The Forest Clearing, Two Miles South of York
In a small clearing surrounded by ancient pines, Jarl Einar had set up his temporary headquarters. It was a simple tent made of wolf skins, pitched hastily in the mud. Maps of York were pinned to a wooden board with knives.
A scout one of the mercenaries Father Wilfrid had hired burst into the clearing, panting heavily. He was covered in black soot and smelled like burnt tar.
"Report!" Einar barked, standing up from his folding stool. "Did the berserkers breach the gate? Is the city burning?"
The scout leaned against a tree, gasping for air. "It was... a slaughter, Jarl Einar. A massacre."
"What do you mean?" Einar demanded. "We had two thousand men! They have five hundred cripples!"
"The cripples have machines," the scout wheezed. "They have guns that shoot clouds of nails. They dropped black oil on us and lit it. The first wave... they melted. The second wave broke before they even reached the wall."
