The hooves of the imperial cavalry churned the frost-bitten soil of Jutland into mud.
Winter's breath still clung to the land, but banners snapped above the ranks of the Holy Roman Army, the black eagle on gold, fluttering against a sky the color of iron.
At the head rode Conrad, Emperor of the Romans, armored in steel chased with silver, his crown resting over a helm of blackened mail.
His eyes, narrow and cold, scanned the horizon where the Danish border towns lay quiet.
"Their gates will not hold," murmured Count Ernst of Swabia, spurring his horse closer.
"Too many men bled out with Cnut in England. Svein spends what remains across the sea. Denmark lies bare."
Conrad's lips twitched in something not quite a smile.
"Bare, yes," he said, "but not yet broken. A cornered beast will bite. That is why we strike now, before it remembers its teeth."
