The Great Hall of Thetford, East Anglia
King Guthrum of the Danelaw sat on his high seat, tearing into a leg of roasted boar. Unlike the fasting Baron in the stories of old, Guthrum believed a leader should eat enough for three men to show his vitality.
He was a traditionalist. He believed in the axe, the shield-wall, and the favor of Odin. He did not believe in reading, washing his hands to kill "invisible devils," or filling out forms.
"The North has gone soft," Guthrum grunted, wiping grease onto his beard. "I hear they are farming clover. Clover! Like sheep!"
His Jarls laughed, banging their cups on the table.
"They say the 'Builder' makes his men wear matching clothes," Jarl Hrolf sneered. "Like little dolls."
"We will strip those dolls and take their iron," Guthrum declared.
The heavy oak doors of the hall creaked open. A man stumbled in. He was a messenger Guthrum had sent to York three days ago to deliver the broken arrow—the declaration of war.
