The morning air at Ullrsfjörðr was crisp and biting, salted by the sea and heavy with the tang of tar and pitch.
Along the docks, ships bobbed restlessly, their dragon prows cutting fierce silhouettes against the pale dawn.
Ropes creaked, sails slapped in lazy gusts, and gulls wheeled overhead, their shrieks swallowed by the clamor of men preparing to sail.
Vetrúlfr stood at the water's edge, boots planted on damp planks slick with brine. Around him moved a tide of warriors; men hauling crates of dried fish, barrels of fresh water, coils of rope and bundles of spare oars.
Spears rattled in their racks. Shields shone, fresh from the smithy's oil.
At the far end of the quay, Ármóðr's men loaded their own ships with grim efficiency. T
he Jomsvikings were fewer now, the long campaigns in Ériu and the pyres of Dún Ailline having thinned their ranks.
But those who remained stood taut and hungry-eyed, their voices clipped as they checked lines and stocked arms.
