The longhall of Ullrsfjörðr smelled of broth and iron; smoke curled beneath the rafters and wolfbanners hung heavy in the gloom.
The hearth glowed like a wound in the floor, and around it sat Gormr, Gunnarr, Bjǫrn, and other jarls whose names the fjord would one day chant or curse.
Róisín's children slept close to the fire under furs, their soft breathing measuring the silence.
Vetrulfr stood with his back to the flames, hands bare, still smelling of iron and sea.
The Rus envoys had gone, their ships already sliding down the fjords, leaving only the weight of their words.
Now it fell to him and his liegemen to decide what to make of them.
Gormr spat into the fire.
"They call you wolf and god-sent. The boyars send silk, the Wends sharpen spears, the Christians bleed each other. What more do you ask? The fjord is full of gold, let us sit on it and feast."
Gunnarr rested his hand on his spear.
