In a miserable turnip field on the outskirts of a forgotten parish, four Irish farmers stood knee-deep in the mud, clutching wooden pitchforks and notched scythes.
For generations, their daily routine had remained unchanged by the rise and fall of petty warlords...
You woke up before dawn, prayed the blight wouldn't rot your tubers, hid your daughter when raiders rode over the crest, and gave half your grain to whichever chieftain threatened to burn your hut down.
Lately, life had been marginally more bearable.
The iron ships in the north had brought bread and salted pork, and the neighbor's boy had come home from the road-building crew with three silver shillings, weeping with joy.
Still, the peasants lived in dread of the inevitable counterstroke.
Every night around the hearth, they whispered about the fury of Ivar the Boneless.
