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Varrik was sitting in the pit, alone and forlorn. He knew a secret, but it did him no good. As yet, the gods had not answered his prayers, despite having made many more promises and vows to them. He had begged them to save his Scottish shield-maiden despite the fact that she did not have Viking blood within her. However, he had never known anyone to embody the virtues of a Viking as much as she had before. She was brave and fearless, there was fire in her heart and eyes, and she was never the kind to shirk a battle. If anyone deserved the mercy of the gods, it was her, but as yet, they remained silent.

In the meantime, Varrik examined his surroundings to see if there was anything he could use to plan his escape. He burrowed and dug to see if there was a way through the pit. He jumped up and tried to break free of the wooden lattice, but it only served to make him tired.

The clouds gathered overhead, as black as the night. It wasn’t long before rain began to slash down. It bit against his skin and made his surroundings muddy. He groaned, and he felt as though the gods were mocking him. Perhaps it had been arrogant of him to assume that they would grant him this request when he had not honored them properly. The sins of his past outweighed the glory, and he badly wished that he could have gone back and changed things. He wanted to visit his younger self and warn him that what he was doing would only bring him shame and that one day he would live to regret it.

He looked up and let the rain wash over his face. It was cool and peppered against his lips. Sometimes there was nothing to do but yield to the storm. Then there was a flash, and moments later, there was a rumble of thunder.

Varrik stood in awe at the writhing mass of energy that was this storm, as though it was alive. The world shook under the threat of its power, and then another crackling bolt of lightning came down as if it had been thrown, striking one of the ropes that held the wood together. Amid the thunder, more lighting crashed. Varrik instinctively bowed and shielded his head, even though it wouldn’t have done any good if a lightning bolt found him.

Then a bolt hit the wood and formed an opening. In the dim light, he could see the fractured points were charred and blackened, but it gave him an opening. A loose piece of rope dangled down. He used this to hoist himself up, climbing the sloppy, wet side of the pit. Mud ran around his boots and his clothes. The rain continued to pour down his face as the lightning came down, again and again, weakening the defenses of the pit, striking the ropes that bound the lattice to the poles. When Varrik reached close to the surface, he took hold of the wood and pulled himself up. He could feel it cracking underneath his weight. With a roar, he lifted his entire body out and then stood upon it with outstretched arms, letting the gods know he appreciated their help.

He quickly scurried away from the pit and waited in the darkness. As the storm raged, it wasn’t long before someone came along to check on him—one of Laird Fletcher’s men who was no doubt part of the plot to attack the Callan clan. Varrik snarled like a wolf as the man peered into the pit, attempting to see if the prisoner was still alive. The storm still raged, and the thunder helped to shroud Varrik’s movements. He crept up behind the man and wrapped his arms around him, dragging him away. The man struggled, but he was no match for Varrik’s strength. Varrik hauled him away, relieving the man of his dagger. He shoved it against the man’s stomach, not yet ready to pierce the flesh.

“You are going to come with me and tell Laird Callan of your plan to attack him,” Varrik said.

“I dinnae know what ye are talking about!” the man said.

Varrik pressed the dagger more sharply against the man’s body.

“You’re going to tell the truth. We’re going to march back in there, and you’re going to tell them everything.” Varrik snarled under his breath. “I already know that you’re going to attack the day of the wedding. I can’t allow this to happen.”

A strange noise emanated from the man, and it took a few moments for Varrik to recognize it as laughter.

“Dae ye really think I’m gaeing tae dae yer bidding? Dae ye really think I’m gaeing tae gae against my clan? I took a vow tae live and die for my kin. Unlike ye, Highlanders know something of honor,” the guard spat. “I’m nae giving up my clan. Ye clearly know nothing of our ways.”

“Then I have no use for you,” Varrik said.

He drew the dagger across the man’s throat and felt the warm flow of blood gush out of him like a dark river. The body slumped to the ground, and Varrik stared at it, trying to think about what to do next. The men of the Fletcher clan seemed resolute. His only chance was to get to the one person who would believe him and the one person who might be able to sway Laird Callan. He had to go and find Fiona.

But he also knew that once the storm abated, people would be looking for him.

He looked down at the dead man. They were of a similar size. It was a gruesome, grisly thing to do, but Varrik did not have the time to be fussy. In the secluded area of the forest, he got undressed and exchanged clothes with the man. At least the new clothes he wore were not as sodden with mud. The boots were a tight fit, but he would adjust to them.

But then came the hard part: anyone who found this man would know that it wasn’t Varrik. To protect his identity, Varrik had to do something about the head. He looked around and saw a loose boulder. He dragged the body under the rock and then pried it off its ledge. The boulder groaned as it slowly came forward and then fell onto the head of the man, crushing it to a pulp. There Varrik left him, arms splayed out, lost to the world. If anyone came along, they would surely think that he had sought shelter under the boulder and suffered an ignoble death, but it would buy Varrik some precious time to help his beloved.

Without delay, he ventured back into the village, slipping between the shadows to ensure that he remained hidden.

Fiona had spent all day training. Her muscles were sore, but she wasn’t ready to leave the training field yet. It was the one place in all the world where she could be confident that she was in control, where she could be the master of her own destiny. Out here, her fate was determined by her skill, not her chaos, and at this point, she was alone. Her father and Elsie had both already been out there to warn her against the storm, but she had been adamant that she would be alright. She stood in the shelter of the small hut where they kept the armor and weapon racks, watching the lightning flash across the sky. It was a wondrous sight. She closed her eyes when the thunder rumbled and almost wished that the storm would whisk her away to a different land where she did not have to worry about being someone’s wife.

She had tossed and turned plans in her mind, trying to think of a way she could free Varrik. But she knew that if she did free him, suspicion would land upon his Vikings, and Varrik wanted his Vikings to be safe. Even if she confessed to setting him free, she was sure either Lotta or Laird Fletcher would find a way to twist things to suit their agendas. There was something about Laird Fletcher and his son that she didn’t like, although she wasn’t sure what it was. She needed more time, but time was quickly running out on her.

She was distracted by a particularly powerful burst of lightning, which was so bright it illuminated the rain, casting everything in a bright, glowing light. She gazed in awe as her lips parted, but just as they did so, she felt something sharp pressing against her stomach and a low voice growling in her ear. She gasped at first, but then instead of being scared, a smile played upon her face, for she knew exactly who was abducting her.