"Ivar is far too reckless. How could he utter such words so carelessly?"
Rurik shook his head, half in admiration, half in disbelief. He led the messenger across the courtyard toward the armory — a low, stone-built hall that smelled of tanned leather, oil, and iron. At the far end lay neat stacks of freshly made weapons: feathered arrows bound in bundles, circular shields painted in gray and blue, and a row of yew bows gleaming faintly under the torchlight.
"There," Rurik said, gesturing with an open palm. "That's the lot of it."
The messenger bowed slightly in gratitude, but then frowned. "I thank you for your generosity, my lord — but why have so many of these arrows no heads?"
