Avaldsnes, Rogaland, Spring, AD 957
Hakon woke with a start. He had been dreaming, and like so many of his dreams of late, it had turned against him. An attacker had come to his bedchamber, a bloody sword in hand, ready to strike. Hakon had scrambled in the darkness, tried to rise, but his feet tangled in the bedding, and the villain"s sword came down.
Hakon"s gaze shifted to the closed door, the very same one through which the attacker of his dream had just come. The light of the dying hearth fire in the great hall seeped beneath it and cast a soft glow over the oaken walls and the blade-sheath that leaned, point down, against the bedframe near Hakon"s head.
Slowly, he slid from under the bearskin and sat on the edge of his bed. As he worked the stiffness from his muscles, he became aw
