Three days had passed since the explosive trap in the valley shattered the Frankish vanguard's confidence.
Lord Lothair and his thirty thousand southern soldiers had sat stuck in the pine forest. They were terrified of taking a single step off the dirt paths, trying to dig their surviving bronze cannons out of the sludge.
Richard pulled his coat tight as he walked through the streets of the port city. He pushed past groups of Norwegian riflemen, reaching the grand longhouse that sat at the highest point of the city.
He pushed the oak doors open and stepped into the hall.
King Erik of Iceland was sitting near the center hearth. He was a giant of a man, draped in polar bear furs. His red beard was braided with iron rings, and his hands were resting on a map of the coastal forests spread out across a table.
Beside him stood Commander Sigurd, holding a cup of dark ale.
"Richard," Erik grinned, "Come in, my boy! Grab a cup of ale and warm your southern bones."
