Chapter 1: Raid Sevilla

The winter of 974-975 had been particularly harsh, even by Icelandic standards. When the first signs of thaw arrived in early March, Guthorm Sveinsson's call to arms spread rapidly through the eastern fjords. The jarl had spent the long dark months meticulously planning the most ambitious raid of his career--a venture far beyond the familiar coasts of Britain or Frankia, targeting the fabled riches of Moorish lands.
Grimolf Isleifsson was among the first to pledge his axe to the expedition. Having wintered at his modest steading near Reykjafjord, he arrived at Guthorm's hall leading five hardened warriors. Each man had fought alongside Grimolf in previous expeditions, and together they formed a tightly knit combat unit known informally among the larger warband as "The Wolf's Shields." These were not simply hired swords or adventure-seekers, but men bound to Grimolf through blood, oath, and shared experience. Their individual skills complemented one another, making them far more effective as a unit than as individual fighters. While other men might boast more wealth or land, few commanded such respect for their battle prowess. Grimolf had sailed with Guthorm on three previous expeditions, and the jarl valued his tactical mind as much as his fighting skill.
Together, these five warriors formed a fearsome fighting unit that had developed effective combat techniques through years of raiding alongside Grimolf. When fighting in formation, they typically arranged themselves with Ottar and one of the twins anchoring the flanks, while Grimolf commanded the center. Hakon and Thrand operated more independently, exploiting openings created by the main formation's advance.
Their shared combat experience created an intuitive understanding that required minimal communication in battle. A nod from Grimolf might send Thrand slipping away to target enemy leaders, while a raised fist could signal Bjorn and Ulf to execute one of their coordinated flanking maneuvers. This silent efficiency made them particularly effective in situations requiring stealth or precision.
Beyond their combat roles, each man contributed specific skills to their ship's operation. Ottar handled the steering oar, while the twins coordinated the rowing rhythm. Hakon's experience with Mediterranean vessels informed their sailing approach in unfamiliar waters, and Thrand's weather-reading abilities helped them anticipate dangerous conditions.
Their loyalty to Grimolf transcended mere obligation or promise of plunder. Each man owed Grimolf a personal debt of honor--whether for land rights protected, family members avenged, or shelter provided in desperate times.
The great hall of Jarl Guthorm Sveinsson dominated the eastern shore of Reykjafjord. Built from massive driftwood timbers and native stone, its high-peaked roof loomed over surrounding structures like a mountain above foothills. Tonight, on the eve of their departure for southern waters, firelight spilled from its doorway and smoke-holes, accompanied by the rumble of men's voices raised in boasts and battle-songs.
Inside, the hall teemed with warriors. Nearly three hundred had gathered for this final feast before tomorrow's dawn departure, while hundreds more remained with the ships, preparing them for the long journey ahead. At the center of the hall, a massive hearth-fire cast flickering light across faces hardened by northern winters and previous campaigns.
Near the high seat where Guthorm himself presided sat Grimolf Isleifsson and his five chosen warriors. They occupied a place of honor befitting Grimolf's status as one of the jarl's most trusted captains. Servants moved constantly among the assembled men, refilling drinking horns with strong ale and distributing platters of roasted meat.
As the initial hunger of the gathered warriors subsided, Guthorm rose from his high seat, instantly commanding the attention of the hall. Conversations died away as the jarl lifted his drinking horn.
"Tomorrow we sail south," Guthorm's powerful voice carried to every corner of the hall. "Further south than many of you have ever ventured. To lands where the sun burns hot even in spring, where strange gods are worshipped, and where gold flows like water through the hands of soft men, dressed like women, who have forgotten how to fight!"
A roar of approval shook the hall's timbers. Men pounded tables with their fists or the pommels of their daggers. When the noise subsided, Guthorm continued.
"Some say we reach too far. That the gods will punish such ambition." His eyes swept across the gathered faces. "I say the gods reward the bold! Thor did not gain his hammer by caution, nor Odin his wisdom through timidity!"
Another cheer erupted, even louder than before. Guthorm raised his hand for silence.
"Before we drink to our success, I would hear from those who will lead our ships. Grimolf Isleifsson--you who have sailed with me from the British coasts to the eastern trading routes. Tell us what awaits in Moorish waters."
All eyes turned to Grimolf, who rose slowly from his seat. Unlike many present who had donned their finest garments for the feast, he wore a simple wool tunic over leather breeches, unadorned except for a silver arm ring that marked him as one of Guthorm's captains.
"The Moors are not Franks or Saxons," Grimolf began, his deep voice measured and confident. "They do not panic at the sight of our sails or scatter before our shield wall. They fight with curved swords that can slice through a spear shaft. Their fortresses have walls higher than three men standing on each other's shoulders."
A murmur of unease rippled through some of the younger warriors, but Grimolf continued.
"But their treasuries bulge with gold beyond imagining. Their markets overflow with silks, spices, and ivory. One successful raid on Sevilla will make each man here wealthier than ten years of trading or raiding in northern waters."
He paused, watching as the prospect of such wealth rekindled the fire in the men's eyes.
"We face worthy opponents, which means worthy glory awaits those brave enough to seize it."
With that, Grimolf raised his drinking horn toward Guthorm and resumed his seat. The jarl nodded in approval, then gestured to the men around Grimolf.
"And what of the Wolf's Shields? Ottar the Bear--you who have seen more battles than most here have seen winters. Does this southern venture concern you?"
The massive form of Ottar rose beside Grimolf. Gray-streaked red beard cascading over his broad chest, he surveyed the hall with the calm assurance of experience.
"I've stood in shield walls from Dublin to Novgorod," Ottar rumbled. "I've fought Picts, Saxons, Franks, and even the emperor's men in Miklagard. Every new enemy brings new challenges." He shrugged massive shoulders. "But all men bleed when cut, whether under northern stars or southern sun."
A few warriors laughed at this blunt assessment. Ottar raised his horn.
"I follow Grimolf, who follows Jarl Guthorm. That's enough for these old bones. If wealth and glory await in the south, my hammer will clear the path to it."
He drank deeply and sat down. Guthorm nodded approvingly, then pointed to the twins seated further down the bench.
"Bjorn and Ulf--the Ravens! You've been suspiciously quiet tonight. Have the southern gods stolen your tongues, or merely your courage?"
The identical brothers rose as one, drawing approving murmurs from those who appreciated their eerie synchronicity. Though younger than many captains, their reputation for lethal efficiency had earned them respect throughout Guthorm's forces.
"We have been--" began Bjorn. "--considering the approach," finished Ulf.
The twins exchanged a glance before Bjorn continued alone.
"The Guadalquivir River narrows as it approaches Sevilla. The Moors will have watchtowers, possibly chain booms across the water."
"But their festival begins three days after the new moon," Ulf added. "Their attention will turn inward, toward their gods and celebrations."
"If we time our arrival--" "--for the festival's first night--" "--even their watchtowers may stand empty."
Guthorm leaned forward, intrigued. "You've studied this carefully. How came you by such knowledge?"
The twins hesitated, then Bjorn replied, "The monk who taught us letters had manuscripts from southern lands. Maps and accounts of their customs."
A few nearby warriors shifted uncomfortably at this admission of literacy, but Guthorm merely nodded thoughtfully.
"Knowledge is a weapon like any other. I care not how it's gained if it serves our purpose." He gestured for them to continue.
"We believe," said Ulf, "that a small advance force--" "--perhaps twenty warriors in a single ship--" "--could neutralize the river watchtowers before dawn--" "--allowing the main fleet to approach unchallenged."
Guthorm stroked his beard, considering. "A bold strategy. We'll discuss it further." The twins nodded in unison and sat down.
The jarl's gaze moved to the slender, dark-haired figure seated beside them. "Hakon Swift-Blade, you who have seen the great cities of the east. How does Sevilla compare to Constantinople?"
Hakon rose with fluid grace, his movements precise as always. The firelight caught the unusual hilt of his sword--eastern work, adorned with unfamiliar patterns.
"Sevilla is not Constantinople," he said, his voice softer than the others but carrying a sharp edge. "It lacks the great walls that have stood for centuries. But the Moors are not decadent Greeks playing at empire."
He made a swift cutting motion with his hand. "They are warriors of the desert, hardened by both sun and their gods. Their archers can strike a man's eye at a hundred paces."
Uneasy muttering spread through the hall, which Hakon silenced with a raised hand.
"But they have one critical weakness: pride. They believe their god makes them invincible, their culture superior. They do not expect Norse wolves to appear in their southern garden."
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "When we strike, their surprise will be complete. And in that moment of shock, Sevilla's treasures become ours for the taking."
As Hakon resumed his seat, Guthorm turned finally to the youngest of Grimolf's core warriors. "And what of you, Thrand One-Eye? What does your famous sight tell you of our venture?"
Thrand rose slowly, his single eye gleaming in the firelight. His voice, when it came, was unnervingly quiet, forcing men to lean forward to catch his words.
"Three nights ago, I walked alone on the headland," he began. "A pair of ravens circled overhead, then flew south. I followed their path until they vanished over the horizon."
The hall had grown completely silent now, men listening with superstitious attention.
"That night, I dreamed of a city of white stone beneath a burning sun. Blood ran in its streets and fire consumed its towers. I saw our ships returning northward, their hulls riding low in the sea."
He paused, his single eye sweeping across the gathered warriors.
"But I also saw empty places at our oars. Empty seats at our feasting tables." His gaze came to rest on Guthorm. "Glory and wealth await us in the south, yes. But not all who sail tomorrow will return to breathe northern air."
A heavy silence fell over the hall. Even Guthorm seemed momentarily discomfited by Thrand's words. It was Grimolf who broke the tension, rising again to stand beside his young warrior.
"All raids carry risk," Grimolf said firmly. "A man may drown crossing a familiar fjord if the Norns have cut his thread. Or he may sail to the edge of the world and return laden with glory." He clasped Thrand's shoulder. "We do not fear death. We fear only dying without deeds worthy of the skalds' songs."
Guthorm recovered his composure, raising his drinking horn high. "Well spoken, Grimolf! Tomorrow we write a new saga--one that will be told around northern fires and in Great Halls long after our bones are dust!"
He turned to address the entire hall. "Make ready your weapons and your hearts! When dawn breaks, we move to seize our fortune!"
The warriors roared their approval, the solemn moment broken. As drinking and boasting resumed throughout the hall, Grimolf gathered his five men closer, speaking in tones too low for others to hear.
"Thrand speaks true--not all will return," he acknowledged quietly.
Ottar nodded gravely. "The key will be the initial landing. If we secure the riverbank undetected--"
"We will," interrupted Hakon with confidence. "I've studied their patrol patterns from merchant reports. Their weakness is the western approach."
The twins exchanged glances before Bjorn spoke. "We should position our ship third in line--" "--behind Guthorm but ahead of the main force--" added Ulf. "--giving us optimal position for the first assault," Bjorn finished.
Grimolf considered this, then nodded. "Agreed. Thrand, at first light tomorrow, I want you to make offerings to both Thor and Odin. We'll need the Thunderer's strength and the All-Father's wisdom."
Thrand inclined his head. "I will see it done."
"Good." Grimolf looked at each man in turn. "Shield to shield," the five warriors responded in unison, touching their drinking horns together in a private pledge that bound them more surely than any oath sworn before the entire hall.
Across the room, Guthorm observed their huddle with approval. Such bonds of loyalty were the foundation upon which successful raids were built. He had chosen well in elevating Grimolf to command one of his primary ships. The Isleifsson's leadership would be crucial in the challenges that lay ahead--challenges that even Guthorm, for all his experience, could not fully anticipate.
Outside the hall, beyond the circle of firelight and fellowship, the cold stars of northern spring wheeled overhead. The same stars that would guide their ships southward toward glory or death--or perhaps both, as was often the way of Viking ventures into unknown waters.


The winter of 974-975 had been particularly harsh, even by Icelandic standards. When the first signs of thaw arrived in early March, Guthorm Sveinsson's call to arms spread rapidly through the eastern fjords. The jarl had spent the long dark months meticulously planning the most ambitious raid of his career--a venture far beyond the familiar coasts of Britain or Frankia, targeting the fabled riches of Moorish lands.
Grimolf Isleifsson was among the first to pledge his axe to the expedition. Having wintered at his modest steading near Reykjafjord, he arrived at Guthorm's hall leading five hardened warriors. Each man had fought alongside Grimolf in previous expeditions, and together they formed a tightly-knit combat unit known informally among the larger warband as "The Wolf's Shields." These were not simply hired swords or adventure-seekers, but men bound to Grimolf through blood, oath, and shared experience. Their individual skills complemented one another, making them far more effective as a unit than as individual fighters. While other men might boast more wealth or land, few commanded such respect for their battle prowess. Grimolf had sailed with Guthorm on three previous expeditions, and the jarl valued his tactical mind as much as his fighting skill.
Together, these five warriors formed a fearsome fighting unit that had developed effective combat techniques through years of raiding alongside Grimolf. When fighting in formation, they typically arranged themselves with Ottar and one of the twins anchoring the flanks, while Grimolf commanded the center. Hakon and Thrand operated more independently, exploiting openings created by the main formation's advance.
Their shared combat experience created an intuitive understanding that required minimal communication in battle. A nod from Grimolf might send Thrand slipping away to target enemy leaders, while a raised fist could signal Bjorn and Ulf to execute one of their coordinated flanking maneuvers. This silent efficiency made them particularly effective in situations requiring stealth or precision.
Beyond their combat roles, each man contributed specific skills to their ship's operation. Ottar handled the steering oar, while the twins coordinated the rowing rhythm. Hakon's experience with Mediterranean vessels informed their sailing approach in unfamiliar waters, and Thrand's weather-reading abilities helped them anticipate dangerous conditions.
Their loyalty to Grimolf transcended mere obligation or promise of plunder. Each man owed Grimolf a personal debt of honor--whether for land rights protected, family members avenged, or shelter provided in desperate times.
The great hall of Jarl Guthorm Sveinsson dominated the eastern shore of Reykjafjord. Built from massive driftwood timbers and native stone, its high-peaked roof loomed over surrounding structures like a mountain above foothills. Tonight, on the eve of their departure for southern waters, firelight spilled from its doorway and smoke-holes, accompanied by the rumble of men's voices raised in boasts and battle-songs.
Inside, the hall teemed with warriors. Nearly three hundred had gathered for this final feast before tomorrow's dawn departure, while hundreds more remained with the ships, preparing them for the long journey ahead. At the center of the hall, a massive hearth-fire cast flickering light across faces hardened by northern winters and previous campaigns.
Near the high seat where Guthorm himself presided sat Grimolf Isleifsson and his five chosen warriors. They occupied a place of honor befitting Grimolf's status as one of the jarl's most trusted captains. Servants moved constantly among the assembled men, refilling drinking horns with strong ale and distributing platters of roasted meat.
As the initial hunger of the gathered warriors subsided, Guthorm rose from his high seat, instantly commanding the attention of the hall. Conversations died away as the jarl lifted his drinking horn.
"Tomorrow we sail south," Guthorm's powerful voice carried to every corner of the hall. "Further south than many of you have ever ventured. To lands where the sun burns hot even in spring, where strange gods are worshipped, and where gold flows like water through the hands of soft men, dressed like women, who have forgotten how to fight!"
A roar of approval shook the hall's timbers. Men pounded tables with their fists or the pommels of their daggers. When the noise subsided, Guthorm continued.
"Some say we reach too far. That the gods will punish such ambition." His eyes swept across the gathered faces. "I say the gods reward the bold! Thor did not gain his hammer by caution, nor Odin his wisdom through timidity!"
Another cheer erupted, even louder than before. Guthorm raised his hand for silence.
"Before we drink to our success, I would hear from those who will lead our ships. Grimolf Isleifsson--you who have sailed with me from the British coasts to the eastern trading routes. Tell us what awaits in Moorish waters."
All eyes turned to Grimolf, who rose slowly from his seat. Unlike many present who had donned their finest garments for the feast, he wore a simple wool tunic over leather breeches, unadorned except for a silver arm ring that marked him as one of Guthorm's captains.
"The Moors are not Franks or Saxons," Grimolf began, his deep voice measured and confident. "They do not panic at the sight of our sails or scatter before our shield wall. They fight with curved swords that can slice through a spear shaft. Their fortresses have walls higher than three men standing on each other's shoulders."
A murmur of unease rippled through some of the younger warriors, but Grimolf continued.
"But their treasuries bulge with gold beyond imagining. Their markets overflow with silks, spices, and ivory. One successful raid on Sevilla will make each man here wealthier than ten years of trading or raiding in northern waters."
He paused, watching as the prospect of such wealth rekindled the fire in the men's eyes.
"We face worthy opponents, which means worthy glory awaits those brave enough to seize it."
With that, Grimolf raised his drinking horn toward Guthorm and resumed his seat. The jarl nodded in approval, then gestured to the men around Grimolf.
"And what of the Wolf's Shields? Ottar the Bear--you who have seen more battles than most here have seen winters. Does this southern venture concern you?"
The massive form of Ottar rose beside Grimolf. Gray-streaked red beard cascading over his broad chest, he surveyed the hall with the calm assurance of experience.
"I've stood in shield walls from Dublin to Novgorod," Ottar rumbled. "I've fought Picts, Saxons, Franks, and even the emperor's men in Miklagard. Every new enemy brings new challenges." He shrugged massive shoulders. "But all men bleed when cut, whether under northern stars or southern sun."
A few warriors laughed at this blunt assessment. Ottar raised his horn.
"I follow Grimolf, who follows Jarl Guthorm. That's enough for these old bones. If wealth and glory await in the south, my hammer will clear the path to it."
He drank deeply and sat down. Guthorm nodded approvingly, then pointed to the twins seated further down the bench.
"Bjorn and Ulf--the Ravens! You've been suspiciously quiet tonight. Have the southern gods stolen your tongues, or merely your courage?"
The identical brothers rose as one, drawing approving murmurs from those who appreciated their eerie synchronicity. Though younger than many captains, their reputation for lethal efficiency had earned them respect throughout Guthorm's forces.
"We have been--" began Bjorn. "--considering the approach," finished Ulf.
The twins exchanged a glance before Bjorn continued alone.
"The Guadalquivir River narrows as it approaches Sevilla. The Moors will have watchtowers, possibly chain booms across the water."
"But their festival begins three days after the new moon," Ulf added. "Their attention will turn inward, toward their gods and celebrations."
"If we time our arrival--" "--for the festival's first night--" "--even their watchtowers may stand empty."
Guthorm leaned forward, intrigued. "You've studied this carefully. How came you by such knowledge?"
The twins hesitated, then Bjorn replied, "The monk who taught us letters had manuscripts from southern lands. Maps and accounts of their customs."
A few nearby warriors shifted uncomfortably at this admission of literacy, but Guthorm merely nodded thoughtfully.
"Knowledge is a weapon like any other. I care not how it's gained if it serves our purpose." He gestured for them to continue.
"We believe," said Ulf, "that a small advance force--" "--perhaps twenty warriors in a single ship--" "--could neutralize the river watchtowers before dawn--" "--allowing the main fleet to approach unchallenged."
Guthorm stroked his beard, considering. "A bold strategy. We'll discuss it further." The twins nodded in unison and sat down.
The jarl's gaze moved to the slender, dark-haired figure seated beside them. "Hakon Swift-Blade, you who have seen the great cities of the east. How does Sevilla compare to Constantinople?"
Hakon rose with fluid grace, his movements precise as always. The firelight caught the unusual hilt of his sword--eastern work, adorned with unfamiliar patterns.
"Sevilla is not Constantinople," he said, his voice softer than the others but carrying a sharp edge. "It lacks the great walls that have stood for centuries. But the Moors are not decadent Greeks playing at empire."
He made a swift cutting motion with his hand. "They are warriors of the desert, hardened by both sun and their gods. Their archers can strike a man's eye at a hundred paces."
Uneasy muttering spread through the hall, which Hakon silenced with a raised hand.
"But they have one critical weakness: pride. They believe their god makes them invincible, their culture superior. They do not expect Norse wolves to appear in their southern garden."
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "When we strike, their surprise will be complete. And in that moment of shock, Sevilla's treasures become ours for the taking."
As Hakon resumed his seat, Guthorm turned finally to the youngest of Grimolf's core warriors. "And what of you, Thrand One-Eye? What does your famous sight tell you of our venture?"
Thrand rose slowly, his single eye gleaming in the firelight. His voice, when it came, was unnervingly quiet, forcing men to lean forward to catch his words.
"Three nights ago, I walked alone on the headland," he began. "A pair of ravens circled overhead, then flew south. I followed their path until they vanished over the horizon."
The hall had grown completely silent now, men listening with superstitious attention.
"That night, I dreamed of a city of white stone beneath a burning sun. Blood ran in its streets and fire consumed its towers. I saw our ships returning northward, their hulls riding low in the sea."
He paused, his single eye sweeping across the gathered warriors.
"But I also saw empty places at our oars. Empty seats at our feasting tables." His gaze came to rest on Guthorm. "Glory and wealth await us in the south, yes. But not all who sail tomorrow will return to breathe northern air."
A heavy silence fell over the hall. Even Guthorm seemed momentarily discomfited by Thrand's words. It was Grimolf who broke the tension, rising again to stand beside his young warrior.
"All raids carry risk," Grimolf said firmly. "A man may drown crossing a familiar fjord if the Norns have cut his thread. Or he may sail to the edge of the world and return laden with glory." He clasped Thrand's shoulder. "We do not fear death. We fear only dying without deeds worthy of the skalds' songs."
Guthorm recovered his composure, raising his drinking horn high. "Well spoken, Grimolf! Tomorrow we write a new saga--one that will be told around northern fires and in Great Halls long after our bones are dust!"
He turned to address the entire hall. "Make ready your weapons and your hearts! When dawn breaks, we move to seize our fortune!"
The warriors roared their approval, the solemn moment broken. As drinking and boasting resumed throughout the hall, Grimolf gathered his five men closer, speaking in tones too low for others to hear.
"Thrand speaks true--not all will return," he acknowledged quietly.
Ottar nodded gravely. "The key will be the initial landing. If we secure the riverbank undetected--"
"We will," interrupted Hakon with confidence. "I've studied their patrol patterns from merchant reports. Their weakness is the western approach."
The twins exchanged glances before Bjorn spoke. "We should position our ship third in line--" "--behind Guthorm but ahead of the main force--" added Ulf. "--giving us optimal position for the first assault," Bjorn finished.
Grimolf considered this, then nodded. "Agreed. Thrand, at first light tomorrow, I want you to make offerings to both Thor and Odin. We'll need the Thunderer's strength and the All-Father's wisdom."
Thrand inclined his head. "I will see it done."
"Good." Grimolf looked at each man in turn. "Shield to shield," the five warriors responded in unison, touching their drinking horns together in a private pledge that bound them more surely than any oath sworn before the entire hall.
Across the room, Guthorm observed their huddle with approval. Such bonds of loyalty were the foundation upon which successful raids were built. He had chosen well in elevating Grimolf to command one of his primary ships. The Isleifsson's leadership would be crucial in the challenges that lay ahead--challenges that even Guthorm, for all his experience, could not fully anticipate.
Outside the hall, beyond the circle of firelight and fellowship, the cold stars of northern spring wheeled overhead. The same stars that would guide their ships southward toward glory or death--or perhaps both, as was often the way of Viking ventures into unknown waters.


At dawn on the vernal equinox, as the first light touched the snow-capped mountains surrounding the fjord, Thrand One-Eye stepped forward from Grimolf's group. His single eye gleamed with purpose as he raised a ceremonial spear over a black ram. Though young, Thrand performed the ritual with the confidence of one connected to the old ways, murmuring invocations to both Thor and Odin that only Grimolf could hear. The animal's blood stained the prow of Guthorm's ship, Wave-Cleaver, and splashed across the waters. The men roared their approval, beating shields with axe handles.
Nearby, Ottar the Bear stood at the steering oar of their own vessel, his massive frame unmistakable even from a distance. He had spent the previous night carefully checking each oar lock and reinforcing the rudder pins, his carpenter's hands finding and fixing weaknesses invisible to others. At Grimolf's signal, Ottar sounded a horn call that echoed across the fjord--the signal to begin their journey.
With the sacrifice complete, six hundred oars dipped into the cold waters, and the fleet began its journey into the unknown. The twins, Bjorn and Ulf, positioned themselves on opposite sides of their ship, setting a strong, synchronized rowing rhythm that other oarsmen naturally fell into. Their identical movements created an almost hypnotic cadence that would conserve the crew's strength over long distances.
Hakon Swift-Blade stood beside Grimolf at the prow, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. Having sailed Mediterranean waters during his time in the east, he occasionally offered quiet suggestions about sail tension adjustments that would better catch the northern winds. "We should set the square sail higher than usual," he advised Grimolf. "The spring winds from the north carry more strength at elevation."
The first leg of their voyage took them southwest to the Faroe Islands, a journey of roughly 450 miles across some of the North Atlantic's most treacherous waters. Experienced Viking navigators like Grimolf relied on a combination of celestial observation, knowledge of prevailing winds, and natural signs like bird migrations and water color to maintain their course.
For the first three days, favorable winds filled their square sails, allowing the oarsmen to rest and conserve their strength. Grimolf spent these hours conferring with his five warriors. While Thrand traced weather patterns in the clouds, Ottar maintained their course with subtle adjustments of the steering oar, his strength making the task seem effortless even in choppy seas. The twins utilized their literacy in secret, marking their progress on a small piece of vellum hidden beneath a chest, creating a record that might benefit future voyages.
Hakon often stood with Grimolf at the prow of their ship, which sailed directly behind Guthorm's vessel. Drawing on knowledge gained in Constantinople, he pointed out subtle differences between Mediterranean and North Atlantic currents. Together, they studied the shifts in the sea's color and the flight patterns of fulmars and petrels, reading the ocean as others might read runes.
On the fourth day, the fleet encountered its first challenge when Thrand suddenly appeared at Grimolf's side before dawn. "Fog comes," he warned, his single eye focused on the southern horizon where nothing yet appeared amiss. "Thick as death's shroud, before the sun reaches midpoint." Grimolf had learned to trust Thrand's weather-sense and immediately called a council with his men.
Within two hours, a bank of dense fog descended exactly as Thrand had predicted, reducing visibility to mere ship-lengths. Grimolf implemented the plan they had prepared: Ottar sounded rhythmic horn calls to maintain formation, while Hakon deployed techniques used by Byzantine ships in similar conditions--hanging wet cloths that would move with air currents, revealing the direction of neighboring vessels even when they couldn't be seen. The twins maintained steady rowing discipline despite the disorienting conditions, calling cadence in unison to keep oarsmen from panicking in the blinding mist.
Grimolf himself used the position of the low morning sun--barely visible as a dim glow through the fog--as a rough guide. When the fog finally lifted late in the afternoon, three ships had strayed from the fleet, but Grimolf's vessel remained perfectly positioned behind Guthorm's. Under Grimolf's direction, Thrand climbed to the masthead, his exceptional vision scanning the horizon until he spotted distant sails. A day of searching guided by his sharp eye reunited the lost ships with the fleet by nightfall.
They reached the Faroes after six days at sea, making landfall at Tshavn to replenish freshwater supplies and allow the men a brief respite on solid ground. While Grimolf and Guthorm met with local chieftains, Ottar organized the water collection, Hakon traded small trinkets from his eastern travels for local advice about the southern routes, and the twins discretely recorded what they learned about seasonal current patterns.
Thrand disappeared into the surrounding hills, returning with a troubled expression that Grimolf immediately recognized. "You've seen something," Grimolf stated rather than asked as they walked away from the others.
"Not seen. Heard," Thrand replied quietly. "The wind speaks of storms gathering south of here. Unusual storms for this season--violent and unpredictable."
This private warning was soon confirmed publicly when local chieftains--themselves descended from Norse settlers--spoke of unusual storm activity in the waters to the south. The spring gales had come early and with uncommon fury.
"The crossing to Britain will test your ships and your men," cautioned an elderly Faroese shipmaster, his weathered face a map of decades at sea. "Thor strikes his anvil with particular vigor this season."
As they returned to their ships, Grimolf gathered his five warriors in a tight circle. Each man brought unique skills that had already proven valuable--Ottar's seamanship, Hakon's eastern knowledge, the twins' coordinated efficiency, and Thrand's preternatural senses. Together they had navigated the first challenge of their journey. The storms ahead would demand even more from each of them, but Grimolf felt a surge of confidence as he looked at their determined faces. These were men chosen for their complementary abilities, forged through previous expeditions into a unit greater than the sum of its parts.
"We sail with the morning tide," Grimolf told them, his voice carrying no trace of doubt despite Thrand's warnings. "Prepare the ship and the men. The real test begins now."
Grimolf took the warning seriously. That night, he gathered the ship captains and recommended they distribute the expedition's supplies more evenly among the vessels. "If we lose ships to the storms," he explained, "we cannot afford to lose all our provisions with them." Guthorm approved the strategy, and the fleet spent a day reorganizing their cargo before continuing south.
They departed the Faroes with clear skies but anxious hearts. The shortest route would take them southeast toward the Hebrides and then south along Britain's western coast--a journey of approximately 300 miles to their next landing. But just two days into this leg, Grimolf's weather sense proved accurate.
The first warning came at midday: a peculiar stillness in the air, followed by an unnatural copper tint along the southern horizon. By mid-afternoon, the wave patterns had changed, becoming shorter and more erratic. Grimolf conferred briefly with Guthorm via shouted exchanges between their ships, and the order spread quickly through the fleet: lower sails, secure all cargo, prepare for rough waters.
The storm struck with shocking violence just before dusk. In the span of minutes, moderate swells transformed into towering waves that crashed over the gunwales. The wind rose to a howling gale that drowned out commands and forced men to communicate through gestures. Rain fell in blinding sheets, so dense that at times Grimolf could barely see the length of his own vessel.
"Hold course southwest!" he bellowed to his steersman, a giant named Ottar who gripped the steering oar with white-knuckled determination. "Follow Guthorm's stern light!"
Each ship had lit a lantern at its stern, creating a chain of faint, bobbing lights that strained to penetrate the darkness. But as the night progressed, these lights began to vanish one by one--not because ships were sinking, but because the fleet was scattering, each vessel fighting its own battle against the elements.


Near midnight, a massive wave struck Wave-Cleaver broadside, snapping oars and sweeping three men into the churning sea. Their screams were brief, swallowed by the storm's fury. Grimolf ordered the remaining oarsmen to bail water furiously as another wave broke over the bow, filling the ship dangerously close to swamping.
"Thor tests us!" he roared, moving among his crew to rally their spirits. "Show him your strength! Show him Vikings don't drown like farmhands!"
For three days and nights, the storm raged without abating. Men worked in shifts, some bailing water while others attempted to keep the ship pointed into the waves. Sleep came in brief snatches, often while still clutching a bailing bucket. They lost sight of Guthorm's ship and all others, each vessel now alone in its struggle to survive.
On the dawn of the fourth day, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm subsided. Grimolf's crew found themselves in calm seas under clearing skies--exhausted, soaked to the bone, but alive. Of their original forty oars, only twenty-three remained intact. Their sail had been shredded to ribbons, and their water casks contaminated with seawater.
Most concerning of all, no other ships from their fleet were visible in any direction. Grimolf climbed to the top of the mast, scanning the horizon until his eyes burned from the salt and strain. Nothing but empty ocean surrounded them.
"What now, Grimolf?" asked Ottar, his voice hoarse from shouting commands over the storm. "Do we turn back?"
Grimolf descended slowly, his mind calculating distances, provisions, and probabilities. "No," he said finally. "We sail south. Guthorm would have given the same order to any surviving ships. We'll rendezvous at Dubh-linn (Dublin) as planned."
The journey to Dublin tested the limits of their endurance. With half their oars lost and no sail, progress was painfully slow. Water rations were cut to dangerous minimums, and the men took turns rowing until their hands blistered and bled. Grimolf worked alongside them, never asking of his warriors what he wouldn't endure himself.
They sighted Ireland's coast seven days after the storm, following it south until the familiar harbor of Dublin came into view. There, to their relief, they found fifteen other ships from Guthorm's fleet already anchored in the estuary. Among them was Guthorm's own vessel, damaged but seaworthy.
The reunion was subdued, tempered by the knowledge that nearly a third of their fleet had been lost to the storm. Yet as they took stock, this soon proved overly pessimistic. Over the next four days, five more ships limped into harbor, bringing their total to twenty-one vessels--a testament to Viking shipbuilding and seamanship in the face of nature's fury.
Dublin, with its established Norse presence, proved an ideal location to repair their ships and recover their strength. Local shipwrights worked around the clock to replace broken oars and weave new sails. Fresh provisions restored the men's vigor, while ale and mead in Dublin's mead halls restored their spirits.
Guthorm gathered his captains after a week of recovery, Grimolf among them. "The storm cost us six ships and nearly a hundred men," he acknowledged grimly. "Some would see this as an ill omen and turn back."
A murmur passed through the assembled leaders, but Guthorm raised his hand for silence. "I see it differently. Thor has already taken his tribute. He has tested us and found us worthy." His eyes met Grimolf's briefly. "We continue south in ten days' time, with twenty-seven ships instead of thirty-three. The Moors will not be expecting us, and their gold will shine just as brightly in fewer hands."
The captains pounded their tables in agreement, their resolve hardened rather than broken by their ordeal. Grimolf nodded his approval. The storm had indeed tested them--and those who remained had proven their mettle.
Their journey from Dublin took them around the western coast of Britain and into the Bay of Biscay. Here they encountered French and Breton shipping, but their overwhelming numbers deterred any confrontation. They sailed past the rugged coast of northern Iberia, where local fishermen fled at the sight of their distinctive dragon-headed prows.
As they approached the southern coast of Iberia, Guthorm implemented the final phase of their journey. The fleet divided into smaller groups of four to five ships each, traveling separated by several miles to avoid drawing attention. They sailed only at night, hiding in secluded coves during daylight hours.
Grimolf's navigational skills proved crucial during this phase. Using knowledge gleaned from a former captive--a Moorish merchant ransomed years earlier--he guided his group along the coast until they reached the mouth of the Guadalquivir River.
There, over three consecutive nights, the scattered fleet reassembled in a hidden estuary. Scout boats were sent upriver to gather intelligence on Sevilla's defenses, returning with news that confirmed Guthorm's expectations: the city was preparing for a religious festival, its attention turned inward rather than toward the sea.
On the final night before the raid, Grimolf found himself standing beside Guthorm on a sandy bluff overlooking their assembled fleet. The jarl seemed contemplative, his weathered face illuminated by moonlight.
"We've come far, haven't we, old friend?" Guthorm said quietly. "From the ice of Reykjafjord to the warm waters of Moorish lands."
"Thor guided our ships," Grimolf replied. "Though he demanded sacrifice first."
Guthorm nodded slowly. "Tomorrow, we'll write a saga worthy of our lost comrades. Sevilla's treasures will make this journey worthwhile." He clasped Grimolf's shoulder firmly. "Lead your men well. I want you beside me when we breach the city gates."
As they descended to the camp to finalize preparations for the dawn attack, neither man could know that fate had a different saga in mind--The voyage had transformed them all, forging unbreakable bonds between the survivors. As dawn broke across the waters of the Guadalquivir River, the fleet of twenty-seven Viking longships emerged from the thick fog. At their helm stood Thorvald, his reputation for cunning and brutality had spread as far as the distant shores of Malta. Beside him stood Grimolf Isleifsson.
Intelligence gathered from merchants in Hedeby had spoken of Sevilla's prosperity under the Caliphate of Cdoba. Thorvald had timed his attack to coincide with a religious festival, hoping to find the city vulnerable and its treasury full. The raid had been meticulously planned over long winter nights in the great hall while the howls of the Icelandic wind made sailing to dangerous, with Grimolf himself having helped map the river's course from information pieced together from merchants and previous raiders.
The landing was swift and perfectly executed. The longships beached on the river's sandy banks three leagues from Sevilla, and two hundred warriors disembarked under cover of pre-dawn darkness. The coastal watchtowers spotted them too late, and by the time alarm bells rang through the city, the Northmen had already breached the poorly defended western gate.


Initial success came easily. The Vikings pushed through the western quarter, cutting down the hastily assembled militia, their superior weapons and shock tactics proving devastatingly effective against Sevilla's surprised defenders. Grimolf fought at Thorvald's side, his long-axe reaping a terrible harvest as they drove toward the city's central mosque and treasury.
However, the Moors recovered quickly from their initial shock. The city's commander, Hisham ibn Ammar, rallied his professional soldiers--veterans of border skirmishes with northern Christian kingdoms. Unlike the militia, these men were disciplined warriors armed with fine steel and trained in formation fighting. They blocked the narrow streets leading to the central city, using their knowledge of the urban terrain to deadly advantage.
What had begun as a swift raid deteriorated into vicious street-by-street combat. The Vikings found themselves fighting in unfamiliar territory, trapped in narrow alleys where their favored shield-wall tactics proved difficult to maintain. Moorish archers positioned on rooftops rained arrows upon the raiders, while mounted cavalry cut off their retreat to the river.
"Form up! Tighten the ranks!" Grimolf shouted as they pushed through the western quarter of Sevilla. He had kept his five warriors close, their coordination proving effective against the hastily assembled Moorish militia. Ottar stood like a mountain at Grimolf's right flank, his massive war hammer creating space whenever the press of enemies grew too tight.
"These aren't farmers with pitchforks," Hakon called out, his distinctive fighting style--long sword in his right hand, short knife in his left--proving particularly effective in the confined streets. "These are trained warriors!"
"Less talking, more killing," Ottar growled, bringing his hammer down on a Moorish shield, splintering it and the arm behind it.
The twins moved in their uncanny unison, Bjorn's spear creating openings that Ulf's twin hand-axes exploited mercilessly. They hadn't spoken since the fighting began, communicating through glances and subtle gestures that needed no translation after years of fighting together.
Thrand slipped between buildings, reappearing seemingly from nowhere to strike at exposed flanks. "Mounted forces gathering two streets east," he reported to Grimolf after one such disappearance. "And their commander is rallying professional soldiers near the central plaza."
Guthorm pushed forward relentlessly, his confidence unshaken despite the unexpected resistance. "To the mosque!" he shouted. "The treasury lies beyond it!"
The Vikings pressed onward, but Grimolf sensed the changing dynamics of the battle. What had started as panic among the Moorish defenders was rapidly transforming into organized resistance.
"Guthorm pushes too far, too fast," Ottar muttered, just loud enough for Grimolf to hear as they followed their jarl deeper into the city.
"The tide turns against us," Thrand whispered, appearing suddenly at Grimolf's left. "I saw ravens circling the central plaza. Death waits there."
Before Grimolf could respond, the narrow street opened into a large square--the Plaza of Oranges, adjacent to the grand mosque. Here, Hisham ibn Ammar, the city's commander, had assembled his professional soldiers--veterans of border skirmishes with northern Christian kingdoms. Unlike the militia, these men were disciplined warriors armed with fine steel and trained in formation fighting.
Guthorm, seeing his raiders losing momentum, raised his sword high. "One final push, and their treasure is ours! Forward, Norsemen!"
"This is madness," Hakon hissed, recognizing the disciplined formation of the Moorish troops. "Those are royal guards, not common soldiers."
"We stand with Guthorm," Grimolf answered firmly, though concern shadowed his eyes. He turned to his men. "Shield to shield. We break through together or not at all."
"Like old times," Ottar nodded grimly, readying his hammer.
The twins exchanged a glance before Bjorn spoke. "We'll take the left flank--" "--and create an opening in their formation," Ulf finished.
"I'll circle behind," Thrand offered, already eyeing an alleyway that might allow him to outflank the Moorish troops.
As Guthorm led the charge into the plaza, Grimolf and his warriors moved as one unit, years of fighting together evident in their coordinated assault. For a moment, it seemed their combined skill might actually break through the Moorish lines.
Then came the moment that would change everything. A group of Moorish cavalry appeared from a side street, charging directly toward Guthorm. The jarl turned to face this new threat, not seeing the lancer who had circled behind him.
"Guthorm! Behind you!" Grimolf shouted, but his warning came too late.
The Moorish horseman drove his lance through Guthorm's throat with terrible precision. The jarl fell from his horse, blood pouring from his fatal wound.
"NO!" The bellow came from Ottar, who abandoned his position and charged toward his fallen leader with berserker fury.
Grimolf didn't hesitate. "To Guthorm!" he commanded, and his warriors surged forward as one.
The space around the fallen jarl quickly became the focus of the battle. Ottar reached him first, his hammer creating a circle of death around Guthorm's body. The twins arrived next, setting up a coordinated defense with Bjorn's spear keeping mounted attackers at bay while Ulf's axes dealt with any who came within reach.
"He still breathes!" Ottar called out as Grimolf fought his way to them.
"Not for long," Hakon assessed grimly, deflecting a sword thrust before countering with lethal precision. "That wound is beyond healing."
Grimolf knelt briefly beside his jarl. Guthorm's eyes were already glazing, but he recognized Grimolf. His hand clutched weakly at Grimolf's tunic.
"The saga... ends here... for me," Guthorm gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. "Make it... worth the telling..."
"I will carry your name back to Iceland," Grimolf promised, gripping his dying leader's arm in a final farewell.
Around them, the battle intensified as the Moors realized they had struck down the Viking leader. More soldiers poured into the plaza, sensing victory.
"We can't hold this position," Hakon warned, his breathing labored as he dispatched another attacker. "There are too many."
"We must get his body out," Ottar insisted, loyalty overriding tactical sense. "He cannot be left in this foreign soil!"
Thrand appeared suddenly beside them, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. "The western exit is still open, but not for long. We must move now or never."
Grimolf made his decision. "Ottar, Hakon, Thrand--take Guthorm's body and as many men as you can gather. Fight your way back to the ships."
"And you?" Ottar demanded, even as he parried a thrust aimed at Grimolf's back.
"The twins and I will hold them here," Grimolf answered, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We'll buy you time."
"That's suicide," Hakon objected, his swift blade claiming another Moorish life.
"It's necessity," Grimolf countered. "Someone must ensure Guthorm returns to northern soil, and someone must hold this line. Now go!"
Bjorn and Ulf nodded their agreement in perfect unison, accepting the deadly assignment without hesitation.
Ottar hesitated, torn between obligations. "Your father would never forgive me for leaving you," he growled.
"My father would expect you to follow orders," Grimolf replied. "Now go, old friend. Make sure Guthorm reaches Valhalla properly."
With a final roar of frustration, Ottar signaled to the nearest Vikings. Several warriors lifted Guthorm's body while others formed a protective shield around them. With Ottar leading and Hakon watching their flanks, they began fighting their way toward the western exit of the plaza.
Thrand lingered a moment longer. "This isn't how the saga was meant to end," he said quietly.
"The Norns weave as they will," Grimolf answered. "Now go with them. Your eyes may yet save those who remain."
After a moment's hesitation, Thrand clasped Grimolf's arm. "May we feast together in Valhalla," he said before disappearing into the chaos of battle.
Left alone with the twins, Grimolf turned his full attention to the Moorish forces pressing in from three sides. "Just like the time in Dublin," he said with grim humor.
"Except there were only twenty Irish that day--" Bjorn began. "--and here there are hundreds of Moors," Ulf finished.
The three warriors positioned themselves in a tight triangle, each covering the others' blind spots. For nearly an hour, they held their ground, creating the diversion needed for Ottar's group to escape with Guthorm's body. Their desperate stand became legendary even among the Moors, who would later speak of the three Northmen who fought as though possessed by supernatural strength.
The tide turned when a thrown spear pierced Grimolf's thigh, driving him to one knee. Still, he fought on, his axe rising and falling with deadly precision. Beside him, the twins maintained their perfect coordination despite exhaustion and mounting injuries.
"They've had enough time," Bjorn gasped, blood flowing from a deep cut across his shoulder. "We should attempt to break out now," Ulf added, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side.
Grimolf nodded, summoning his remaining strength. "On my mark--"
Before he could give the signal, a Moorish cavalryman charged through the gap in their defense. His mace caught Grimolf squarely, shattering his shield and left arm. The twins moved instantly to protect their fallen leader, but they too were overwhelmed by the fresh wave of attackers.
Bjorn fell first, a curved sword opening his side. Ulf, feeling his twin's pain as his own, momentarily faltered--enough for a Moorish soldier to drive him to the ground with a spear through his leg.
The three Vikings, bleeding from dozens of wounds and surrounded by enemies, finally collapsed within arm's reach of each other. Their final conscious moments were filled with the certainty of defeat, yet also the knowledge that their sacrifice had created the diversion needed for Guthorm's body and many of their comrades to escape.
The surviving Vikings, seeing Grimolf and the twins fall, broke and fled toward their ships. Less than half would make it back to the beached longships, and only seven vessels would return to Iceland with tales of the disastrous raid.


Consciousness returned to Grimolf in waves of agony. Each breath sent sharp pain through his shattered ribs; his broken left arm throbbed with a deep, insistent pulse. When he finally managed to open his eyes, darkness greeted him--not the darkness of death, but the shadowed interior of what appeared to be a prison cell.
"Welcome back to the world of the living," came a voice from nearby--familiar, though strained with pain. "Though I'm not sure it's a kindness."
Grimolf turned his head painfully toward the voice. "Bjorn? Or Ulf?"
"Bjorn," came the reply. "Ulf is here too, though he hasn't woken yet."
As Grimolf's eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through a small, barred window high in the wall, he made out Bjorn's form propped against the opposite wall. Beside him lay his twin, unnaturally still but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
"The others?" Grimolf asked, already suspecting the answer.
"Gone--either to Valhalla or back to the ships," Bjorn replied. "We're the only ones they took alive."
Grimolf struggled to sit up, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his broken body. "Why not kill us with the others?"
"The Moor who commands their guards--" Bjorn began. "--was impressed by our fighting," came a weak voice as Ulf stirred beside his brother. "Said it would be wasteful to kill men of such skill."
Despite everything, Grimolf felt a surge of relief hearing both twins alive, their habit of finishing each other's thoughts intact despite their wounds.
"They have plans for us, I think," Bjorn continued. "Their physicians have treated our worst wounds."
"Not from mercy," Ulf added grimly. "A dead slave benefits no one."
Grimolf tested his injured limbs carefully, assessing the damage. "Slaves or not, we live. And while we live, hope remains."
A sound at the cell door interrupted their conversation--a key turning in a heavy lock. The door swung open to reveal two Moorish guards and a richly dressed figure behind them.
"The northern demons awake," the well-dressed Moor said in accented but understandable Norse. "I am Hisham ibn Ammar, commander of Sevilla's defenses. You fought well, pagans--well enough to earn a fate other than immediate execution."
"What fate?" Grimolf demanded, forcing strength into his voice despite his weakness.
Hisham studied them with calculated interest. "That depends on how you answer when brought before the Caliph. He has questions about your northern lands, your ships, your fighting methods. Answer well, and you may find your existence here... tolerable."
After the Moorish commander left, the cell door clanging shut behind him, silence fell among the three prisoners. Finally, Bjorn spoke softly.
"They don't know we understand their language," he whispered. "The guard outside mentioned a messenger being sent to Cdoba." "The Caliph himself wishes to see the northern warriors," Ulf continued. "We may be moved soon."
Grimolf nodded slowly, his tactical mind already searching for advantages in their desperate situation. "Then we listen, we learn, and we wait. The Norns haven't finished weaving our fate."
As darkness fell fully over Sevilla, the three Viking prisoners drifted between consciousness and oblivion, their dreams filled with visions of burning ships, fallen comrades, and the cold, distant shores of Iceland. Yet in Grimolf's mind, another image began to form as well--fragments of conversations overheard between his Moorish guards, speaking of lands far to the east where treasures beyond imagining awaited those bold enough to seek them.
The bitter taste of defeat would be his companion in the dark Moorish prison, along with the pain of his wounds and the uncertainty of his fate. But already, the seeds of a greater journey were taking root in his mind--a journey that would begin not with conquest, but with escape.