Hakon awoke in the dead of night to the stentorian blast of a war horn.
He rushed out into the dark with the other warriors, his seax and shield in hand and his eyes scanning the darkness for trouble. All was quiet save for the horn, which filled the air yet again with a long, melancholy warning.
“There!” called someone, pointing south at a distant flame that licked at the sky.
It was the fort on the headland that overlooked the mouth of the Viksfjord. The garrison had seen something, or worse, had been attacked. Gudrod looked north, toward Skiringssal. Hakon followed his gaze and saw nothing but darkness, which was good.
“Trygvi,” Gudrod said. “Grab your gear and make haste for the headlands. Take arrows. I will take half my men north to Skiringssal. Geir, remain here and protect the
