The fleet split as it neared the northern coast, dragon-prows wheeling away like wolves scattering to their dens.
Some ships turned toward the rocky harbors of Svalbard, others to the green slopes of the Faroes, others still to Greenland's frozen shores where new halls had risen in the years of conquest.
Each hold awaited its share of plunder, its kin and thralls eager for the return of their warriors.
But the great ship Fáfnirsfangr pressed on, her sails heavy with salt and spray, until at last the fjord of Ullr opened before her, a wound of blue ice and granite cliffs, now lined with timbered halls and stout palisades.
Vetrúlfr stood at the prow, his cloak snapping in the wind, and for the first time since leaving London a smile broke across his pale face.
Smoke curled from dozens of hearths along the shore.
New piers jutted out into the water, crowded with villagers, thralls, and warriors waiting to greet their king.
