The campfires of the Imperial host smoldered against the Danish night, a sprawl of canvas and smoke laid out on the frozen fields south of Hedeby.
Banners hung limp in the still air, the eagle of the Empire, the crosses of Mainz and Cologne, the colors of Swabian lords who had followed their emperor north in winter to bring the boy Harthacnut to heel.
But Conrad's mind was not on Denmark.
The parchment in his hand was smeared with mud from the courier's boots, the wax seal cracked with haste.
He had read the words three times already, but still they seemed to mock him.
Werben burned. Magdeburg threatened. The Wends have crossed the Elbe in strength, bearing steel of foreign make. Villages torched, monasteries sacked, marches overrun.
The Emperor of the Romans clenched the scroll until it crumpled in his fist.
Around him, his lords quarreled.
Duke Ernest of Swabia slammed a mailed fist onto the map table.
