Hardrada snapped open his eyes, every sense alert, body tense, coiled like a spring. His fingers crept towards the hilt of his seax, the broad-bladed knife which he always slept with. He waited, holding his breath.
The slight swish of material of the tent flaps pulling apart was what brought him instantly awake. Now, rigid, straining to hear, he picked out the low, tremulous breathing of the intruder. Whoever it was moved slowly, creeping forward.
Creeping.
On hands and feet. Like a snake, sliding ever nearer, to strike.
The intruder moved, a hand slipping under the cover, and Hardrada swung around, grabbing the wrist, throwing all of his weight on top of whoever it was, rolling them over, the seax already finding the throat.
A soft, slender throat.
“Don"t kill me, lord.”
He froze,
