The road climbed gently toward Ullrsfjörðr, winding through fields studded with sheep and low stone fences.
Ahead rose the settlement proper; if it could still be called that. It was more a fortified city than any village Eithne had ever lain eyes on.
Watchtowers stood at intervals along the curtain walls, their banners snapping the ochre Vegvísir upon an earthen field visible even from the road.
Armed sentries peered down, spears idle in their hands, eyes sharp as hawks.
Sister Eithne shifted uncomfortably as an armed escort guided her towards her destination. Her wrists chafed beneath the ropes, skin raw from the sea's salt crust.
Yet it was not the pain that hollowed her breath. It was what lay before her.
She had expected rough timber halls, crude longhouses, reeking dung heaps and smoky hearths. The petty courts of Ériu had prepared her for such. But this…
As the guards pushed her through the first gate beyond the harbor, she gazed in astonishment.
