The sun lingered just above the grassy hills and stone mountains of Iceland, its illumination gracing the sapphire fjords below, and the field where Vetrúlfr waited.
His iron mail, partially covered by lamellar plates fashioned in Byzantine leather, shimmered beneath rays of sunlight reflecting off riveted rings and hardened leather scales. An armor set more common in Constantinople than here in the North.
The large, wolfskin-clad warrior loosely gripped his damascus steel sword in one hand, and the handle of his round shield in the other.
Nearly the entire village had gathered, or at least the men, and those boys old enough to bear witness to the ancient rights of the Norse, and the offended within their society.
lawspeakers, thingmen, and council elders who were representatives of the local Thing were standing front and center, older men, many still bearing the runes of their ancestors in either silver jewelry, or as lining to their more well-crafted tunics.
Standing across from Vetrúlfr in the circle where the duel would be held was nobody, not yet at least. There was still ten minutes for the other party to show. And Vetrúlfr waited patiently, while his mother stood by his side, speaking ill of the man who had been challenged.
"Álfarr has minutes left. When the sun kisses the peak of dawn and he has not stepped into the ring, he will be named níðingr—a coward unworthy of honor. Let him flee to Reykjavík and seek forgiveness from his white-cloaked priests. He was never fit to wear the blood of our forebears!"
Vetrúlfr said nothing, merely the eyes beneath the iron ocular rim of his helm shifted and stirred in the direction where a group of men were walking towards him.
Among them was the Goði Álfarr, but he was neither dressed in armor nor wielding a sword. Instead, it was his son, Hálfdan, who came to duel as his champion.
The looks on the faces of all those who bore witness to this scene were truly contemptible. Álfarr was not old and feeble enough to avoid fighting in defense of his own honor, and he was not a simple farmhand. He had once been a warrior in his own right back in the day.
To choose his own son as champion as a sacrificial pawn was not only testing the limits of the old law, but was also truly an act befitting a coward. But nobody dared say otherwise, not until the duel was concluded.
Vetrúlfr gazed upon Hálfdan who stood a full head shorter than his lumbering height, and cocked his neck at an angle, as if questioning the man's willingness to throw away his life for his cowardly father.
"Is this truly how you wish to die, Hálfdan? Defending the man behind you who won't even fight his own battles? I pity you…. let us pray to Odinn that he sees your sacrifice as somehow noble, and worthy of Valhalla even if you don't respect our ways….
Hálfdan seemed in no mood for superstitious ramblings about the gods, and the afterlife he was about to go to. Instead, he simply demanded the duel begin with haste.
"Enough! This must be done, and since that is the case, let us get it on with already!"
The two men raised their swords as the thingmen made tribute to Tyr, not Ullr, to watch over the contest, as doing so may invoke favoritism towards his son and champion. Or so was the perspective of those who truly believed Vetrúlfr's tale.
And then the duel began, not slowly, or lazily in an attempt to feel one another out, rather with Vetrúlfr closing the distance with his shield raised and using it to ram his opponent to the ground.
A swift swing of his single-edged blade towards the downed rival would have been enough to kill most men, but Hálfdan proved more capable than Vetrúlfr initially thought, rolling out of the way of the strike and raising his shield to deflect the next blow as he got back to his feet under the weight of Vetrúlfr's relentless onslaught.
Álfarr hissed in excitement as his fist clenched tightly with anxiety. Seeing his son survive the stampede of a rampaging bull was more than he was expecting.
And then Hálfdan returned his attack with his own sword, lashing towards Vetrúlfr with a swift and overhand slash.
But the whispers in the wind betrayed Hálfdan as the frost kissed Vetrúlfr 's cheeks, he somehow knew exactly how Hálfdan would move next.
Whether it was the specific way his shoulder twitched, or the voice of the gods revealing the future, only Vetrúlfr truly understood how.
With the raise of his shield and the lunge of his blade, Vetrúlfr not only caught his opponent's attack mid swing, staggering him in a way that exposed his throat, which was swiftly thrust through by Vetrúlfr 's blade.
Hálfdan stood in disbelief as his strength left his body and he fell to his knees, bleeding out of his throat rapidly and violently.
Yet Vetrúlfr did not finish the man by chopping off his head. Instead, he caught his opponent in a solid embrace, ensuring that Hálfdan's sword was in his hand as he gently lowered the boy to the ground.
Vetrúlfr's frozen eyes gazed into the panic and terror in Hálfdan's soul, whispering gently as he assured the man that he was off to a better place.
"You fought better than most who have died by my hand. Your bravery and honor were witnessed by the gods here today. Odin will deem you worthy… I envy you friend, you will see them before I do…. Can you hear them? The song of the Valkyries as they call out to you? Can you see them? Are they as beautiful and gentle as we hoped they would be?"
Whatever strength within Hálfdan's grip went limp as he gazed beyond Vetrúlfr's figure, almost as if in his death throes he truly saw peace waiting for him on the other side, no matter what form that may have taken.
Upon realizing that the man was dead, Vetrúlfr laid Hálfdan's sword hand upon his chest, and closed his eyelids, a serene, yet haunting tableau of a man who had perished far too soon.
And when the crowd realized what had happened, they paid their respects. Álfarr staggered back as if struck, eyes wide, mouth agape at the swift brutality. His son, his champion, dead before his cowardice had even settled into the minds of those watching.
As for Vetrúlfr 's mother, Brynhildr, her expression softened into quiet reverence, eyes fixed gently to the empty space near Hálfdan's fallen form, as if seeing spirits unseen by mortal eyes.
A silent whisper beneath her breath that only she could hear before walking over to her son who emerged victorious in this ancient and sacred rite.
---
It did not take long for the focus of the villagers to turn to their disgraced Goði. Vetrúlfr had won the contest.
He had avenged his exile, but the nature of the grievance meant, and the way Álfarr went about it meant that he no longer had a right to continue with his position.
For years the majority of the villagers who still followed the old gods had borne silent contempt towards their leader, who curried favor with the Christians in Reykjavík, while still trying to profess himself as a trueborn Norseman.
But there was little they could do. Nobody had the means to challenge his rule until now. Vetrúlfr's return wasn't just a spiritual revival for the people of Ullrsfjörðr, it was a political one.
Álfarr knelt in the grass as the cold icy winds swept over him gazing at his son's fresh corpse.
The thingmen's words were ultimately what woke him from his trauma induced stupor.
"Vetrúlfr Úllarson has emerged victorious. He fought with honor, as did his opponent.
But the aggrieved party, Álfarr Haraldsson, has disgraced the rite. By duel and by law, we strip him of the title of Goði. From this day forth, the gods have chosen a new chieftain: the Son of Ullr."
Cheers erupted from the men present as the thunder crackled in the distance, almost as if Thor himself was striking his anvil in approval at the end result of this honorable duel.
When Vetrúlfr Úllarson heard that he had been named the new chieftain he was quick to make his first proclamation clear.
"Gather to me every man and boy fit to bear arms! From this village, this sacred fjord that bears my father's name, I shall forge an army the world will remember! Even the mighty Jomsvikings will tremble when they hear our name whispered in the wind.
Today, we begin a new age. Ísland has been tainted by the plague of Christendom, its people cowed, its gods forgotten. But we… we remember the old ways. And I say this land still belongs to the gods of our fathers!
Give me six months, and the world shall tremble at our return.
I swear this by the blood of Ullr, and the fire of Asgard itself!"
The men who heard Vetrúlfr's proclamation, aside from the Varangians who already bore his fire, felt something awaken within them. For too long they had lived as fishermen, goat herders, and forgotten sons of a fading age.
But the winds had shifted. And this small fjord, long silent, would become the place where the old gods rose again.
Yet, among them, a few quietly tucked their crosses away. Their eyes held no fire, only fear. For they did not know what place remained for them, now that the gods of old had returned with a vengeance in their breath.