Ragnar, who had no idea that the affairs of foreign realms were about to spoil his grand forging, was busy arguing with a sheet of tree-skin.
"The ink is bleeding," Ragnar complained, holding up a first-drawn map of York. "Brother Osric used too much water in the mix. The city walls look like a soup stain."
Princess Gyda, sitting across from him sharpening the Valkyrie's Sting, didn't look up. "It's an apprentice's draft, Master Builder. Use the charcoal stick. It's drier."
Ragnar sighed. He was about to launch into a sermon on the importance of thickening resins when Aethelwulf "The Rat" ducked into the tent.
Usually, the Rat slunk in like a guilty dog. Today, he walked in with the restless energy of a man holding a hissing fire-pot.
Behind him stood two strangers.
One man was dressed in fine wool, dyed a deep, expensive emerald green. He wore a silver brooch the size of a wooden trencher. He looked like a Jarl, but his beard was trimmed in a way that screamed "court-bred." The other man was clearly a bodyguard, silent and holding a wrapped bundle that looked suspiciously like a heavy weapon.
Ragnar had no clue why a delegation from outside the Great Army was here. He didn't have blood-feud with other Norse warbands, but trade was trade, and uninvited guests were usually bad for trade.
"Long live the Builder," the man in green said, bowing with a flourish that was far too polite for a war camp.
"I am Floki," the guest continued smoothly. "An envoy from the Kingdom of Dublin. I come with goodwill and... curiosity."
Ragnar nodded, putting down his ruined map. "Please, guests. Sit. Gyda, pour the ale."
Gyda raised an eyebrow at being ordered around, but she played the role, pouring two horns of the good stuff.
"So," Ragnar took a sip, trying to look like a wise warlord instead of a tired forge-master. "What brings the Irish Vikings to the mud of Northumbria?"
Floki smiled.
"Your Highness or Master Builder, as they call you we are here on the orders of King Olaf the White of Dublin. We wish to discuss a... pact of trade~"
Ragnar was surprised. Dublin was the crown jewel of the Viking world a trade hub of immense wealth. "Explain in detail."
Floki leaned forward. "It is like this, Master Builder. We came to know, through a mutual associate in Mercia, that you are capable of pouring molten iron by the cartload. Specifically, we know about the Dragon's Hearth."
Ragnar dropped his charcoal stick. It hit the table and rolled onto the floor. He was in disbelief. The "Dragon's Gut" was a secret of the realm.
Did Toke talk? Ragnar thought frantically. Did the Monks send a bird? Or did Leif get drunk and brag about the liquid fire?
He quickly composed himself, but he knew he had flinched. The mistake was made.
Since the secret was out, Ragnar dropped the "friendly host" act. His eyes went cold