The Vik, Summer, AD 935
Hakon sank to his knees before the broad trunk of a maple tree and clutched the cross that hung from his neck.
Closing eyes that stung from lack of sleep, he tried to recall a prayer he had learned in the Christian court of his foster father, King Athelstan, but it would not come. Instead, images invaded his thoughts that were neither wanted nor welcome. Images of Erik and his bloodied battle-axe. A crimson-faced Gunnar roaring as he beheaded the youth who had speared him. The glint of Ivar"s blade as it slashed Aelfwin"s neck and her life poured forth, dark and horrid, onto her killer"s hands. Quickly they came, one after the other, uninhibited; and just as quickly, Hakon"s bloodshot eyes opened to erase them.
For three days now — ever since the battle against E
