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Cathy frowned. “Do you mean Brad?”
The woman smiled as if Cathy was a cute but silly child. “It’s not Brad, although Brad is partly him.” She shook her head. “Less talk, more action.”
She unzipped a key pocket on her thigh and produced a strangely large object for the size of the pocket. How had she gotten it in there?
The object glistened in her hands like gold. Well, it was gold.
A spindle.
Its smooth surface was covered with beautiful engravings that Cathy recognized from the Norse mythology that had always interested her.
She looked into the serene wrinkled face of the woman. “Who are you?”
“I am exactly what you are afraid to believe I am. Now, sweetheart, we do not have much time. There is a man who needs you to save him. In return, he will save you.”
The woman held out the spindle to Cathy, and, bewildered, Cathy watched it.
“Hurry,” the woman pressed. “The battle is about to begin, and then it’ll be too late.”
All this sounded too strange even for Cathy, but she couldn’t stop staring at the spindle. Her hand reached out of its own accord. When she touched the spindle, a soft meditative state enveloped her.
The world around her began disappearing—the sky, the coast, the lady. All that was left was the surf splashing and the lady’s voice, “You are going to travel back in time.”
And then, as if it was a wave lifting her up and throwing her down, Cathy plunged into it. The energy washed through her and carried her toward an unknown shore.
And then everything went dark.
CHAPTER TWO
Countisbury Hill Beach, Devon, The Kingdom of Wessex, January 8, 878 AD
“Give up, you fools!” Ubba roared. He stood on Andor’s left, the chains of his rich brynja glistening in the gray light of the windy winter day. Across the pebbled beach from the Viking forces stood the formation of Anglo-Saxons. “We are almost twice as many as you.” Then he added something else in the Saxon tongue, which Andor did not speak.
A man in rich armor among the enemies, Ealdorman Odda, yelled something back which made Ubba guffaw in a gloating way, and he said to his men, “He cannot swear for shit.”
The men chuckled. Smirking, Ubba glanced up, above Andor’s head, to where the wind from the ocean played with the raven banner. If the raven flapped its wings, the battle would be successful. If it did not, the battle would end in defeat. Fridstein held the banner, standing in the first row of the formation, to Andor’s right side.
Andor took in the surroundings. The cliffs rose almost as tall as those in Norway. On top of one cliff stood the Cynwit hillfort and beyond it the path into Wessex.
Under the winter sky, between the Vikings and the Anglo-Saxons, the angry sea sent tall gray waves crashing. To their left, twenty-three ships rocked where they had come in close to shore. They had brought seven hundred men. While the northeastern territories belonged to Norsemen, the western coast of Wessex was almost untouched by the Great Heathen Army and ripe for the taking. King Alfred, that cowardly bastard, was hiding somewhere around here after a devastating defeat. There was no better moment to take Wessex, the last standing Anglo-Saxon kingdom.
“The raven does not flap its wings,” Ubba said, his jaw tense, his nostrils flared.
Andor glanced up. The white triangular banner with an embroidered black raven sagged despite the strong wind. It had a rounded outside edge on which there hung several tabs with runes. Rumor had it, three of Ubba’s sisters, the daughters of legendary Ragnar Lothbrok had made the banner. The three of them were völvas, and they had whispered the magic of Odin into their work.
When Andor had asked Ubba if the rumor was true, Ubba had only shrugged and changed the subject with a mischievous look on his face.
But Ubba believed the banner’s premonitions. And so far, it had never been wrong.
Andor did not think this banner could control the outcome of today’s battle. Though he had no doubt it could undermine the morale of their commander and of the whole horde.
“Ubba, do not think anything of it,” Andor said. “We cannot lose. Not now. We are twice as many as them. The men are ready. Let us take Wessex.”
Ubba nodded and touched Mjölnir, the Thor’s hammer pendant on his neck. He raised his spear, signaling the beginning of the battle.
“Odin, take these dogs as my sacrifice to you!”
The beach filled with the roar of seven hundred men. Andor joined, letting the battle fury kindle in his gut, then spread in his veins like wildfire, burning away the memory of Svana, and the pain of losing her.
