The harbor of Ullrsfjǫrðr bristled with masts, the morning mist curling about the prows like the fingers of Rán herself.
Men moved in silence, stowing casks, tightening ropes, checking rivets along the dragonheads.
The sea was calm, but every soul felt the weight of where the fleet would go: east, to Jomsborg, into Wendish lands.
Vetrúlfr stood at the quay in his mail and wolfskin cloak, Gramr sheathed at his side.
Behind him the high keep loomed, its beacon-fire guttering in the dawn wind.
He did not turn until he felt the tug at his hand.
Branúlfr, his eldest, looked up with eyes hard beyond his years. "Father," he asked, "why must you always leave?"
Vetrúlfr knelt, resting his palm on the boy's shoulder.
"Because the wolf hunts, son. And what I do now, I do so that you will not need to hunt as I do. When you are grown, you will inherit a land strong enough to withstand all the world's spite."
Eirik clung to his cloak, too young for words, his face buried in the fur.
