Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife. Michelle Styles

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      ‘Your instinct was true, Vikar.’ Ivar nodded towards where the group of warriors massed in front of Bose the Dark’s hall. ‘This is no friendly welcome. The challenge has been issued and answered.’

      ‘It gives me no pleasure.’ Vikar adjusted his helmet. ‘I see Bose’s standard, but not his sword. It was Gorm, not Bose, who answered. What game is he playing now?’

      ‘It’s his sword there in the centre. Has to be.’ Ivar pointed into the mass of warriors. ‘I’d recognise the gold hilt and silver blade anywhere. A sword of legend, that one. You must have missed it.’

      ‘I see it now.’ Vikar shielded his eyes and saw where Ivar pointed. A slender figure held aloft the sword, a gesture of defiance. Vikar scanned the mass horde. Old men and boys mostly, hardly fit for holding a sword. ‘But there are too few. Where has Bose put the rest? Where is he hiding them, his fabled army of men?’

      ‘You will have to ask Bose.’ Ivar raised his shield. ‘By Thor’s hammer, they are moving downhill. Whoever is leading them is very brave or incredibly reckless.’

      ‘And we will meet them. We will win!’ Vikar started forward, the cries of his men thundering in his ear. Despite the swirling of spears, swords and axes, he kept his eye trained on the leader. Once he had reached him, he would engage him and the battle would be won.

      ‘To me, men. The day is ours!’

      Chapter Two

      The space between Sela’s defenders and the invaders shrank to nothingness in the matter of a few heartbeats. She knew she should have held her men back, but the untried amongst them charged down the slope, eager to join the battle, rather than holding firm. And once a few had gone, the rest followed, giving up the high ground. Sela’s heart sank. Even with the little experience she had, she knew it meant disaster.

      Her father and brother had always maintained that battle was unique. Now out here, facing the enemy, rather than engaging in a mock combat on the practice field, she knew that they were right.

      A sort of wild exhilaration, swiftly followed by sheer terror, hung in the air. She glanced upwards, half-expecting to see Valkyries, Odin’s maidens who gathered the fallen from the battlefields, riding on the sea breeze.

      The opposing forces met with a deafening crash. Sela’s ears buzzed with the dull thump of sword meeting wooden shield, reverberating throughout her body, but she forced her sword to remain high and her shield steady. She had to give the impression of leadership or the day would be truly lost.

      First, and against all her expectations, the household retainers appeared to gain the upper hand. Her fears had been unfounded. She started to mutter a prayer of thanksgiving. Suddenly like the tide, the battle turned. Imperceptibly, but then like a raging flood. Gorm went down, his sword shattering on a shield. From her position on the top of the hill, she saw the outer edges begin to collapse and fold inwards. Her men faltered and fell, held up their shields to defend themselves from the merciless onslaught, but nothing worked.

      Her father’s banner swayed.

      She started forward, clashed swords. The reverberation went through her arm so strongly that she nearly dropped her father’s sword. She planted her feet firmly and struck out again, lifting her shield. She had to make it through, to help defend. She passed one man, lunged towards another. Her foot struck a pebble and she stumbled slightly, her knee hitting the ground. She struggled to right herself, cursing at the unfamiliar weight of the armour. Arms came around and held her, checking her progress. Quickly she tried to push away, to move out of the embrace, but her captor held a sword to her throat. His other arm hauled her back, so that her body was held tightly against his firm chest.

      ‘It is unlike you to leave your left flank unguarded,’ came the low rumble that slid over her like the finest fur. Teasing her senses. A remark made as if they were in Thorkell’s great hall and the dancing was about to begin. ‘I thought you had learnt that particular lesson years ago, Sela, Bose the Dark’s daughter.’

      Sela struggled for a breath. She had not thought to hear that voice again in her lifetime. Or feel his body against hers. She opted for a solemn face as she eyed the gleaming sword.

      ‘A mistake, Vikar Hrutson,’ she said around the lump in her throat. ‘Thank you for pointing it out. It will not happen again.’

      She twisted her body, but the action only drew her more firmly against his solid chest. She hated the flare of warmth that went through her, hated that her body remembered the last time she had encountered his.

      ‘You face total destruction.’ His voice rumbled in her ear. ‘Yield now and some of your men may yet be saved. You have no hope. Do you wish to die on the field of battle, Sela? Do you aspire to become a Valkyrie?’

      Sela attempted to move her head and confront the voice, but the sword pressed more firmly against her throat, forcing her to view the scene of carnage before her. The generally quiet shore teemed with dust, men and swords. And all around, her men tumbled like flies.

      Had her life really come down to this? Leading elderly men and young boys to their death? She had only meant to stand firm, not yield, a show of strength, and instead she presided over a rout. Another mistake to add to her long line of failures.

      She swallowed hard, trying to get some moisture back in her throat. She refused to give in to her fear, give Vikar the satisfaction.

      ‘I had not placed you as a killer of women.’ She stretched her neck higher, away from the sharp blade, and gave a strangled laugh. ‘An indiscriminate lover of women, perhaps, but never a killer.’

      ‘Some might say your attire shows a certain contempt for your status, for your sex.’ The blade relaxed slightly. ‘Are you now going to plead special privileges because you are a woman? The world operates by different rules, Sela.’