The sea mists clung to Jomsborg like a shroud.
Smoke curled from its forges, and the harbor rang with the sound of hammers beating iron into death.
Armodr, captain of the Jomsvikings, sat in the longhall beneath a roofbeam blackened by years of fire, his great hands resting on the arm of his chair.
When the envoy entered, dripping from the rain, he carried not just saltwater on his cloak but weight in his eyes.
"From Ullrsfjǫrðr," the man said, placing a sealed letter upon the table. "The White Wolf bids you carry these words to the chieftains of the Wends."
Armodr raised a brow. "The Wends? They are no kingdom. A tangle of tribes, squabbling for cattle and river tolls. What business has Vetrúlfr with them?"
The envoy did not answer, only nudged the seal forward. The wax bore the mark of the wolf’s head.
Armodr broke it, scanning the words. His weathered face hardened, then slowly curved into a grin.
"Conrad marches north," he muttered, half to himself. "He sinks his claws into Denmark, thinking Svein too busy in England to defend his birthright."
He looked up, eyes glinting like steel.
"But the wolf sees further. A single spear may break, but a thousand darts loosed from the marshes? That is another matter."
The hall stirred as he rose, voice rolling like surf against stone.
"The Wends have no king, no crown. They are a basket of snakes, aye, but if the wolf drops the eagle into the basket, every fang will strike. The Empire will bleed from a hundred bites."
He laughed then, a deep growl that shook the rafters.
"Cunning as a raven, that one. Very well. I’ll send riders. The Obotrites, the Veleti, the Rani, all will hear that the White Wolf offers meat, and that Conrad is their prey. If the wolf wants war, Jomsborg will see it kindled."
He clapped the envoy on the shoulder, almost hard enough to stagger him.
"Return to Ullrsfjordr and tell the White Wolf this, the Jomsvikings stand with him. Let Christendom tear itself apart. We will sharpen the knives."
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Three days later, riders splashed through the Oder marshes, their cloaks stiff with frost, the wolf’s seal bound to their saddlebags.
They carried no words for parchment but a message for the ear, a message memorized and repeated, as was the way of the north.
In Mecklenburg, stronghold of the Obotrites, the envoy stood before Chieftain Ratibor in a hall thick with smoke.
He raised the wax seal so all might see, then spoke in the tongue of the Wends, his accent heavy but clear.
"The White Wolf of the North sends this charge: Conrad marches on Denmark. When the eagle has torn it apart, do you think he will halt? No... he will come for your rivers, your cattle, your sons. That is why the Wolf offers kinship. Alone you are meat. Together you are teeth."
Ratibor scowled, fingers drumming the haft of his axe. "The Danes have raided us for generations. Let Aachen break them."
The envoy’s voice hardened. "And when Denmark is gone, who will stand between the eagle and you?"
South among the Veleti, the answer was sharper. Their elders sneered at the seal. "Why trust Northmen? Wolves who burned our coast?"
The envoy spread his hands. "Because the wolf now hunts greater prey. Rome devours pagans one by one. He bids you bite first. Refuse, and you will kneel in chains. Not to Odin, not to Svantovit, but to the Christ nailed on his cross."
A hush fell. The elders exchanged wary glances. At last one said, "We will hear more. But hearing is not swearing."
Eastward on Rani, in the high shrine of Svantovit, the priest himself listened.
The envoy laid the seal before the idol and recited the wolf’s words.
The priest’s eyes glinted like embers. "Perhaps this wolf is the weapon Svantovit and Perun send. Tell Jomsborg we will listen, not bow, not yet. But listen."
Back in Ullrsfjǫrðr, when Gunnarr heard how each chieftain had wavered but not dismissed the offer, Vetrúlfr only smiled.
"Do you see, old friend? Alone, they gnaw scraps. Together, even briefly, they can bleed the eagle. That is how Rome fell, not to one army, but to many teeth, all biting at once. So it shall be again."
"You place much faith in the Wends," Gunnarr said at last. "But they are a fractious folk. Chieftains bicker, priests plot. They are as likely to sell us to Aachen as they are to fight beside us."
Vetrúlfr leaned forward, eyes sharp in the firelight.
"I do not need them loyal. Only afraid. Fear binds tighter than oaths. When Conrad’s knights ride north, the Wends must see that only we can shield them. Or else, they will see what comes for them when Denmark falls."
Gunnarr grunted, uneasy. "And if they bow to the cross anyway? What then?"
"Then they bow on their knees, weaker for it. Either way, their strength is spent, not ours."
Vetrúlfr’s voice was cold, measured.
"Do you not see, Gunnarr? Alone, we are too few. We bleed and vanish like the Saxons at Verden, like the Gauls before Rome. But if I can bind the outcast peoples, the last who spit in Christ’s face, then the eagle will find not one wolf at its throat, but a pack."
He stood, pacing slowly, cloak trailing over the furs.
"Every thrall we take tills our fields. Every ship we build carries iron and grain. Every child born in this land will be raised not in shame, but in pride, with a sword in hand. A generation from now, our sons will not merely raid Christendom; they will own it. But we need time..."
Gunnarr exhaled, shaking his head with something between awe and dread. "You speak as if the gods themselves whisper in your ear."
Vetrúlfr’s lips curved in a thin smile. "Perhaps they do. Or perhaps I simply read the lessons men forgot when Rome burned."