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“Helheim. Be ready to run.”

He looked at the horses who were grazing peacefully among the people. The beasts were their only chance of escape.

He gestured with the scramasax for the people to make way. They stepped aside, one by one, the crowd moving away from Andor like water under a longship’s hull. The priest’s eyes burned as he watched Andor walk towards him step by step.

“Tell him that is because I do not wish to speak the same tongue as the man who threatened to kill my wife. If he wants me to help them with ironwork, he must do as I say.”

While she translated, Andor hauled himself onto the back of a nearby horse, his true destination. “Tell him I much prefer horses to goats, so I will take this one. Then approach me, slowly.”

She did as he asked, and the priest’s eyes narrowed. He said something else, his voice rising, as he looked straight at Andor.

“Quick, Cathy,” Andor said.

She sprinted. The priest’s brows snapped together, his mouth curving downward. People exchanged glances, their shoulders tensing. Andor’s heart pounded, and his hands clenched around the reins.

The priest shouted an order, and several people caught at Cathy as she ran, finally stopping her. Andor roared. He took the ax and began hacking. Some of them staggered back, while other men ran towards him with their knives and axes ready. Screams of pain and terror filled the air. “Wēland!” they screamed. “Wēland!”

The last man holding Cathy fell, and she ran to Andor. He held out his hand, and she grabbed his forearm with both hands. He pulled her up, settling her behind him. As more men with weapons ran towards them, he pulled the reins and spurred the horse to a gallop. It flew through the dark woods, along a trail lit only by the moon. Thundering hooves and shouts closed in behind them. He glanced back over his shoulder; the riders followed him.

“Hya!” Andor spurred the horse, his veins throbbing with the rush of it. “Hya!”

If he managed to get them away from their pursuers, they’d have a horse. If, however, the pagans caught them, they would both be dead.

They galloped for some time, but it was hard for their horse to carry two people. Only two riders followed them now. He could fight two.

Ahead, through the trees, stood a huge hill. Even in the darkness of the night, giant, white lines and curves shone from the hillside. What was that? The sight would have made him haul on the reins if he was not being pursued by the enemies. But there was no time for fear or awe. He had to think fast.

If he climbed the hill, he could use the position to his advantage.

“We go there,” he yelled to Cathy. “When we are up, I will dismount, and you must go on. Do you hear me?”

“I’m not leaving you!” she said.

“Yes, you are.”

They rode to the top of the hill, then stopped, and he jumped down. Cathy did the same.

“I told you—” Andor yelled, but she interrupted.

“To quote you, ‘I don’t need your help.’”

“Down, now,” Andor hissed. From below, their enemies would not be able to see if they were still on the hill, or what their position was.

They were coming, blindly charging up the hill. Andor was ready, and with a trained precision, threw the ax as the first man reached the top. It caught the rider in the chest, and he fell, the beast charging wildly away. Without warning, the second rider crested the hill. He swung at Andor, but Andor moved fast, and the sword grazed off his shoulder, leaving a shallow wound.

The rider galloped further along the hilltop, turned his horse and rode right at Andor. He planted his feet in the soft turf. The man charged at full speed, swinging his sword. It was the priest. Andor held fast as the horse barreled towards him. Then, at the last moment, he ducked under the priest’s swing and thrust the scramasax into the man’s side. Mouth gaping in a silent cry, the priest pitched off the horse and rolled down the hill as the animal galloped away.

Andor breathed heavily, looking around in case more enemies were on their way. But there were none. Cathy watched him with her soft gray eyes. They locked gazes.

They had won. He had saved her. He had come for her.

And she had stayed for him.

It was as though the air between them was sucked away, as though they were pulled towards each other by an unstoppable force. She flew into his arms, and he crushed her to him.

She was warm and tall, her muscles hard but her curves soft. Her scent hit him—the freshness of the forest and the sweetness of a rose, and her, the womanly, light, seductive scent that was hers alone—and his blood boiled.

He kissed her, sinking into the softness of her lips and the silky pleasure of her tongue. Hunger for her roared through him. He wanted her whole. Like a teenage boy on his first raiding trip, the excitement squeezed his stomach. As a sea of heat sent its waves through him, somewhere deep he knew that he would always want more of these kisses, more of her touch. More of her.