angle for her shot. ‘Surrender, Dane.’
‘I am no Dane, but a Northman!’
Ansithe wet her lips and started to count to ten. The action steadied her. ‘Whoever you are, you have no choice.’
‘I beg to differ. There is always a choice.’ The warrior heaved the skep away from him and towards her. Ansithe jumped to one side. It landed with a thump and rolled harmlessly away, but he dodged the arrow she loosened.
She frantically snatched another arrow out of her quiver and set it to the bow. Five arrows remained from the originally twenty.
‘You missed,’ Ansithe said, fixing her gaze on the final skep balanced on the rafter just over him. She breathed easier. She had a better target than his throat. ‘Do not make me angry.’
‘Should I fear your anger?’
‘Yes.’ Ansithe restarted her counting and tried to steady her arm. She had one chance to get the ransom money she required and this warrior was not going to take it from her. ‘Surrender and I will endeavour to keep you and your companions alive.’
‘I’ve heard that lie before.’
‘The truth.’
Moir rubbed an arm across his eyes, clearing the bees and the honey from his sight. The bee stings were sheer agony, far worse in ways than a sword cut. He groaned. His throw of the skep had fallen far short of his intended target. And his charges remained in danger. A lone woman with dark auburn hair faced him, seemingly oblivious to the angry bees flying around, with a quivering arrow notched in her bow. The air seemed tinged with magic and enchantment. Could she truly bend bees to her will?
Moir squinted in the gloom. His adversary wore some sort of netting over her face, obscuring her features and making his shot difficult. No witchcraft, but foresight. She was a formidable, if an unconventional, foe, but human.
Someone else would have plotted this plan of attack. Some man must have tracked their movements. Saxon, particularly Mercian, women were unskilled in the arts of war. The back of his neck tensed. Had Guthmann Bloodaxe, a leading Danish jaarl and his sworn enemy, discovered him? He dismissed the notion as pure fancy.
‘Where are your warriors? I will speak with them. Arrange terms,’ he offered.
She gave a contemptuous wave of her hand. ‘I have no need of warriors. See, I conquered your comrades.’
His fingers inched towards where his dagger lay concealed in his boot. He hated harming a woman, but she’d left him no choice. His duty was to keep Bjartr alive and return him to his father. If there were no warriors here, then he could still win.
‘Don’t make me kill you. Remain alive.’
He inwardly smiled. This would-be Valkyrie didn’t have the stomach for killing. Her bravado was smoke and mirrors like the soothsayer had used back when he was a young boy. He breathed easier.
He palmed the dagger, and took a step forward, towards her. He could end this fight and provide Bjartr with a victory. Then they could return to the camp and he could finally gain his promised lands. All he had to do was reach the Valkyrie, wrestle that bow from her hands, then...
An arrow whizzed past his left ear, so close it ruffled his hair and landed with a thud in the back wall, knocking another bee skep to the floor which rolled to come to rest against his shin.
‘Ha—you missed.’ He gave the skep a contemptuous kick.
‘I beg to differ. I would keep still and drop that knife if I were you.’
Bees crawled up his legs, getting into his boots and the bare skin under his trousers. Several landed on his wrist, stinging him fiercely, making it difficult to hang on to the dagger. He tossed the knife, but it landed to the right of the Valkyrie.
‘Quite an amusing game we are playing, isn’t it?’ she remarked. ‘My turn again? Or are you willing to accept defeat?’
A bitter laugh escaped his throat. The Valkyrie was a better shot than he had imagined. And her planning had been exceptional. She’d known precisely where the arrow would land. A worthy foe indeed.
She jerked her head towards a bulky shape on the ground. ‘You don’t want to end up like that one. Do you still consider I need warriors to hide behind?’
A corpse with an arrow protruding from its throat lay on the floor a few feet from him. Moir whispered a prayer to the gods that it was not Bjartr. He’d given his oath to Bjartr’s father to protect him and, unlike Moir’s father, Moir kept such oaths. ‘You have convinced me. A woman like you has no need of warriors to guide her hand.’
‘Sense from a heathen. Will wonders never cease?’ She muttered something else, something he failed to catch.
‘Who?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper towards the jumble of bodies when the silence except for the buzzing of the bees became oppressive. ‘Who died? Can anyone tell me?’
Bjartr called out the man’s name from where he lay somewhere to Moir’s right. Moir breathed easier. Bjartr remained alive. He could still keep his promise to Andvarr.
The dead man was the one who had consistently undermined Moir’s counsel and had encouraged Bjartr in his more reckless acts, the one who had called Moir a coward earlier.
‘Drop all your remaining weapons.’ The Valkyrie’s ice-cold voice echoed around the hall. ‘You have more. I can see them.’
Moir pulled his eating knife from his belt and dropped it to the floor. ‘Will you kill us in cold blood? You have already captured all of us.’
‘You have surrendered. That is possibly enough for now.’ She nodded.
At her signal, someone brought in a smouldering torch. The light cast shadows over the tapestries which lined the walls.
He groaned. They were surrounded by a group of women, old men and young boys armed with swords, sticks and bows, not warriors. They all wore some sort of netting or thin cloth over their faces. One of the boys gathered up the discarded weapons. The torch was tossed on the fire, creating a thick smoke to subdue the bees.
He sank to the ground and tried to plan a way to escape. He might have surrendered for now, but not for ever. He would return his jaarl’s only son safe and sound. In doing so, he would finally erase the stain from his family’s name and regain the honour his father had casually thrown away.
‘You are our prisoners,’ the woman with the auburn hair said and her voice echoed ominously above the buzzing. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them, ready for binding. Unless you would prefer an early date of reckoning with your heathen gods like your friend here.’ She gestured to a couple of the boys, who came towards them with lengths of rope.
Moir and the others did as she asked.
‘Who is the leader here?’ she called out. ‘I will parley with him and him alone.’
‘I... I...’ Bjartr’s face was streaked with tears. He cradled his arm as if it were broken. He made no move to resist the ropes which were being placed around his wrists. ‘Moir Mimirson speaks for us, Lady Valkyrie.’
‘Do
