The hoofbeats of Vetrúlfr's host thundered along the broken Roman road, the sound rolling through the hollow hills of Mercia like the drums of doom.
Horses snorted clouds of mist into the spring air, their barding glinting dull in the pale sun.
Spears rose like a forest, and the wolf banners of the North snapped above the column.
The land they passed was not green with plenty, but blackened with hunger. Fields lay fallow, trampled by soldiers and raiders both.
Hamlets stood empty, doors broken, granaries bare. Smoke still lingered above some cottages, the stench of burned timber mingling with the copper tang of rot.
At last, they came upon a village that had not fled in time. The folk were huddled in the square, eyes wide with terror as the riders encircled them.
Old men clutched staves, women clutched children, and the village reeve, a bent man with a chain of office that meant nothing here, stood trembling in their midst.
