The forests of Lusatia were thick with shadow and smoke.

Pines crowded so close that sunlight could scarcely cut through, and in the gloom every thicket seemed to whisper with hidden eyes.

The Wendish raiders knew these woods as their own veins. Conrad's knights did not.

Iron-shod hooves sank into black mud, and mailed men cursed as arrows hissed down from branches above.

Spears thrust from ditches. Stones crashed from ridges.

The Wendish host never stood in open ranks, never gave battle like honest men, they struck, vanished, then struck again.

"Hold the line!" barked Duke Ernst of Swabia, his voice muffled by the great helm that gleamed with sweat and grime.

A spear clanged from his shield, and he wheeled his destrier to meet it, trampling a painted tribesman beneath iron hooves.

The forest roared back. Horns sounded, shrill and mocking, bouncing from tree to tree until it seemed the entire wilderness itself was alive with hatred.

Conrad II, Holy Roman Emperor, rode at the heart of his host, grim and hard-eyed.

The sweat of his horse steamed in the damp air, and his mail was flecked with pine sap and blood.

Every league into the Wendish marchlands had cost him dearly, men dragged from their saddles, supply trains cut apart, villages emptied before his banners arrived.

Still, he pressed on.

The Reich must not be seen to yield to heathens.

To yield would be to admit weakness, and weakness was death.

By late day, the smoke of burning hamlets rose above the treetops.

Fires lit by his own men in reprisal, but for each hut torched, three more ambushes fell upon them.

"God's wounds," muttered Count Dietrich of Meissen, spitting blood where a shaft had grazed his cheek.

"The devils multiply like ants. We cut down twenty, and fifty more appear. At this pace, we'll be gnawed to bone before we reach their villages."

Conrad's jaw tightened. He raised his hand, signaling the horns.

The blare rolled through the trees, and his columns began the slow retreat to their makeshift camp on higher ground.

They had scarcely thrown palisades of felled logs into place when the riders came.

Dust-choked, foam-flecked, the messengers staggered through the lines with news that fell like a hammer blow.

"From Jutland! From Schleswig!" cried the first, collapsing at the emperor's stirrup.

"The Danes march. King Harthacnut has declared war. Their banners ride south even now."

The camp fell to silence. For a heartbeat even the crackle of pinewood fires seemed to hush.

Conrad bent low, seized the messenger by the shoulder. His voice was a rasp of iron.

"Say it again."

The rider swallowed, his face pale beneath road-grime.

"The Danes proclaim vengeance. Their queen-regent, Emma, is dead by poison. They say you ordered it. That you sent men with silver and promises to slay her in her own hall."

A roar broke from the gathered lords, a babble of disbelief and fury.

Ernst spat into the dirt.

"Poison? Conrad? Madness! We left Denmark months ago. We had their realm in hand and withdrew to fight here. What use would it serve?"

"None!"

Conrad thundered, wheeling his horse in the center of the camp.

His voice cut through the tumult like a sword.

"By Christ's blood, I ordered no such thing! Why in God's name would I slay the woman after I left their land unscathed? Why would I call down a war from the north while I fight wolves in the east?"

The air rang with his fury. Men crossed themselves, muttered prayers.

The word poison had a stench about it, fouler than any blade.

Count Dietrich spat again, his face dark.

"It is a lie, sire. A fabrication. Someone means to set the Danes upon us."

Conrad's fist clenched upon his reins. The knuckles showed white.

"Yes. Someone. And I think I know who."

The name he did not speak aloud.

But all present knew of the pagan wolf in the far north, the butcher of Cnut, the scourge who had turned England into a graveyard of oaths.

Vetrulfr's shadow lay long across every whisper these days.

The council of lords gathered around the fire, voices rising like stormwinds.

"If the Danes march, we cannot hold both fronts!"

barked Ernst.

"The Wends already bleed us in these cursed woods. To face the Danes in the north as well..."

"They are a boy's host," sneered another baron.

"Harthacnut is but a youth, ruled by skirts. The Reich has nothing to fear."

"Fools," Dietrich snapped.

"A youth with a kingdom at his back still kills like any man. And the sea brings Danes faster than our levies can march. If they strike Saxony while we are bogged here..."

"Then Saxony burns," Ernst finished grimly.

Conrad said nothing for a long moment.

He stared into the fire, the flames painting hollows beneath his eyes.

His mind reeled, racing through possibilities.

Emma dead. Denmark aflame with vengeance.

The Reich accused of a crime it had not committed. Who stood to gain?

The answer was bitter, but clear.

"The wolf," he growled at last."

"This reeks of him. He alone would profit... Christendom at each other's throats, while he fattens in the dark."

The lords muttered, uneasy. To speak Vetrulfr's name was to taste ashes.

"But whether wolf or no, the Danes march,"

Conrad went on. His gaze swept them, cold as iron. "And we must answer."

A silence, heavy as an anvil.

"My emperor," said Dietrich carefully, "if we pull back now, the Wends will spread like fire across Lusatia. Their raids will scour our marches clean. If we stay, the Danes will fall on Saxony. Either way, one frontier burns."

Conrad's teeth ground. The trap had sprung.

At last, he spoke, voice hoarse but steady.

"Then we must do what emperors must. We break the Wends swiftly and ride north like the hammers of God. If the Danes seek vengeance, they shall find judgment instead."

The lords nodded, though unease lingered in every eye.

Swiftly break the Wends? It was easy to speak. Less easy to do in forests where every tree might hide a spear.

Still, the order went forth.

Scouts pressed deeper.

Fires spread wider.

Men girded themselves for a campaign of fury and flame.

Yet that night, as Conrad lay wakeful in his tent, the question gnawed like a worm in the wood.

"Why would I do this?" he whispered to the dark. "Why in God's name would I kill her?"

No answer came.

Only the howl of wolves in the distance, and the echo of laughter that might have been in his mind alone.

---

Summer lingered long over Ullrsfjörðr, staining the fjord red as the sun dipped behind the peaks.

In the longhall, the jarls gathered, Gormr, Gunnarr, Bjǫrn, their voices low with rumor until a dust-caked rider stumbled in.

He knelt before Vetrulfr's high seat.

"My lord. Emma of Normandy, regent of Denmark, is dead. Poison in her cup. The Danes blame Conrad. Harthacnut has declared war on the Reich."

The hall erupted.

Bjǫrn slammed his cup down, Gormr barked a laugh, and even Gunnarr's stony face cracked in a grin.

"The wolf strikes again!" Gormr roared.

"Two fronts, two fires, the Reich will eat itself!"

But Vetrulfr sat still, pale eyes fixed on the messenger.

Only when the noise subsided did he speak.

"How do they take it?"

The rider swallowed. "The boy-king rages. His jarls swear vengeance. Their longships gather already."

Vetrulfr rose, the silver Wolf Cross glinting against his chest.

"So the bait is swallowed. The cub howls at the wrong wolf."

He paced to the firepit, the flames painting his scars.

"Conrad bleeds in the east. The Wends tear at his marches. Now the Danes descend from the north. This is no victory, but opportunity. And opportunity, if left untended, dies."

Gormr lifted his horn. "Then let us sail south while they bleed!"

"No," Vetrulfr snapped. "Strike now, and the hand behind the knife is revealed. Let them believe Conrad guilty. Let them burn each other's halls while we build ours. Every Dane and every German slain is a grave we need not dig."

The jarls fell silent. Vetrulfr's gaze swept them like frost.

"Forges burn day and night. Ships rise from every slipway. Storehouses must be filled, thralls worked to the bone. Children will hold spears before they can walk steady. The wolf-brood grows. When the time comes, we will descend upon Christendom like winter itself."

Bjǫrn thumped his chest.

"The Rus cast down their crosses, the Wends sharpen their blades. Soon the south will tremble at the howl of the wolf."

Vetrulfr inclined his head.

"Let them tremble, but not yet know whose shadow moves above them. The merchants did their work well. Conrad bears the blame. The boy believes it. Let them gnaw each other's bones before they look north."

A growl of approval rumbled through the hall. Firelight caught in hard eyes, reflecting the promise of war.

Later, when the jarls had gone, Róisín sat beside her husband, pale as moonlight.

"You smile, husband. But it is the smile of a wolf watching deer stumble into the snare."

Vetrulfr's eyes glinted.

"That is all kings are. Wolves who set snares, and deer who blunder into them."

She was quiet a long while, then asked:

"And when Conrad and the boy are gone?"

Vetrulfr looked into the fire.

"Then the snare closes on Rome. And the world will remember the wolf who tore its throat."

Outside, the fjord wind howled like wolves awaiting the hunt.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.