The Vetrulfr and his men had long since vanished into the swirling dark, but the stench of blood still lingered in the great hall.
Duncan stood over the scattered heads, now covered by a draped hide, his eyes unreadable. The fire crackled behind him, but no warmth touched his face.
The thanes had gathered hastily, their woolen cloaks soaked from the night air, their voices heavy with unease.
The hall buzzed with low arguments, but none dared speak above the rest until the king raised his hand.
"Speak your minds," Duncan said flatly. "He has made his offer. What say you?"
The first to rise was Murchad of Moray, silver-bearded and blunt.
"The Norse bastard is mad, and he brings madness in his wake. He speaks of vengeance, but brings war. Give him passage, and he'll treat our glens as his own. You saw those heads, today English, tomorrow ours."
Domnall of Fife, younger, sharper-eyed, stepped forward next.
