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Mystical Viking by Heide Katros

Published December 2011

 

When Britta Viborgh gets her first look at the carnage that had once been her village, one warrior stands out among the rubble. She knows he is responsible for the massacre and swears that she will hunt him down and avenge her clan.

Ulf Sorensen is sick at heart. His second sight has let him down and brought him too late to help his friend. The last and only honor he can bestow upon Swen Viborgh and his clan is to send them in a cloud of smoke to Valhalla. While he waits for the pyre to catch flame, he is assailed by the eerie feeling of being watched. He shakes the sensation off and rides away with his men.

But Britta and Ulf are destined to meet again, and Britta finds herself at the mercy of her sworn enemy.

Excerpt:

The rocky path opened to a moss covered glen, where the silvery ribbon of a stream gurgled over flat stones. In some places it was deep enough to bathe. Ulf headed straight for one of these holes, since he knew that trout liked to seek them out as well.

His eyes scanned the running water. It wasn’t long before he spied a fat trout. He drew back his arm, hefting the spear in preparation for the kill. But a strange force stopped him in mid-arc. He blinked as the prickle of premonition skittered along his spine. He shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs he was sure had invaded his thoughts. It was with some reluctance and the knowledge he couldn’t stop if he tried that he gave himself up to the vision unfolding before him.

The trout had turned into a she-wolf, whose yellow eyes seemed to stare right into his soul. It chased a shiver of foreboding through him. The wolf appeared at ease, nothing at all like a killer beast. Ulf hunkered down on his haunches, his spear gripped tightly in his fist. His gaze did not waver as he waited avidly for the vision to show him the reason why it sought him out.

A slight breeze ruffled the surface of the water and the picture changed once again. He gasped. Instead of the animal’s face he was shown the image of a beautiful young woman with long hair that shone like gold. Her eyes appeared to be a clear dark blue like the May flowers that grew wild during Springtime.  She looked sad, lost. And it tore at Ulf’s heart.

Her mouth opened to tell him something. Ulf dropped his spear and leaned nearer, convinced she would tell him why she had been conjured before his eyes. Instead, the vision changed abruptly back to the she-wolf. The animal snarled at him and Ulf jumped back, stunned by the unexpected turn of events.

Sweat broke out on his brow, and yet chill bumps crawled along the flesh of his arms. He frowned. What has just happened? Why had the she-wolf turned from docile to feral? Had the face of the maiden been the one he was seeking? Had the Norns, the three sisters that decided the fate of all mortals, shown him a path? Ulf stood transfixed on the bank of the stream, his heart hammering in his chest. He stared into the water, hoping that the vision would return, hoping to glean something more. But nothing came.