Vetrulfr had set his fleet upon the coasts of Connacht with a single command: loot everything of value from its river-fed towns and sea-facing villages; silver, gold, furs, silk, livestock, jewels... and of course, women.
But Vetrulfr himself did not care for such plunder.
Aboard Frostrtönn, he and the most elite of his warriors sailed upriver toward the true target of this campaign; a message written in flame to the Christian world.
The monastic stronghold of Kilmacduagh.
There, he believed, ancient tomes lay forgotten. Knowledge buried beneath prayers and dust. And as Vetrulfr had learned in the East; knowledge was power. The kind of power that outlasted gold and echoed beyond death.
And burning yet another holy site? That was just a bonus.
Frostrtönn and her eighty warriors slithered up the waterway like a serpent birthing death from its belly. They made landfall in the dead of night, and struck without mercy.
His orders were clear:
Take the archives.
