It was the morning of the departure. Vetrúlfr had kissed his wife goodbye and said his farewells to his young child.
They both knew the time that the fearsome King had at home was limited. Summer was a time when the sea was at its calmest.
And that meant the world would open up to those who lived in lands of northern frost and steel. And they would bring it to those who could not withstand its tide.
The gulls screamed overhead, but the docks were near-silent.
Only the clink of chain mail, the thump of boots on timber, and the groan of loaded hulls filled the air.
No cheers. No chants. Just the steady rhythm of readiness.
Vetrúlfr stood upon the ridge overlooking the fjord. The sea mist parted like a curtain, revealing the full host below.
He had not summoned them.
But they were there.
All of them.
Gunnar's men, already loading crates of dried fish, mead, and steel-tipped arrows. Gormr's shieldwall, cloaked in wolf-pelts, drilling in formation even as they waited to board.
