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Andor groaned as the Saxon pagans dragged Cathy towards the sacrifice mound.

He recognized a blot. Before Christianity had infested the kingdoms of Bretland, Saxons, like Norsemen, had believed in the rightful gods. This must be a tribe that still worshiped the old gods. Andor did not understand the language, but he recognized the name Völundr, a talented smith, married to a Valkyrie and enslaved by a king for his skills. Although Völundr the Smith was not a god in the Norse understanding, the pagan Saxons were making a sacrifice to him.

Hidden behind a tree, Andor watched them. He should have come after Cathy sooner. Why had he even hesitated? He had been cruel to her, trying to keep a distance between them. With every moment spent with Cathy, the memory of his wife became weaker, and Cathy’s presence stronger, fuller, bigger.

She enriched him with her lightness, her kindness, and her willpower. Even though he thought it was silly that she refused to eat meat while she was clearly hungry, she believed it was not good for her. And her determination showed strength and discipline. She might not be a warrior, but she had a warrior’s spirit.

And now she was struggling and screaming, about to be slaughtered, all because of him. The priest listened to Cathy’s captor, then nodded. Andor could see his eyes harden in the torch light.

He said something to the struggling Cathy, who began thrashing harder, trying to free herself. Fear for her gripped his gut.

This was exactly what he had been terrified of, running away from: watching someone he cared about die because of his neglect.

He gripped the handle of his ax. There were twenty-three of them, men and women. He was alone. If he had not been wounded and had been fully armed, he would have charged the priest and grabbed her. He might have had a chance.

But not with a bad leg and not without a shield.

He needed to use his cunning.

They tried to lift Cathy onto the altar, but she kicked one in the stomach and broke loose. Using their shock, she ran towards the woods, only to be caught by the onlookers. Someone slapped her hard twice, and she went limp and crumpled to the ground.

Andor’s fists clenched, fingernails digging into his flesh.

The only things he had were his cloak, his weapons, and his clothes. Then he noticed the chalk drawings on the stones. Looking around, he saw several white rocks. With chalk dust, he could paint his face white. They wanted Völundr. They would get Völundr.

He picked up a few white stones near his feet—they felt soft in his hand. He bashed them with the pommel of the scramasax, hoping the noise of the crowd would muffle the sound. Then he took handfuls of the white powder and rubbed it over his face. Picking up a small clump of earth from beneath his feet, he spat into his hand and made a dark paste, then rubbed it around his eyes. He quickly drew a white snake on the blade of the scramasax and rubbed the blade of the ax white.

He had no idea if this would work. Maybe they’d see right through him and sacrifice him with Cathy.

But it was better to try and die than to live with another woman’s death on his hands.

He was not responsible for her, though. He’d told her that and, therefore, freed himself of the responsibility. He was doing it because he could, he reminded himself. Because he wanted to, not because he had to.

The men were lifting Cathy onto the altar again, and he was out of time. Quickly, he put the hood of his cape up, leaving his face out so that they’d see the white.

Leaving the shelter of the trees, Andor strode towards the crowd. Cathy lay on the altar, the priest with his knife high above her neck. She watched silently, as if the Norn whispered her doom, but then came to her senses and began yelling and struggling.

The priest was saying a prayer, his voice rising, coming to a peak, when Andor stepped into the light and droned “Ahhhhh!”

Everyone turned to him, their eyes widening as they looked him up and down. The priest went silent, looking stunned.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” Andor repeated and pointed with his scramasax at Cathy.

She watched him with terrified eyes.

“Cathy, do as I say,” he sang low, on one note.

Her mouth opened. She nodded.

“Tell them, I am Völundr, and I came for my wife, the Valkyrie Hervör, and if they try to stop me, I shall turn all their ironwork into rot and rust.”

Cathy swallowed and looked at the priest, then began translating, and the priest’s eyes widened in surprise. They needed to use the astonishment of the Saxons to their advantage.

“Move, Cathy,” Andor said. Cathy freed her arms from the hands of the men, who let her go.

She jumped off the altar and walked to Andor. The priest said a single word, which made her stop. Then he asked something, and she paled.

“He asks why is it that you do not speak their tongue.”