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“To Odin!” He roared and raised his ax high in the air.

“To Odin!” his men echoed, crashing into the tents. Einar ducked through the entrance. But before he could see what was happening, someone hit him on the side of his head, and he swayed. Thorir’s shadow came at him again, but Einar was ready and deflected the blow with the handle of his ax.

It was almost dark here in the tent, with the only light coming through the oiled linen of the walls. Einar saw from the corner of his eye that the silhouette of what looked like a tall, slender boy lay beside the furs. It must be the woman, Einar realized.

Thorir’s face flashed before him, teeth bared. He attacked Einar with a broken-off leg of a chair, and Einar deflected him. Thorir made a movement to kick Einar in the gut, but Einar evaded him and slammed the handle of his ax into Thorir’s chin instead. Thorir swayed back and staggered, but came at Einar again. Einar roared and swung his ax at Thorir’s head, but the man stepped aside.

The woman moaned, and Einar turned to her, afraid someone else was hurting her, but Thorir used Einar’s distraction to shove him hard in his solar plexus and disappear from the tent.

Einar gasped, pain radiating from his stomach, and sat, choking, waiting until he could breathe again.

The woman stared at him with wide eyes, one side of her head bleeding.

Einar raised his hand as though signaling her to wait. As soon as he could take a breath, he stormed out of the tent, hoping to catch Thorir. His men were chasing Thorir’s men as they ran towards their ships. The wounded and dead lay on the ground around the camp. Most of them were the outlaws. Slaves shook while Solver cut the ropes around their wrists, and some of his men herded sheep towards the camp. Einar ran after the fugitives, but most of those who were still alive had already made it to a ship. There were about twenty of them now, enough to man only one ship out of five. The fight was over, and Einar was victorious, but Thorir had escaped again.

Which meant he would recuperate, probably campaign through the smaller islands, and gather a stronger group.

Based on what Einar had heard, Thorir would not give up.

Neither would Einar.

Spotting Solver, he said, “Can you make sure the slaves know they are free and may come with us to Mainland or find their own way back home? We will take all of the sheep and everything else of value. We should also take the rest of Thorir’s ships, those that are in a good condition, anyway.”

“Good decision, Einar. I regret I missed your fight with Thorir.”

“There was nothing to miss. As you can see, he escaped. There is a witch, however, who is still in the tent. I shall go and see to her.”

Solver’s eyes rounded. “A völva?”

Einar shrugged and walked.

Solver followed him and went into the tent first, probably too curious to wait.

Einar heard a loud thud from within, a moan, and something heavy falling on the ground. Carefully, he entered the tent, and before the leg of the chair found his head, he grabbed the woman and held her around her waist, trapping her arms behind her.

“Let me go!” she yelled. “You’re freaking barbarians, all of you! Let me go! I will not be your slave or Odin’s breakfast!”

“I will not hurt you,” he shouted.

But blood still ran from her wound. And she had probably increased the flow with all her kicking and screaming and struggling, because her voice trailed off, and her body went limp in his hands.

He looked at her from the side. She was pale but beautiful. Her eyelashes were long and thick, her nose straight and delicate, and her lips full and red like a strawberry. She was dressed in the strangest clothes he had ever seen. A short green jacket made of some strange green hide, slim black trousers, and big boots with thick soles. Witch or not, she needed help, and fast. He had to get her back to the village, to the healer they had brought with them.

Solver moaned and sat up, holding his head.

He’d be all right. Einar’s concern now was this woman. He could pass her to one of his men to care for, but something about her—the way she had so fiercely spoken with Thorir, the strangeness of her, the beauty, the fact that she might be a real witch—made him hold on to her. He took the woman in his arms and carried her outside to the ship so that he could stop the bleeding with the small healing kit he had on board.

And try as hard as he could not to study those long eyelashes and that strawberry mouth and those long, sculpted legs.

Chapter Three

Mainland, Orkney, May 8, 880 AD

Holly woke up to a splitting headache. Her mouth was dry, and her whole body burned. She was lying on something soft and was covered with something warm and cozy. Around her were the muffled sounds of people talking, a knife clanking against wood, and soft steps. The scents of earth and stone and home cooking filled her nostrils.

Finally, she opened her heavy eyelids and looked around. The large room was dimly lit. Sunlight trickled in from a hole in the ceiling high above and a single broad door. And oil lamps hung on beams here and there. The walls were made of stones, and the floor was packed dirt covered with scattered reeds.

Holly lay in what seemed to be a bed in an alcove. In the center of the room was a long hearth, around which women and girls were cutting vegetables, kneading dough, and butchering meat.