The field below Dún Ailline had grown quiet.
Crows strutted boldly among the corpses, tearing at sunken bellies.
Now and then, a dying man groaned, lifting a hand to the gray heavens, only to be greeted by dark wings instead of angels.
On the rampart, Vetrúlfr watched in silence. Blood still clung to his hair and beard.
His wolfskin mantle was stiff where it had drunk too deeply of the slain.
At his side stood Ármóðr, helm under his arm, gaze distant.
"It is done," the Jomsviking said. "Connacht's host is broken. Whatever petty bands remain will scatter to their keeps, squabbling over who must pay for this ruin."
Vetrúlfr didn't answer.
His pale eyes were fixed on the riverside, where Gunnarr's crews were herding thralls aboard the ships; sullen men with wrists bound in rawhide, wide-eyed women clutching children, all driven by the flat slap of spear hafts.
Among them, King Maél Sechnaill mac Cathail and his kin stood alone, forced to witness every moment.
