The mud of the docks squelched beneath King Ragnar's boots.
He didn't wait for the kneeling soldiers to rise. He walked past them, scanning the palisades and the cannons on the walls. The three foreign marshals followed behind him, silent and unfazed by the stares of the local northmen.
"Get up, Erik," Ragnar repeated. "And take me to your map. I don't have time to stand around in the cold."
King Erik rose to his feet, ignoring the dirt on his furs. He nodded and led the Iron King up the stairs toward the longhouse.
The silence of the port broke. The Norwegian riflemen stood up, whispering to each other as they watched the fleet anchor in their bay.
Inside the longhouse, Ragnar walked over to the table. He leaned over the map, ignoring the spilled ale.
"Talk to me, Erik," Ragnar ordered. "My scouts told me Lothair landed 30,000 men on the eastern beaches. Where are they right now?"
