Six hours before the assassination attempt.
The Deep Woods, North of York.
It was the hour of the wolf that grey, silent time just before the dawn broke.
In a secluded clearing, far from the rhythmic of the Jernheim trip-hammers and the sulfurous stench of the Blast Furnace, stood an ancient Longhouse. It was a relic of the old days, built of rough-hewn timber and smelling of damp earth and blood.
Dozens of men moved through the mist toward the heavy wooden doors.
They did not wear the standardized, padded vests of the Industrial Corps. They did not carry the uniform 20mm Torsion Spikes or the Ragnar-issued identifying badges.
These men wore bearskins. They carried heirlooms axes with rusted notches, swords passed down from fathers who had raided Paris, and round shields painted with the symbols of the Old Gods. They were the Huscarls, the Jarls, and the traditionalists who felt the cold wind of change blowing from York, and they hated it.
