The torches in the great hall of Jomsborg had guttered low by the time the feast was done.
Chieftains who had raised their cups in noisy assent now slumbered or stumbled back to their ships.
But not all.
In a side chamber off the hall, a knot of men gathered in whispered anger.
Obotrite lords with wine-stained lips, Veleti greybeards stiff with pride, younger chiefs who spat at the thought of bowing to a foreigner.
Their voices clashed like knives drawn too close together.
"Madness," one Obotrite growled.
"To let a Norseman, a raider, lay gifts at our feet as if we were children. Today he gives us swords, tomorrow he takes our sons for thralls."
The Veleti elder slammed his fist on the table, his face dark.
"And yet you sat silent when the Rani declared for him! Silent, like a gelded ox while they yoked us all."
A younger chief bristled, his hand going to the hilt of his blade.
