By dawn, the quays along the Dnieper were already groaning under their weight.
Ships crowded the riverbanks, fat-bellied Novgorodian traders, sleek Baltic knarrs, even the shallow craft of Khazars and Pechenegs.
Horses whickered as carts rattled over the stones, their wheels sagging with sacks of grain, bolts of wool, and barrels of fish.
But it was not the familiar produce of Rus that drew the eye, nor the furs of the north, nor the spices from the steppe.
It was steel.
Blades of rippled damascene, spearheads hard enough to crack bone, mail-shirts of such fine rivets that a boy could twist them without snapping a link.
Axes balanced to bite deep, helms that gleamed with iron rims instead of bronze.
These things, once worth their weight in silver, now poured into the city in a torrent.
From the balcony of his wooden hall, Prince Yaroslav surveyed it all.
His one good eye narrowed, beard bristling against the cold.
