“The king has been wounded!” called Toralv as two Danish ships slipped away.
Those closest to the king — Bard and Harald and Eyvind Finson, who himself was wounded in the arm — turned at the champion"s call to see what had happened. Moments before, the king had been hale. None had seen the arrow fly or strike, and so they stared, mouths agape in their blood-caked faces, at Hakon and the arrow sticking from his byrnie.
Hakon waved them away. “It is nothing,” he growled, though he could feel the warmth trickling down the inside of his mail. “See to yourselves, and to the others.”
“My lord,” Toralv persisted, his eyes shifting from Hakon"s face to the arrow, “I will take you to the hall.” He grabbed Hakon"s right arm before the king could protest and tossed it around his shoulders, then sl
