The Thames stank of smoke and ash. Where once London’s bells had rung for Mass, now the air carried only the howl of horns and the bark of wolves.
Charred beams jutted from the skyline like broken teeth; the city that had been Cnut’s jewel was now Vetrúlfr’s lair.
Into this ruin came Rome’s men.
Their procession wound through streets still black with soot, past villagers chained like cattle, past wolf-banners nailed above the shattered doors of churches.
At their head strode Cardinal Marinus, tall and austere, his crimson robes dulled by travel.
At his side walked Bishop Leo of Ravenna, muttering prayers as though every step upon this cursed earth demanded penance.
Behind them, mules strained under the weight of iron-bound coffers, a king’s ransom in gold and silver.
The emissaries were brought to the great hall.
There, beneath the scorched rafters and the banners of the wolf, upon the throne that once bore the Cross, sat Vetrúlfr.
Cloak of wolfskin across his shoulders, Gramr laid across his knees, he looked more warlord than king, yet he lounged as though the seat had always been his.
At his feet, bound hand and foot in iron, knelt Cnut.
His beard was ragged, his eyes sunken. Chains rattled as he lifted his head, but he did not speak.
The sight made Cardinal Marinus’ jaw tighten until the veins in his temple showed.
A king of Christendom, displayed like a hound before heathens. Yet he forced his voice into calm as he bowed stiffly.
"Lord of the North," he said, each word dragged like stone.
"We bring the ransom, as agreed by the Holy Father. A king’s worth, paid in gold and silver, that Cnut, anointed of Christ, may be restored to his throne."
At his signal, the coffers were heaved forward. Iron hinges groaned as the lids were thrown open, spilling the gleam of treasure across the hall.
Chalices melted into ingots, silver reliquaries hammered into coin, crosses torn from altars, all melted down to pay the wolf’s price.
The jarls jeered in delight. Warriors spat into the coffers, laughing at the holy metal now reduced to mere ransom.
Vetrúlfr leaned forward on his throne, eyes glinting like ice.
He gestured, and the hall fell silent but for the crackle of the fire.
Slowly, deliberately, he descended from the dais.
His boots rang on the boards as he circled the coffers, his hand trailing over the treasure like a man stroking a beast’s flank.
"Rome pays," he said at last, voice low but carrying. "A king’s ransom, just as when Alaric demanded his price at the Alps. Then, the Senate refused, and Rome burned. Now..."
He grinned, wolfish. "Now Rome kneels. And still you think your god stronger than mine?"
The emissaries stiffened, their faces masks of outrage they dared not voice.
Bishop Leo crossed himself furiously, whispering prayers. But none spoke, not here, not with wolves on every side.
At the center of the hall, Cnut sagged in his chains, eyes flicking between the treasure and the man who held him captive.
For a moment, just a heartbeat, hope flickered there, but Vetrúlfr’s smile was enough to snuff it out.
The emissaries had come to buy a king’s life. But what they purchased, they did not yet understand.
Vetrúlfr’s hand closed on a bar of gold, heavy as a brick of sunlight.
He weighed it in his palm, then let it fall back into the coffer with a dull clang.
His eyes shifted to the emissaries, gleaming in the firelight.
"So this is the faith of Rome," he said, voice curling with mockery.
"Your chalices melted, your saints stripped bare of silver, your Christ’s altars hammered into coin... all so a pagan wolf may sit fat and rich while your king grovels in chains."
Cardinal Marinus’ face flushed red.
His lips parted, words rising like thunder, but Bishop Leo clutched his sleeve, whispering fiercely. With effort that shook his frame, the cardinal bowed his head in silence.
The jarls laughed, beating their shields with the flats of their axes. Their jeers echoed like thunder.
Vetrúlfr turned, crouching by the cage where Cnut knelt.
He slid his hand through the bars and gripped the king’s matted hair, forcing his head up so all could see his hollow eyes.
"Here is your lamb," Vetrúlfr said, his voice rising. "This is the shepherd you ransom with your gold. Tell me, Romans, do you see a king? Or do you see a thrall, broken, whose god has fled from him like a coward into the snow?"
The emissaries stiffened. Bishop Leo’s voice quavered as he finally spoke. Orıginal content can be found at novel-fire.net
"Release him. He is anointed of Christ. Rome has paid. To keep him now is treachery against your own word."
Vetrúlfr’s grin widened, sharp as a wolf’s muzzle.
He released Cnut’s hair and stood, looming over them.
"My word," he said softly, "is to the gods, not to Rome. And the gods care little for your bargains."
He paced back toward the throne, his wolfskin cloak trailing.
The hall was silent save for the hiss of the fire and the rattling of Cnut’s chains. Then Vetrúlfr turned, lifting his arms as though in benediction.
"The gods thank Rome for its patronage," he said, his voice echoing through the hall.
"This hoard will buy iron for smiths, grain for our fields, timber for our ships. It will give our children swords to raid, axes to plunder, and spears to defend their lands from Christian aggression."
He let the bar of gold in his hands fall back into the chest with a dull, final clang.
"You kneel, Rome," he continued, his gaze fixed on the stiff-backed emissaries.
"You kneel not only to me, but to the gods you denied. Remember this day, for every raid, every burning hall, every field sown with your blood will be bought with the silver of Peter."
The emissaries said nothing. Their faces were stone, but their silence was its own confession.
They had come to ransom a king, and instead had purchased their humiliation.
Vetrúlfr’s eyes found them again. His smile was cold, almost gentle.
"Do not fear," he said. "Your ransom was not wasted. You will have your release. But not in the manner you think."
He gestured to Cnut, still bound in chains. The king’s eyes widened with terror, lips moving in silent prayer.
"Rome has paid," Vetrúlfr murmured, his voice carrying like frost. "And the gods will be fed. That is the price."