Hakon and his small band reached the remains of Skiringssal by way of a cart track they had been following all morning. They were tired, hungry, and wet. A thin mist was all that remained of the heavy downpour that had started early on the second day of their flight and lasted for five days without a break. The cold rain had drenched their clothing and their boots, robbing them of sleep and warmth and animals to hunt. The men subsisted on nuts, berries, and the occasional fish, their spirits falling like the hard rain. But there was some good to it too, for the rain formed pools and swelled streams and covered the tracks left by Hakon and his men, making it next to impossible to track them.
And now, with Skiringssal in sight, their moods lifted.
Hakon called a halt and scanned the scene
