“Hakon.”
The voice came from far away, as distant as a whisper in a vast tunnel.
“Hakon,” came the voice again. Closer now. Near him. “Can you hear me?”
Hakon"s eyes fluttered open to see a face — Egbert"s face — over his, though Hakon couldn"t keep it in focus. “Hakon, it"s me.” Like his face, Egbert"s voice ebbed and flowed, as if carried on a fickle wind. “It"s Egbert. Can you hear me?”
Hakon tried to speak but his voice would not come. He nodded weakly. The young monk lifted Hakon"s head and brought a wooden cup to his lips. “Drink,” he urged.
Cool water filled his mouth, bringing with it memories of violence and bloodshed. A burning hall. Dead priests. The bite of an arrow. Blackness and fire. He remembered too being sucked from consciousness into a bog of strange and frightening
