The hoofbeats of Vetrúlfr’s host thundered along the broken Roman road, the sound rolling through the hollow hills of Mercia like the drums of doom.
Horses snorted clouds of mist into the spring air, their barding glinting dull in the pale sun.
Spears rose like a forest, and the wolf banners of the North snapped above the column.
The land they passed was not green with plenty, but blackened with hunger. Fields lay fallow, trampled by soldiers and raiders both.
Hamlets stood empty, doors broken, granaries bare. Smoke still lingered above some cottages, the stench of burned timber mingling with the copper tang of rot.
At last, they came upon a village that had not fled in time. The folk were huddled in the square, eyes wide with terror as the riders encircled them.
Old men clutched staves, women clutched children, and the village reeve, a bent man with a chain of office that meant nothing here, stood trembling in their midst.
Vetrúlfr reined in his stallion, its breath steaming as he surveyed the scene. His pale eyes swept the villagers, then the empty barns.
"Your king has already bled you," he said, his voice carrying like a hammer-strike in the stillness.
"His earls strip your fields to feed their war. His soldiers burn your homes for fuel. Tell me, what has your Christ given you, save hunger and fire?"
The reeve could not answer. He lowered his eyes to the dirt.
Vetrúlfr leaned forward in his saddle, his cloak of wolfskin falling about his shoulders. His voice dropped to a growl.
"Renounce your god. Condemn your king. Do this, and you will have safe passage to my lands. You will live not as thralls, but as farmers. In fields that bear fruit. In homes with walls that stand. Your sons will plow, and your daughters will weave. You will eat."
He gestured toward the empty barns.
"Refuse me, and you will die here. Not by my hand, but by winter’s teeth. For your king will strip you bare until not even your bones remain."
Silence fell. Only the horses stirred, stamping the earth. Then, a murmur among the villagers, fear, anger, despair.
Some spat in the dirt at the mention of their king. Others raised trembling hands to the heavens, torn between hunger and faith.
He had seen this choice before, when the Danes bent knee to Cnut, when the Gaels turned from the cross, when the tribes of Vinland swore the oath. Always, hunger was the sharpest blade.
At last, the reeve fell to his knees. His chain of office clattered against the stones.
"We... we will come," he whispered. "We are yours."
The White Wolf smiled, sharp as frost.
"Wise," he said. "Gather what you have. Tonight, you march with us."
His riders wheeled, and the wolf banners lifted high.
Behind them, the village stirred, torn between fear and relief.
They had traded one master for another, yet in their hearts, they knew this wolf at least promised meat with his rule.
And in Mercia, hunger spoke louder than any king.
The column moved again, the newly sworn villagers trailing behind like shadows, ragged, hungry, but alive.
Gunnarr rode close at Vetrúlfr’s side, his brow furrowed. The Jarl shifted in his saddle before speaking low, so only his king could hear.
"You would burden us with mouths that cannot fight. Weak folk, broken by hunger. Should we not leave them to their fate? Our steel is for warriors, not beggars."
Armodr, ever blunter, snorted from the other side. His mail jingled as he adjusted his axe across his back.
"The Jomsvikings do not coddle farmers. Better to take their women as thralls, their sons as shields, and burn the rest. That is the way of the sea-kings. That is how the sagas remember us."
Vetrúlfr did not answer at once. He let the rhythm of hooves fill the silence, the drums of the march rolling over the empty land. Then he turned his pale eyes on them both.
"Tell me, Gunnarr," he said at last, "how many men till our fields in Iceland? How many smelt our ore, shape our mail, carve our ships? And tell me, Armodr, how many do the Christians command?"
Neither answered, though they both knew.
"The truth is this: they outnumber us tenfold, and that’s being generous," Vetrúlfr continued. His voice was calm, but edged like honed steel.
"Every church bell they toll, every levy they muster, every tithe they collect... these are the fruits of numbers. Not courage. Not honor. Numbers. Without people, there is no army. Without farmers, no grain. Without smiths, no blades. Without mothers, no sons to wield them."
He gestured toward the villagers behind them.
"Here is my victory. To take them without spilling blood. To give them land, and not chains. To make them subjects, not thralls. They will farm. They will trade. Their sons will grow strong under my banner. And when they are men, they will wield spears in my shieldwall... not Cnut’s."
He straightened in the saddle, the wolf pelt rolling across his shoulders.
"That is empire. Not the burning of huts, but the binding of men. Not the taking of thralls, but the taking of loyalty. The Christians think themselves masters of this art, but I have learned their tricks, and improved upon them. If we can take without destroying, we grow stronger than they can ever hope to be."
Gunnarr’s frown eased, a reluctant nod forming. Armodr chuckled, shaking his head but unable to hide his admiration.
"You speak like Basil himself," he said. "No wonder the east made you more than a warrior."
Vetrúlfr smirked. "War is simple. Conquest is harder. But only conquest endures."
The riders pressed on, the newly sworn villagers following close. In their eyes were fear, but also the first flicker of hope.
And in that flicker, the White Wolf saw the roots of eternity.
Gunnarr could only nod with silent pride. Knowing that, though Vetrúlfr may worship a different god. Basil’s legacy lived on in the North through him.