On the twenty-fifth day of October, beneath the relieved gaze of the townsfolk, the great Viking host broke camp and began its march southward.
The royal banner led the column like a crimson flame in the wind. Behind it trudged five thousand three hundred warriors in mail and leather, their shields glittering dully beneath the pale sun. And after them—like driftwood borne on a flood—came a thousand others: merchants, camp followers, hucksters, cooks, whores, and those nameless men who always follow armies for profit or survival.
In these times, plunder was the marrow of war. Victory was measured not only in land or captives, but in the silver bracelets, woven cloth, and blades seized from the fallen. The camp merchants trailed behind the soldiers, buying spoils at once—turning loot into coin, coin into food, and food into ale. Thus did war sustain a grotesque sort of prosperity, a mockery of peace that fattened on death.
