The campfires of the Imperial host smoldered against the Danish night, a sprawl of canvas and smoke laid out on the frozen fields south of Hedeby.
Banners hung limp in the still air, the eagle of the Empire, the crosses of Mainz and Cologne, the colors of Swabian lords who had followed their emperor north in winter to bring the boy Harthacnut to heel.
But Conrad’s mind was not on Denmark.
The parchment in his hand was smeared with mud from the courier’s boots, the wax seal cracked with haste.
He had read the words three times already, but still they seemed to mock him.
Werben burned. Magdeburg threatened. The Wends have crossed the Elbe in strength, bearing steel of foreign make. Villages torched, monasteries sacked, marches overrun.
The Emperor of the Romans clenched the scroll until it crumpled in his fist.
Around him, his lords quarreled.
Duke Ernest of Swabia slammed a mailed fist onto the map table.
"We cannot hold Denmark and the Lusatian March both. If the Wends reach Magdeburg unchecked, they will cut the throat of the empire itself. Pull the banners south!"
Archbishop Aribo, white-faced beneath his mitre, crossed himself.
"These are not common raids, my lord. Reports say the pagans bear swords stronger than Frankish steel. They are led by chieftains who swear to no prince, only to their wolf-god in the north. This is no mere revolt, it is heresy armed with iron."
Others shouted in turn. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ NoveI-Fire.ɴet
Some urged retreat, some demanded reinforcements from Italy or Burgundy, others clamored for vengeance.
The pavilion became a den of voices, each tugging at the fabric of the Reich.
Conrad rose at last, towering above them in his cloak of scarlet.
His voice was iron, worn with fury.
"Enough! Do you think I do not know what this means? The marches burn while we stand in Danish mud, chasing a boy-king who hides behind his mother’s skirts. If I turn south, the Danes will rise again. If I stay here, the Wends will drive their knives into Saxony’s belly."
Silence followed, heavy and bitter.
He turned to his son, Henry, who sat in the corner of the tent, young yet sharp-eyed.
"What say you, boy? You will wear this crown after me. How would you answer such insolence?"
Henry’s jaw tightened.
"Strike the Wends, father. Denmark can wait. A wound in Saxony festers; Denmark is but a thorn in the skin."
Conrad studied him a long moment, then looked back to his lords.
"You hear him. Even the youth sees it clear. We must march south. The Danes will laugh, yes, but I would rather bear their laughter than see Magdeburg fall."
Archbishop Aribo bowed his head.
"And what of the Rus? Word comes that their cities too rise in fire, priests slain, churches razed. The infection spreads. If it reaches Poland, we may face a tide the Reich cannot dam."
At this, Conrad’s fury broke through. He hurled the crumpled scroll into the fire, where it curled and blackened.
"Then we shall dam it with blood! If the Wends and the Rus think to raise their idols again, I will put their gods to the sword as Charlemagne did before me. I will scour their forests, burn their idols, salt their fields, and leave their children as serfs beneath my throne."
The lords muttered approval, though uneasily.
They had heard the same tales Conrad had: the wolf-king in the far north, the pagan warlord who had blood-eagled Cnut and armed the Wends with steel.
None dared speak the name, not yet.
Outside the tent, the wind howled off the Baltic, carrying with it the sound of Danes singing in their meadhalls, mocking the emperor who camped at their gates.
But Conrad’s gaze was fixed southward, toward the marches now drowning in smoke.
"Break camp," he ordered at last. "We march at dawn. Let the boy Harthacnut keep his crown for now. When the empire burns, a Danish throne is nothing but splinters."
And so the banners of the Reich were lowered, the siege lines abandoned. By torchlight, the Imperial host began to turn its back on Denmark, tramping south into the dark.
Behind them, the Danes cheered, their laughter rolling across the night.
Ahead of them, smoke already smeared the horizon, the smoke of Wendish fire, and the first proof that the empire was no longer master of its own borders.
News of Conrad’s retreat reached the Wendish marshes within days.
Scouts on swift ponies, watching from the shadow of the marches, brought word of the eagle banners turning south.
In Dragomir’s camp on the Oder, the chiefs gathered at once. Svarog the Red threw back his wolfskin cloak and laughed loud enough for all to hear.
"The emperor flees! He leaves the Dane-boy to his cradle and runs home with his tail between his legs. The Reich is not iron, brothers, it is wood. Wood that burns."
Dobrogost, grim and cautious, struck his spear into the earth. "Do not think him beaten. He will come south with all his banners.
When he does, our fires must already be at Magdeburg’s gates. Only then will he know fear."
The warhost shouted approval. Axes banged against shields, sparks leapt from forges where steel from Ullrsfjörðr was beaten into new edges.
The knowledge that the emperor turned south only stoked their fury.
Dragomir spread his arms to the night, where the smoke of burning villages curled like offerings to the gods.
"Hear it, brothers! The Reich staggers. The wolf-king arms us. Now we strike, and let Conrad find only ashes where his marches once stood."
The Wends roared, and the marshes shook with the sound.
That night, the chieftains feasted on boar roasted whole, its tusks daubed red with blood. Mead horns clashed, and the priests of Perun cast omens in the fire.
Sparks leapt high, and the warriors swore each spark was a German soul.
By dawn, the warhost was already moving, drums beating like thunder through the sodden earth.