Blood of the Wolf

Southern Threats

The southern ships lingered beyond the breaking waves, dark hulls resting on the grey horizon.

Gutagard stood ready.

Men lined the high cliffs, shields overlapped, spears glinting in the pale morning light. Lower down, near the harbor, others waited in grim silence for the order to move. The women had ushered the children into the longhouses, leaving only warriors along the cold coast.

Erik stood at the front of the line, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Behind him, his father’s body still lay cold inside the great hall. The weight of it pressed against Erik's shoulders. Halfdan had been the shield everyone stood behind when danger gathered. Now, every eye on the cliff was turned toward Erik.

Five ships rode the swell. Five ships that had arrived from the South on the exact morning their Jarl had died.

Erik raised a hand. "Hold."

The line held. A single southern ship detached from the group. Its oars struck the water in a slow, steady cadence, rowing toward the beach alone while the other four remained anchored in deep water.

Erik descended to the sand, watching until the timber ground against the shingle.

Three men stepped out into the foam. The man in front wore a tunic trimmed in furs and carried no shield. A longsword hung at his waist, but his hands remained open and away from the hilt. He swept a cold, calculating gaze over the armed Norsemen before his eyes settled on Erik.

"I seek Jarl Halfdan," the messenger said.

Erik stepped forward, the surf splashing against his boots. "You won't find him."

"Where is he?"

"Dead."

A flicker of genuine shock crossed the messenger's face. He looked past Erik toward the timber smoke rising from Gutagard’s hall. "When?"

"Before dawn."

The envoy lowered his head, crossing himself. "May God receive his soul."

Erik didn't answer.

"I carry terms from King Askold," the messenger said, straightening.

"Speak them."

"They were meant for Halfdan's ears."

"His death doesn't make your journey shorter," Erik said coldly. "Speak."

The envoy studied Erik for a long moment, measuring his youth against his stance, before continuing. "King Askold demands that Gutagard withdraw all garrisons from the borderlands along the southern river. The prisoners taken during your last raid are to be returned in chains."

A low rumble of anger rippled through the warriors at Erik's back. Erik didn't look back.

"And if we refuse?"

"Then the King will march," the envoy said smoothly. "And we will leave your hall as ash and send your people to your pagan gods."

Bo barked out a harsh laugh, and several warriors sneered, drawing their steel an inch from their scabbards. They had come expecting to intimidate an old Jarl's village, only to find a hall bristling for a fight.

The envoy took a measured step forward. "Your father was a wise man. He understood that some matters are best settled without burning fields."

"I should cut your throat where you stand," Erik said softly.

"We came under a flag of truce, by the King's authority."

"And I answer under mine."

The envoy looked at him carefully. "You are quick to claim your father's seat."

"It was empty."

The answer fell like an iron weight, silencing the murmurs behind him.

Erik continued, his tone devoid of heat. "The prisoners stay. The border remains."

"You refuse the King?"

"I refuse his demands."

The messenger looked up at the hundreds of armed men crowding the cliffside. "You are choosing a war."

"No," Erik replied. "I am choosing not to kneel."

The envoy held his stare, searching Erik’s face for hesitation or fear. He found none. Finally, the messenger gave a stiff, formal nod. "I will carry your answer back to Kiev."

"Carry it carefully."

The envoy turned and waded back through the surf to his boat. Before climbing aboard, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You are Halfdan's son."

"Aye."

"Your father was respected in the South."

"He was."

"That made him dangerous," the envoy said softly. "Do not assume you inherit his reputation alongside his hall."

He climbed into the boat. Erik watched as the oarsmen pushed off, rowing back to the flagship. Soon, the great square sails were hoisted. One by one, the five ships turned their prows toward the open sea and melted into the mist.

Nobody in Gutagard moved until the last sail dipped below the horizon. Only then did Erik lower his hand, and the tension along the cliffs slowly dissolved into low hushed voices.

Olaf walked down the shingle, his heavy boots crunching on the stone. "You let them leave."

"They brought a message," Erik said. "They took back an answer."

"You should have held the envoy," Olaf said, frowning. "We could have bled him for information."

Erik shook his head. "Killing or caging an envoy gives Kiev the excuse they need to bring twenty more ships before Father is even in the ground. I won't trade men's lives for anger."

Olaf looked out toward the empty sea. "Then why come at all? Why show five sails just to turn back?"

"To test the fence," Erik said.

Behind them, men were already hauling heavy pine logs down toward the shore for the pyre. Halfdan's funeral would begin before sunset.

Erik turned back toward the path leading up to the hall. "I need you at the harbor, Olaf."

Olaf nodded. "Double the watch?"

"Triple it."

"You think the Kievan fleet will turn around?"

"Not them," Erik said, his eyes shifting toward the dark, forested ridges of the northern hills. "I'm watching for the vultures closer to home. Every Jarl in the North has been waiting for Father to die."

News of a Jarl's death traveled faster than a warship before the wind.

By midday, a group of men had crossed the northern pass and reached the wooden gates of Jòmsborg. The gates of Ironhorn opened, and the messengers rode hard through the muddy thoroughfare, dismounting outside the iron-roofed longhouse of Jarl Gunnarr.

Gunnarr sat near the central hearth, surrounded by his lieutenants, a whetstone scraping rhythmically against the edge of his battleaxe. He looked up as the mud-spattered men were brought before him.

"Speak," Gunnarr grunted.

"Word from the coast, Jarl Gunnarr," one of the men said. "Jarl Halfdan is dead."

The scraping stopped. Gunnarr leaned back in his carved chair. "How?"

"We don't know. He went to sleep and never woke."

Gunnarr stared into the flames. For decades, Halfdan had stood like a stone wall between the Wolf Coast and anyone who desired a larger piece of the North. Gunnarr had challenged him twice in his youth; both times, he had been sent home bleeding.

Now, the wall was gone.

Gunnarr’s fingers closed tightly around the haft of his axe. "And his sons?"

"The eldest, Olaf, has returned from Jómsborg," the rider said.

"And Erik?"

The messenger hesitated. "The younger one has taken his father's seat. Southern ships arrived at dawn demanding land, but the boy refused them and sent King Askold's envoys packing."

A slow, harsh smile spread across Gunnarr’s weathered face. "Refused King Askold already? Before his father's body is even cold?"

Gunnarr stood, resting his axe against his chair. Halfdan had been an old oak—stubborn, deeply rooted, impossible to push over. But Erik was young. And young men were ruled by pride. Pride was easy to shatter.

"Prepare the longships," Gunnarr ordered.

One of his men stepped forward. "We sail tonight?"

Gunnarr shook his head, "No. Let the boy bury his father. Let him sit in that high seat and think he is a king."

He walked toward the open timber doors, looking out toward the distance.

"We will visit Gutagard when the ashes of Halfdan's pyre are cold."