The sea broke against the shingle in long white arcs as the fleet of Norway came ashore.
More than a hundred keels scraped England's southern strand, their dragon-prows glaring over the spray like beasts come to devour the land.
The air was thick with salt and smoke; banners whipped hard in the cold wind.
Svein stood at the prow of his flagship, helm beneath his arm, cloak snapping red and gold.
His eyes burned as he raised his sword to the sky.
"This land is ours by right!" he cried, his voice cutting through the roar of waves and gulls.
"The usurper Duncan squats upon my father's throne, bought with blood and treachery.
The White Wolf has fled, but his stench remains.
By God's hand we come to cleanse this soil.
By Christ's cross we come to strike down the heathen and all who shelter him!"
A cheer thundered from the men crowding the ships and the strand, a wall of spears lifted high.
Some shouted prayers, others only bellowed their king's name.
