The mists of dawn coiled low across the fields of Dún Ailline, veiling the armies of Connacht in ghostly shrouds.
From atop the ramparts, Vetrúlfr peered down, his breath fogging in the chill air.
Below, thousands of Gaelic warriors formed into ragged ranks, banners of hawks, boars, and sun wheels drooping heavy with dew.
At their center stood Conchobar and the petty kings, their bright cloaks cinched tight against the morning cold.
Lines of levies bristled behind them, shield rims knocking nervously together.
To the Gaels, this was to be their final hammer blow; the day they would crack the wolf's den and drag its lord out by the throat.
Priests stalked the lines muttering prayers, flicking holy water that steamed upon trembling hands.
But within the ringfort, the Norse were not idle. Vetrúlfr moved among his men like a prowling shadow, offering no words of false comfort.
Only nods, a hand upon a shoulder, a low command spoken in a voice that needed no raising.
