In the gloom of the following morning, the trader looked even more forbidding. Like some shape-shifter from the stories of yore, he had changed from a slovenly traveler into a hardened and fearsome warrior. His white hair had been pulled into a tight braid and rested like a snake on his woolen cloak. Serpentine bracelets in the Celtic fashion clung to his wiry arms, their patterns mirroring the dark crevices that traversed his face and the beard that fell, forked like a serpent"s tongue, to his belt. A half-healed gash on his forehead marked the place of a future scar.
The man peered at Hakon like a hunter studying his prey. “Are you ready, Hakon Haraldsson?” His voice was gruff, his northern accent thick.
Hakon swallowed hard. “Aye,” he answered lamely.
“Good. I will wait for you at my
