The wind off Ullrsfjörðr rattled the shutters of the great hall, carrying with it the brine of the sea and the bite of late winter.
Within, the fire roared high, but Vetrulfr did not sit close to it.
He stood apart, pale eyes fixed on the map stretched across the long table, the coasts of Jutland, the rivers of Saxony, the marches burning where Wendish fire now spread.
A messenger’s report lay unrolled beside the map, its words grim but unsurprising: Conrad abandons Denmark.
The emperor marches south.
The Reich gathers to strike the Wends.
Vetrulfr’s jaw tightened.
He had expected Conrad to falter, but not so swiftly.
Already the wolf-king’s designs were shifting.
Gormr entered, brushing snow from his beard, and joined him at the table. "So. The emperor runs home. Will the Wends hold?"
"They will fight," Vetrulfr said, voice low. "But Conrad’s weight is heavy. He leaves Denmark laughing behind him. If he breaks the Wends before they root themselves, the chance to gut the Reich may slip from us." Orıginal content can be found at novel[f]ire.net
Bjǫrn leaned on the edge of the table, his shadow falling across the map.
"Then we strike at Denmark itself. If the Reich will not bleed in two places, we must make it so."
Vetrulfr’s mouth curved in a cold smile.
"Aye. The Danes must be roused. Not as allies, they would never take my hand. Not while the boy sits on his mother’s lap."
He tapped the map where Jutland jutted into the sea.
"Harthacnut is young, untested. His blood runs hot, but the leash at his neck is his mother’s hand. Emma of Normandy, a Norman and a Christian, whispers in his ear, binds him to Rome. To her, I am a heretic, a beast. To her son, I might yet be a rival. But a rival is easier to move than a zealot."
The jarls exchanged glances.
Gunnarr’s voice was quiet, but edged. "So long as she lives, he will not march south. He will cling to her counsel."
Vetrulfr nodded. "Then she must not live."
The words fell like iron into the firelit hush.
For a moment, none spoke.
The crackle of the logs and the hiss of dripping snow from the rafters filled the silence.
At last Gormr grunted. "And if the deed is laid bare at our feet? The Danes would turn their fury north, not south."
"That is why it will not be our hands," Vetrulfr replied.
His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"Courtiers can be bought, just as easily as blades. Denmark is no fortress of loyalty. Gold seeps into every hall. We need only place it well."
"And Conrad? Will he not deny it, if blame falls on him?"
Vetrulfr gave a short laugh.
"What prince has not denied blood on his hands? The truth is nothing. Perception is all. If the boy wakes to find his mother struck down by her own handmaid or guard, and whispers say those men were bribed by the emperor’s silver, what will he believe? That the pagan wolf crossed the sea in secret to slay her? Or that the German who threatened his crown sought to cut his leash?"
The jarls muttered, the logic sharp as a blade.
Gunnarr’s spear-bent knuckles tightened.
"It is dangerous work. If it fails, the Danes may unite behind him harder than before."
"It will not fail," Vetrulfr said, voice like stone.
He turned to a chest beside the table, its lid bound in iron.
He lifted it with his scarred hands, revealing bars of silver and coins stamped with foreign seals.
"This is our tongue in Denmark. This will do the work that steel cannot."
He paced the hall, the wolfskin cloak trailing.
"We will send not raiders, but merchants. Traders who carry gifts, bolts of cloth, casks of mead. Within their wagons will lie more silver than most Danes see in a lifetime. They will find those nearest the boy-king, those whose envy burns hottest. They will whisper: ’Emma binds your king, keeps him from glory. Conrad would see her gone. Serve him, and you will serve yourselves.’"
Bjǫrn’s eyes narrowed. "And when the blade falls?"
"Then the realm of Denmark will be drenched in rage," Vetrulfr answered.
"A boy who loses his mother to German treachery will not hesitate. He will call his jarls, raise his ships, and strike south to avenge her. Conrad will find not one front, but two. Saxony will burn beneath Wendish fire, and Jutland will pour spears into his marches."
Gormr spat into the fire. "And the wolf sits in the dark, watching."
"Aye," Vetrulfr said. "Watching. Waiting. The Christians tear each other apart, and we grow fat on the time their folly buys us."
Róisín entered then, silent as snowfall, her cloak drawn against the cold. She listened a moment, her eyes on her husband.
"This path is steep, Vetrulfr. To move unseen in a Christian court is no easy thing. And if the boy’s grief does not turn to fury, but to fear?"
Vetrulfr met her gaze, his pale eyes unblinking.
"Then he is no king, and Denmark will rot quietly under its own weakness. But I think otherwise. Blood stirs young men to war. The wolf knows the scent."
He closed the chest of silver with a heavy clang.
"Send for the merchants. By summer they will arrive in Jutland, By Autumn, the Danes will march. By winter, the Empire will burn on two fronts."
The jarls bowed their heads, each measuring the weight of the scheme.
The hall seemed to lean inward with them, as though even the timbers strained to hear.
Outside, the fjord groaned beneath shifting ice.
The wolves of Ullrsfjörðr howled into the night, their cries mingling with the wind.
And in the flicker of firelight, Vetrulfr stood tall above the map of Christendom, his shadow long, his eyes fixed on both north and south.
One war was not enough. The empire must be torn open, bled from two wounds at once.