“It is beautiful, is it not?” commented Toralv one day as he and Hakon scraped the remnants of their midday meal into their mouths.
Hakon put his trencher aside and drained the last of his warming ale. The meal had left him tired, content, and full, and he leaned back lazily on his elbow. They were enjoying a momentary reprieve in their training regime. The weather was fine—bright and sunny—and Hakon had asked Toralv to join him atop Sigurd"s earthen ramparts, where they could gaze out over the glinting waters of the fjord as they ate their meal.
Hakon followed Toralv"s gaze to a waterfall that stretched down the rocky cliffs across the fjord from Lade. “Aye. The long winter made me forget just how beautiful it can be here.”
Toralv spat, then watched the gob sail over the rampart"s edge
