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With a head that felt like it was about to split, Andor rose to his feet and staggered a few steps. Pebbles rustled under his enemy’s boots, and the soldier roared right next to him. Andor picked up the sword and whirled, just in time to deflect the Anglo-Saxon’s weapon.

Rising, Andor swung his sword, aiming for the man’s side. But he was weak and slow, and the Saxon managed to deflect him.

The man came again and again, and all Andor could do was duck and evade and divert. White-hot pain seared Andor as the warrior stabbed him in the thigh. Cathy shrieked, and the Saxon looked in her direction, exposing his neck. Andor brought his sword around in one sweeping move that sent pain shooting through his whole body and cut off the man’s head.

Then he fell to his knees, panting. The world around him spun, and the ground beneath his knees shifted, then sank. Something cool and hard pressed against his ear as the ground stood vertically and the sky and sea as well.

“Andor! Andor!” the muffled female voice reached him.

His ears rung, and his body drooped and crumpled, heavy and powerless.

And then he sank into the dark sea of oblivion.

CHAPTER FOUR

Brad collapsed.

Not Brad. Andor.

Her man fell, blood flowing out of the new wound in his hip. Cathy didn’t even have time to react to the sight of the chopped off human head that rolled and bounced like a soccer ball.

“Andor!” Cathy called. “Andor!”

His eyes rolled back in his head and he was out again.

He’d lost too much blood. How had he found any strength to fight that man in the first place?

Cathy rushed to him and turned him over. She looked at his leg closely. She needed to stop the bleeding immediately, but first she needed to take him back to safety and hide him before any more warriors came for them.

She dragged Andor behind the bushes which, she hoped, provided enough cover for now. Tearing the edge off of Andor’s tunic under his armor, she pressed it hard against the wound. It was on the outer side of the thigh, thank goodness, not near the groin where the artery was. The wound was deep, though, because the whole cloth was soon saturated with blood.

“Darn it, Andor!” Cathy said as she tore more of his tunic. It was covered with dirt and dust and a little hard from sea salt, really bad for an open wound. He’d obviously been on the road for a long time. But it was better than nothing.

She pressed the cloth onto the wound for a couple of minutes, but she heard voices close by, right behind the bushes. The cloth finally stopped filling with blood, and Cathy pulled Andor back into the cave.

There she felt his pulse, which was weak but steady. She’d probably need to suture his thigh wound—maybe even the one on the back of his head, too. She had never done it before, but she had gone through an advanced first aid and medical help course for surfers with Brad.

The voices came so close that she could make out what they said.

“Father Paul, this one is dead.”

“Requiescat in pace,” someone else said.

“I think this one is still alive,” the first, younger voice said.

“Let me see.” Steps, then silence. “No, he can’t be, not after this neck wound. God be with you, my son. You fought bravely in the name of Christ and our king.”

Cathy swallowed. They sounded like priests, or maybe monks. She had to act fast. If she was in a reality where there were medieval knights and Viking raiders, there had to be monasteries. And monks were probably the best doctors available.

She peered out of the cave, and in the space where the bushes ended, she saw the back of a wooden cart that was being pulled into the distance by a donkey, two men in brown robes walking by its side. On the cart, a man lay on a bed of straw.

The monks appeared to be gathering the wounded. She had to get Brad—Andor—to them.

Two problems. One, they’d likely recognize a Viking and call soldiers to kill him. Two, they would probably burn her as a witch or something in her pink wetsuit. Which meant, she had to get rid of anything that would betray Andor as a Viking. And take off her wetsuit and find some clothes.

She looked Andor over. She had little idea what the difference was between medieval English clothes and Viking clothes, but she had to make her best guess. The English seemed to wear metal armor, helmets, and such. Their weapons were different, too. But she imagined their clothes underneath were basically the same. So if she took Andor’s armor and hid his sword, that should be enough, right? She could say she removed his armor to treat his wounds.

She carefully undid the laces of his leather breast plate and pulled it over his head. Not an easy task with a giant warrior the size of a Mr. Universe contestant—especially when she needed to avoid brushing his wounded head.