Islands in the Fog

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"This is my last offer. All you need do is place your hands upon my blade and swear loyalty. Save your life and the lives of your men." Hardar Hammerhand squinted at Ulfrik from behind the cheek plates of his helmet and tipped the hilt of his sword forward. His gray-streaked beard wagged as he continued. "Go on, lad, and do what is right."

"The next time you call me lad, old man, will be through broken teeth." Ulfrik's lip curled in a snarl. The parley was the waste of time he had expected. Hardar's men stretched into a thin line behind him, outfitted for war in furs or mail coats. They idled nervously with their backs to the sea and their faces to the sun. Their beached ships hid behind them, gangplanks down for a quick retreat. Ulfrik estimated fifty men, a slight numerical advantage over his own force.

Hardar chuckled and elbowed the hirdman at his side. "Did you hear the threat, Dag? The lad plans to break my teeth."

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