The snows of Novgorod had begun to melt when the first sparks caught flame.
At dawn, the bells of Saint Sophia tolled as they always had, calling the faithful to kneel before the Greek Christ.
By dusk, the bells lay shattered in the mud, and the church that had stood for a generation was burning, its timber roof collapsing in smoke and ash.
The rising had begun.
It was not one city alone, but many.
In Ladoga, in Polotsk, in Smolensk, even in villages along the wide Dnieper, men who still called on Perun and Veles rose from their hearths.
They came with axes once meant for wood, spears sharpened from plowshares, and swords bought in secret from traders who had slipped out of Ullrsfjörðr.
For years they had muttered their prayers in silence, ashamed or cowed by the lash of priests.
Now they shouted them in the streets, voices rough with freedom.
The boyars loyal to the princes tried to rally their retinues, but the tide was too great.
