The great vault beneath the longhall of Ullrsfjǫrðr echoed with the soft clink of coin upon coin.
Torchlight danced along the arched stone ceiling, glinting off stacks of gold florins, Byzantine bezants, Islamic dinars, and silver dirhams collected from all corners of the known world.
There were iron ingots from Rus, copper bricks marked with Georgian seals, and barrels of salt and amber from the Baltic... each more valuable than coin in the right hands.
Vetrúlfr stood in the center of it all, arms folded across his broad chest, the wolf-pelt cloak falling in regal folds around his shoulders.
His eyes, cold and thoughtful, swept over the vault with a quiet gravity.
"This," he said at last, "is more than I took from Miklagarðr. All the weight I carried east, and all the wealth Basil the Bulgar-Slayer gave me as captain of his guard, it's long spent."
He took a few steps forward, the iron heel of his boot ringing faintly on the stone.
