Gunnarr stood at the prow of the shallow-drafted knarr, one boot braced upon the dragon-headed rail, pale eyes narrowed against the cold spray.
Behind him, the river wound like a dark ribbon through the green heart of Connacht, dotted with farmsteads and petty trading posts that had never known a terror like this.
Five ships shadowed his own hulls low in the water from the weight of warriors.
Their oars dipped in silent rhythm, blades biting the river's skin, leaving scarcely a ripple. Only the faint hiss of iron against the water betrayed them.
At last, they rounded a bend, and Gunnarr lifted a hand. The boats drifted to a halt. Across the meadow stood a village of wattle and daub houses, ringed by crude palisades.
Smoke rose from cook fires, women moved between byres, and cattle lowed behind split-rail fences.
Perfect.
Gunnarr gave a low signal. His Húskarlar tensed, knuckles white on sword hilts and axes. Then he dropped his hand.
