The scent of pine smoke and sea air mingled in the morning haze that rolled across the wide clearing of Freysholt.
Once nothing but forest, it was now the beating heart of Norse Vinland.
Once timber palisades ringed the growing township; now Roman walls replaced them.
Beyond the walls, farmers cleared more land, some Norse, others of native blood, their children playing together in the shallow stream that wound past the settlement's edge.
At the highest point of the hillfort, above the workshops, stables, and longhouses below, stood a square tower of raw stone.
It was not large, but it was formidable, with the rough shape of a keep that would someday serve as the westernmost seat of Norse power.
From its perch, Jarl Ketil Hrafnsson watched the valley come alive.
Ketil, tall and broad-shouldered, bore the wolf-fur cloak of his station.
