The papal ship creaked into Heimaey's harbor under heavy fog and the grim gaze of carved wooden gods that lined the docks.
A black-and-gold banner bearing the keys of Saint Peter flapped in the ocean wind.
A foreign thing in a land ruled by wolves and storm gods.
When the envoys stepped ashore, four men in thick woolen cloaks over their vestments, their Latin tongues sharp and stiff, no horn greeted them, no banner was raised, no crowd gathered.
Only cold.
And warriors.
Men in oiled mail and fur, axes slung casually on their backs, eyed them like foxes staring down a chicken coop.
"Is this Ullrsfjörðr?" asked one of the envoys, stepping forward with a mixture of arrogance and shivering pride.
A bearded warrior grinned through frostbit lips. "Nay. You'll not walk into Ullrsfjörðr. Not if your cloaks stink of Rome and crosses."
Another envoy frowned. "We were sent by Pope John the Nineteenth himself. We are here to speak with your king. Vetrúlfr."
