The night fog rolled in from the sea, wrapping the Northumbrian camp in pale shrouds.
Fires burned low, casting shadows on the leather tents and the restless shapes of horses tethered to picket lines.
The scent of wet earth, salt, and steel hung heavy.
Armodr of the Jomsvikings sat by the main fire, sharpening the edge of his long axe, his brow furrowed.
"So we sit here and wait?" he grumbled. "The men grow restless. We've already taken their scouts. Why not ride south and crush their levy before it gathers?"
Vetrulfr stood across from him, cloak draped over his shoulders, the white fur of the arctic wolf's head resting above his own.
His voice was calm, but there was a flint edge to it.
"Because, old friend, a wise king will not march into the teeth of my cataphracts. He will hold his men behind timber and stone, force us to burn time and blood in a siege. He knows we are killers, but even killers must eat, and siege lines devour supplies."
