, his chosen, hard men tempered in his new Spartan discipline.

They stood silent, swords of Damascene on their waists as the river-boats scraped into place against the quay.

From the lead vessel, the first envoy stepped ashore.

He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of straw and a fur mantle lined with sable.

At his belt hung a sword of eastern steel, strange in Norse eyes.

He bowed stiffly, as one king might to another, then raised his voice so all could hear.

"I am Rodislav of Ladoga, son of Helgi the Red. We come with the blessing of certain boyars and men of the Volkhov, who are weary of bending knee to baptized kings. Word of your deeds has reached even Kiev, that you cut the lungs from Cnut, breaker of oaths, and fed his soul to the old gods. Many in the east whisper you are more than a man, a scourge sent by Ullr and Odin alike."

Murmurs rose among the crowd.

Vetrulfr's warriors did not smile, but the light in their eyes flickered with pride.

Róisín had come down to the harbor as well, her cloak drawn tight, her children huddled at her side.

She said nothing, but her gaze measured these envoys, as if weighing what sort of men would seek her husband's hand.

Vetrulfr answered without bow or flourish.

His voice was iron, rasped by winters of smoke and war.

"You have heard true. I gave him the eagle not for vengeance alone, but for oath-breaking. The Christians cry that I am a devil, yet they sell their pope's throne for Tuscan gold. Which of us is false?"

Rodislav inclined his head.

"We are not blind to Rome's rot. The priests of Kiev fatten themselves while the people go hungry. The boyars squabble and send their sons to be baptized in Greek rites, forgetting the blood that once carved the rivers with dragon-prows. Many among us yearn for a banner untainted. They say you have forged such a banner here."

He gestured at the silent ranks of swordsmen. "Your wolves."

At his signal, more envoys stepped ashore, Slavic nobles with fur-lined cloaks, Norsemen in mail, even a dark-eyed steppe rider with a bow of horn and sinew.

They brought gifts: jars of honey-mead, bolts of fine silk traded from the south, and a chest of silver coin marked with Byzantine stamp.

They set these at Vetrulfr's feet, tokens of fealty from those who dared whisper rebellion in the east.

But Vetrulfr did not glance at them.

He watched the men instead, reading the tension in their shoulders, the pride in their eyes, the fear that lingered in the corners of their mouths.

When he spoke again, it was not to thank them but to test them.

"Do you come as envoys of all Rus, or only of yourselves?"

Rodislav hesitated. "We come as forerunners. If you will it, others will follow."

Vetrulfr's mouth curved, a smile that was not warm.

"So you would bind me with promises not yet spoken. You bring silk and honey, but do you bring steel? Do you bring warriors?"

The steppe rider spoke then, his tongue thick with accent.

"If you give the word, men will come. Pecheneg riders, Slavic freemen, Norse blood yet unbent. The Dnieper and the Don are restless. Your name is already a fire among them."

Vetrulfr turned, letting the cold wind carry his voice so all the harbor might hear.

"Then tell your masters this: I am no idle king lazing on a gilded throne. I am the Son of Ullr, and I will not march at the side of men who fear their own priests. If they would have me, let them break their crosses and cast them into the river. Let them burn their churches and slay the Greek worms who preach within. Then, and only then, will I call them brothers."

The words cut sharp, but the envoys did not flinch.

Rodislav answered with a soldier's nod.

"They will hear it. And many will rejoice. You ask of them what they already dream."

Róisín stepped forward then, her voice clear though the wind snapped at her cloak.

"And what do you offer in return? You would have my husband's sword, his men, his harbor. What do the Rus give back to Ullrsfjörðr?"

Rodislav met her gaze, and for a moment the envoy seemed startled that a woman would speak at a gathering of kings.

But he answered plain.

"Steady grain from the black earth, iron from Novgorod's forges, furs from the forests, and convoys guarded by our spears. And more… brotherhood in war. Together we can strike at Conrad while he bleeds in Denmark. Together we can throw down the priests of Rome."

The harbor murmured again.

The thought of bread and steel flowing north was no small lure, nor the promise of new allies. Yet Vetrulfr's pale eyes remained hard as stone.

"I will not march to save the Rus from their own cowardice," he said.

"If they come, they come to me. Here. To Ullrsfjörðr. Let them swear oaths in blood beneath the gaze of the old gods, and I will arm them as I have armed the Wends. Until then, your gifts are nothing but trinkets."

The envoys looked at one another, uneasy.

But in Vetrulfr's eyes there was no negotiation, only command. Rodislav inclined his head once more.

"So be it. We will carry your words east."

---

That night a feast was held in the great hall of Ullrsfjörðr.

The hall's beams creaked under the weight of shields and trophies taken in war, Danish helms, Frankish swords, even a gilded crucifix nailed upside down as a mockery above the doors.

The envoys' eyes strayed to it more than once, their hands tightening on their cups.

Outside the wind shrieked, rattling the shutters, but inside fires roared in the hearths, and the smell of roasted mutton mingled with pine smoke.

The Rus envoys sat as guests of honor, though they ate warily beneath the gaze of the wolf warriors.

Brynhildr, Vetrulfr's mother, moved among them like a shadow, her eyes sharp as if she could strip the truth from their hearts.

The children played by the hearth, but even they knew to keep silent in the presence of such men.

When the mead horns were full and the noise of song filled the rafters, Vetrulfr rose.

His voice carried above the din.

"Tonight you sit beneath my roof as guests. But remember this: beyond these walls, the world burns. Cnut is dead, Duncan and Svein gnaw at England like dogs at a carcass, Conrad bleeds in Denmark, and Rome is bought and sold like cattle. The Christians tear each other apart. The wolves need only wait for spring."

The hall hushed, the firelight catching on the silver cross at his chest. Vetrulfr lifted his horn, and all eyes followed.

"So drink, envoys of Rus. Drink to the death of kings. Drink to the ruin of Rome. Drink to the day the rivers run red, and the old gods rise again."

They drank, and the wolves of Ullrsfjörðr howled into the night.

Outside, the sea ice groaned, and the stars burned like cold fire above the black fjord.

The isle of Ice rested with three pagan faiths gathered beneath its great hall.

And though it may not seem like much at the moment.

Here on the far side of the world, the European gods and their followers gathered to strike back at the cross.

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