Taken by the Viking. Michelle Styles

before been this far gone in the madness of the berserker.

      ‘Bjorn, it is I, Haakon, your Jaarl. Stay true to your oath. Come back to me.’

      Something appeared in Bjorn’s eyes. He checked the movement of his axe. Haakon gave an encouraging nod, beckoning him forward. He had done it.

      Bjorn’s eyes became fixated on Haakon’s sword, blazing with an unholy light. Madness descended again as he licked his lips.

      Bjorn lifted his axe. Haakon dodged to the right, raising his shield to meet the axe. He felt the reverberation go up his arm. Bjorn drew back and tried again.

      ‘I am your shipmate, Bjorn.’ Haakon held out his hands and kept his voice soft, like a woman crooning to her baby. ‘We swore an oath on Thor and Odin. Our blood mingled. You are a member of the felag.’

      But the berserker gave no sign. The scent of blood had driven him into a red fury. And the only thing he understood was killing. A great roar emerged from the depths of his being.

      Haakon raised his shield again and heard it crack as Bjorn hit it with his axe.

      Annis watched the barbarian warrior fight the other. His sword clashed with the axe several times. It made no sense that they should fight, but it was distracting the beast-man.

      ‘Run, Mildreth, run now. The pigsty! I will meet you there!’

      The maid needed no second urging. She darted behind the warrior. Mildreth’s feet clipped his and he stumbled slightly. His shield crashed to the floor and his sword slipped from his grasp. He lay there, defenceless.

      Annis knew she, too, should run, but her legs refused to move. She had to go. This was her best chance to escape. She should go now, but still the barbarian warrior lay there.

      This warrior had saved Mildreth’s life and probably hers. Now he was in mortal danger. And once he was dead, the beast-man would come after her.

      The beast-man advanced towards where the warrior lay on the ground, breathing heavily. He stopped and gazed at the man. A slow smile spread over his face as his tongue licked his lips.

      Annis forgot to breathe.

      The beast-man’s skins gaped open at the base of his throat as he lifted his axe for the final blow.

      Chapter Two

      Annis hurtled herself forward from her hiding place, her dagger curving upwards. She had this one chance, this one opening.

      She had to do it.

      The beast-man turned slightly at her approach. The knife slid easily into his throat. Blood spurted from his mouth as a look of surprise engulfed him. Her hand jolted from the impact and she felt her fingers slip from the knife.

      Annis landed on the hard body of the fallen warrior. Instantly, she felt his arms go around and pull her body under his in one swift motion. Protecting her. A muttered curse was whispered in her ear as she struggled to breathe.

      A great crash resounded in her ears as the beast-man toppled to the floor, narrowly missing them both.

      As Annis lay there underneath the warrior, she noticed the tiny stone against her back and the long, hard length of him, their breath intermingling. She could see the dark stubble on his chin and the brilliance of his blue eyes. Everything in a heartbeat. Then the rush of air as he stood up.

      A warm hand engulfed hers, pulling her to her feet. His blue eyes held a look of concern. Annis stood there, hanging on to the hand as she gazed at the fallen figure with blood silently pooling beneath him.

      Her aim had been true!

      She turned her head into the warrior’s chain-mailed chest and rested it there, drawing strength from him. His strong arm encircled her. Distantly she could hear the roar of battle and crackle of fire, but closer she heard the thump of his heart. Gradually what she had done sank in.

      She had killed. The beast-man was dead, dead by her hand!

      Annis pushed against the warrior’s chest and immediately his hands loosened. She staggered a few steps and sank down on an upturned bucket, trying to regain control of her body as shudders went through her.

      The smoke-filled air stung her eyes and throat. She should go now, flee and try to get across the causeway, but when she stood, her legs refused to move. If she took another step, she’d sink to her knees.

      ‘I was sick after my first time.’ A low rumble of a voice filled the room. It was a comforting sort of noise, and flowed over her like fine linen.

      Annis glanced over her shoulder at the warrior. Had he spoken? Surely she was hearing things. Such a man would not speak Latin. Heathen raiders such as he did not speak the language of the church. She had to be hearing things. Was that what killing people did? Made you hear voices in your mind? She put her hands to her ears and shook her head to clear it.

      The warrior took off his helmet and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead. He was tall, powerfully built with broad shoulders. He ran a hand over the dark stubble on his face.

      Annis started. The man she’d saved was the pagan warlord she had seen earlier, the one who had quarrelled with her uncle, the one who was responsible for the attack. She wanted to put her face in her hands and weep. She had saved her uncle’s destroyer. If she had realised, she would have fled as Mildreth had done. She regarded her hands, wondering what he would do now, what he was capable of.

      ‘You saved my life,’ he said in Latin with only the faintest trace of an accent—not unpleasant, just different. ‘I, Haakon Haroldson, Jaarl of Viken, am in your debt.’

      Annis blinked. She had not heard wrong. This raider spoke Latin as well as, if not better than, a Northumbrian noble.

      ‘Is he dead?’ she asked in Latin. Annis stared at the prone figure.

      ‘I fear so.’ Something like sorrow crossed his face. He bent down and turned the beast-man face up, muttered something and then closed the beast-man’s unseeing eyes. ‘Bjorn was a fierce fighter. We shall miss him. Great will be the celebrations in Valhalla tonight.’

      ‘He tried to kill you. And you regret his death.’ Annis stared incredulously at the warrior. ‘How can that be?’

      Haakon regarded the woman in front of him. Her dark hair flowed down her back. She was dressed in a simple dark green gown without ornaments, none of the jewellery so beloved of his stepmother or Queen Asa and the ladies of the Viken court. Her sea-green eyes were wide and he could see the trembling starting to set in. This woman had never killed before.

      Was she real or one of the Valkyries—the warrior women who scavenged the battlefield for fighters worthy of Valhalla?

      ‘He was a great warrior, a berserker.’ Haakon looked at Bjorn’s trusty axe.

      How many times had he killed? How many men’s lives had he saved with the unhesitating strokes of his axe?

      It was unthinkable Bjorn should behave like this, to end his life by breaking his oath and deliberately attacking a member of the felag, his sworn leader. Haakon shook his head. No, Bjorn had to have been too far gone in his blood-lust. He had no idea of what he had attempted to do.

      ‘A berserker?’

      ‘He lived for fighting.’ Haakon attempted to think of the Latin words to describe Bjorn, but decided there were none. ‘He was a great warrior.’

      She nodded, but her expression remained unconvinced.

      Haakon regarded the fallen man. There were many among the fellowship who would seek to kill her for what she had done, demand her blood in retribution for killing a warrior such as Bjorn. He followed the warriors’ code but her actions had saved his life. This was by far the bigger debt.

      ‘You are under my protection, Valkyrie.’ Haakon rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Tell me what happened here. What did you do to provoke Bjorn?’

      She