The wind was no different. Salt stung the nose, gulls cried like damned souls overhead, and the sea slapped the hull with familiar, frothing contempt.
But to Asser, known by the Norsemen as Svan Óláfsson, something about Vestmannaeyjar felt wrong. Or rather, too right. Too ordered. Too quiet.
Once, these islands had been little more than clustered hovels of driftwood and turf, with seal fat burning in crude lanterns and fishermen hawking cod by the handful.
Now? Now the docks were reborn; squared timbers cut clean, lashed with whale sinew. Too precise. Too strong.
New stonework gleamed from the seawalls, black basalt mortared with some gray compound that hadn't cracked despite the freezing surf. A thing unnatural. Durable. Almost Roman.
There were banners, too. Not Danish. Not Christian. Symbols alien and old. Some magical stave; kin to the Helm of Awe, yet stranger, crueler.
