Dawn broke faint and grey, a thin veil of mist rising from the frost-hardened earth. A hundred Norsemen and as many captives trudged toward the forest's edge, axes slung over their shoulders, iron glinting dully in the half-light. The branches above were powdered with snow, and when the men set to work, the dull rhythm of axe heads biting into oak trunks echoed through the still air. Each blow rang out like a muffled heartbeat, and clouds of steam rose from their sweating backs, ghostly against the pale morning. The smell of fresh sap mingled with the iron tang of frost. A startled raven croaked and fled upward, its black wings scattering flakes into the dim canopy.
"Timber!" someone shouted.
