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.

"Gold does not feed a pike. Ships rot, fields freeze. If we do not turn coin to plow and forge, the wolves will have teeth of rust."

Bjǫrn, who had lost a sworn brother in England, slammed his cup down.

"And patience is a thin cloak when Svein and Duncan feed on our shadows. Our dead lie without stones. Their widows find no bread."

Vetrulfr let their words hang, then spoke.

"Wolves do not feast while their lair lies broken. This slaughter in England, this rot in Rome, it burns hot now, but it will cool. If we leap at every flame, we will be ash. I want war, yes, but one we can finish."

He paced the hall, boots creaking on the boards.

"First, replacements. We bury men and raise their sons. Youths from valleys and fishing hamlets will be given oaths and steel. Eight years we have forged discipline here; in a generation we will reap it."

Gormr frowned.

"You mean to wait a generation before striking Christendom?"

"We are mighty, but few," Vetrulfr said.

"Even with the Jomsvikings, the Wends, and the Rus, if they cast down their priests, we are too few yet. Until then, we raid. Raids keep our swords sharp, our coffers full, and bring thralls to till our fields and build our forts."

The hall stilled. Gormr rubbed at his jaw. "These are large things. Money. Men. Time."

"And time," Vetrulfr said, "is the gift the Christians have given us by tearing at one another. Conrad bleeds, the Wends press his marches, Rome sells its throne for coin. We must not waste their blindness. We build, we train, we fortify. When spring comes, the wolves will run. When winter follows, those unready will die."

Gunnarr's lips curved faintly. "Cold as the fjord, Jarl. But the cold keeps us alive."

Vetrulfr's shoulders eased.

"Then let us continue with what we have already begun building here in the North. Names, quotas, drills. Smiths will forge blades, not trinkets. Children will learn oaths and spears. Storehouses will rise, ships will be built to outlast the sea's teeth. And when the Rus burn their churches, then we will call them brothers."

The jarls glanced at one another, seeing in the firelight the faces of sons who might yet carry the wolf-banner. Gormr rose slow as tidewater.

Outside, the wind keened along the fjord, and a knarr groaned free of ice. The work had been named.

---

The marshlands of the Oder steamed beneath a gray spring sky.

Mist clung to the reeds and drifted over the waterlogged meadows where once only herds of oxen had grazed.

Now the ground trembled with the tramp of men.

The Wends had gathered, and their warhost was a sight no emperor wished to behold.

Across the wide plain stretched camps of timber and hide, hastily built but sprawling, like a town of wolves thrown up in a week.

Fires smoked, men sharpened their axes on whetstones, and the sound of hammers rang from smithies cobbled together under open skies.

It was not the bronze and iron of old that sang under those hammers, but northern steel, shipped down the Baltic by knarr and traded at high cost to arm this host.

The blades gleamed dark and cold, stamped with the runes of Iceland and the marks of their smiths.

Once the Wends had been raiders with crooked spears and wooden shields.

Now their chieftains strutted among them clad in byrnie and helm, swords at their belts that could shear mail.

At the heart of the camp, upon a mound of earth raised above the marsh, the high chiefs of the Wends met in council.

Wolfhides and bear pelts hung as banners, snapping in the wet wind.

In their midst stood Dobrogost of the Obodrites, broad as a tree trunk, his beard thick with gray.

His people had long suffered Conrad's marches pressing down upon them, German forts gnawing at their borders.

Beside him stood Dragomir of the Veleti, younger, quicker, with the scar of a Frankish blade down his cheek.

Both had put aside years of rivalry at the urging of northern envoys.

Before them lay a table of planks, a map scratched into hide and weighted with stones.

The rivers of Saxony and Thuringia were inked like veins; crosses marked the forts of Conrad's march-wardens.

Dragomir drove the tip of his sword into the hide, splitting it.

"Here. At Werben. The Germans have grown soft garrisoning their marches. Their emperor is in Denmark, bleeding silver and men. Now we strike, and the Elbe will carry their corpses to the sea."

Dobrogost frowned. His voice was heavy, like logs settling in a fire.

"And when Conrad turns his eyes from Denmark, where will we be? The Franks will march in steel and horse. I have seen their banners. I have seen their mailed riders. Our men are strong, but we are not yet their equal."

From the circle came a laugh.

It was harsh, cutting across the council like a blade.

All turned to see Svarog the Red, a warlord of lesser birth but famed for his fury.

His mail was new, his sword northern-forged, and he wore it proudly.

"Not equal? Look upon your men, Dobrogost. Every man here bears a blade sharper than the emperor's knights. The north has armed us. The wolf-king has given us what we lacked. Now is the time to strike, not when Conrad has licked his wounds."

A murmur ran through the chiefs.

They all knew the tales.

Word of London's blood eagle had reached them months ago; they whispered it by their fires, half in awe, half in fear.

Vetrulfr had become a name that carried weight even here, in the sodden lands of the Oder.

And though he was not present, his steel lay heavy in their hands.

Dragomir leaned forward, eyes flashing.

"Svarog is right. The Christians bleed each other. Rome is a whore's house, selling the chair of Saint Peter for gold. Conrad thinks only of Denmark, of holding his crown against the sons of Cnut. The boyars of Rus stir restlessly, watching to see if we will act. If we strike now, the whole east may rise with us."

Dobrogost's thick hand curled into a fist.

He was not blind to the truth.

His people had lost kin to German swords, villages razed in the name of Christ.

For years they had fought back, only to be pressed harder.

Now steel from the north gleamed on his men's belts, and thousands gathered where once he had struggled to muster hundreds.

Still, the weight of age and caution held him.

"If we strike and fail, our people will be broken. Conrad will salt our fields and hang our sons. He will build churches on our bones. If we strike, we must strike as wolves, to kill, not to wound."

Svarog bared his teeth in a grin.

"Then let us kill. The wolf-king waits in the north, sharpening his claws. Let us prove worthy of his brotherhood."

The council roared approval, fists and spears thudding against shields.

Outside the circle, the warhost prepared.

Boys not yet grown dragged bundles of reeds to line the causeways through the marsh.

Women brewed thick stews of millet and pork, feeding the warriors in great steaming bowls.

The smiths worked without pause, riveting mail, shaping spearheads, fixing sword-hilts. Every clang of hammer seemed to echo with a promise: Germany would burn.

At dusk the priests of the old ways came forth.

They wore black furs and crowns of antlers, their faces painted with soot and blood.

A great boar had been taken in the forest, and its carcass was hauled before the chiefs.

The priests slit its throat upon the mound, letting the blood soak into the earth.

Its heart was burned upon the fire, the smoke rising toward the lowering sky.

Dragomir raised his sword in the firelight, his voice carrying across the plain.

"By this blood, we swear! We will cross the Elbe, we will tear down the churches of the Germans, we will leave no monk alive in his cell. Let Conrad return to ashes and carrion!"

The warhost answered with a thunder of voices, the sound rolling like storm across the marsh.

Spears lifted, blades flashed, shields beat together until the night rang.

Wolves howled from the forest's edge, their cries taken as omen.

Dobrogost, grim-faced, placed his hand upon the bloodied boar's hide.

"So be it. Let the emperor come. He will find not broken tribes but a people united. We will cut him to pieces and hang his priests from the trees."

The chiefs clasped hands, sealing their pact in gore and smoke.

By torchlight, the banners of the Wends were raised, wolf, boar, and raven painted in black upon white hides.

The warhost began to move, thousands of men streaming across the marsh, their steel flashing like starlight through the mist.

They carried axes, spears, and swords forged in distant Ullrsfjörðr, proof of their kinship with the wolf-king.

And in every heart burned the same thought: the age of bending knee to Conrad was over. The Wends would carve their vengeance in fire and steel.

Somewhere far away, in the dark fjords of the north, Vetrulfr's name was whispered, and the gods were said to be listening.

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