Despite this bitter defeat, the Gore-King, Erik Blood-Tooth, sat unmoved upon his throne deep within the frozen heart of The Fang. Though his frame appeared skinny and almost English in its refined pallor, with a long, flowing beard that framed a face more suited to scholarly halls than savage battlefields.
Around him, three trusted counsellors waited in silence for their lord to speak.
Seeing his advisors gathered close, Erik leaned forward upon his throne. "Thus we sit," he began, "while the fires of our fallen brothers still smolder on the beach at Kattegat. Tell me, my wise ones, who is this Ragnar that has come among us? What manner of man dares sail into my waters, slaying my chosen berserkers as though they were nothing more than summer wheat beneath the scythe? How, by the blood of the old gods, did he achieve such slaughter?"
