The hall roared like thunder.
Flames leapt high in the long hearth, shadows writhing across timbered walls carved with runes and sea-serpents.
The smell of roasted venison and smoked seal fat filled the air, mingled with the salt of the wind that forever crept inland from the gray Atlantic.
Men crowded the benches, warriors still streaked with soot and blood, cups clashed, mead spilled, and laughter shook the rafters.
"To our High King!" cried a voice.
"To the slayer of the skrælingr! The son of Ullr! The White Wolf of the North!"
Every voice joined in the chant, pounding the tables with fists and shields until the hall itself seemed to breathe.
Then came one voice more daring than the rest, shrill with drink and devotion:
"Rán's favored!"
The words hung in the air like a thrown spear.
Vetrulfr's smile froze.
