The first sight of England came as a grey smear against the dawn.
Low cliffs, jagged as broken teeth, rose from the frothing sea.
The wind carried the brine of foreign shores, and the gulls screamed as if heralding the return of an ancient doom.
Vetrúlfr stood at the prow of his drakkar, the sea spray streaking across the wolfskin cloak on his shoulders.
The cold did not touch him. His eyes, darkened with ochre beneath the rim of his helm, swept the coastline.
"Northumbria," he said quietly, as if naming an old friend who had long since been buried.
Gunnarr stepped up beside him, wiping the salt from his beard. "Not a soul in sight. The English dogs have run south to guard Wessex and Kent."
"Good," Vetrúlfr replied. "Let them starve in the south while we feast here in the north."
The fleet slid toward the shore in a long, silent procession.
