Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife. Michelle Styles

      The grey light, which a few steps ago had seemed only a cruel twist of the tunnel, grew brighter. Sela heaved a sigh of relief. She was nearly through the tunnel without incident. Her earlier fears seemed foolish now, but still she would be pleased when she made it through to the woods, when she no longer had to worry.

      She reached the exit and gulped the fresh pine-scented air, a welcome relief after the close stale air of the passageway. She had lost count of the number of spiders’ webs she’d had to brush through, a sure sign that her father and Kjartan had gone a different way.

      But they would be in the hut. They had to be. Sela clenched her fists, refused to give way to panic. They had agreed.

      She dashed across the few open yards and made it to the screen of trees. There she waited to see if the alarm would be raised, but, except for the lone bark of one of the elkhounds, the yard was silent. She thought she saw the shadow of a man, but it vanished so quickly that she decided it was a trick of the light.

      Her knees gave and she sank into the soft moss under the silver birch. A jay scolded her slightly and then flew off lazily into the hazy sky.

      She listened to the sound of her heart beating and fingered Kjartan’s wooden horse.

      Safety of a sort. After her breath had returned, she’d be away. And would not return except to free her people from Vikar. First her son, then her people. Somehow. Some way. She would prevail.

      ‘This is not the end, Vikar. This is only the beginning. I will regain everything. Everything!’

      Sela raised her fist in the air and shook it towards the hall. Useless bravado she knew, but the little gesture of defiance made her feel better.

      Her hair fell forward and she pushed it back behind her ears, pressed her fingertips into her eyes, concentrated on remembering the landmarks and their correct order.

      In many ways, escaping from the hall was the easy part. Now she had to find her son. The thing she wanted most in the world was to scoop up Kjartan, hold him tight and never let him go.

      She took a deep breath and plunged into the wood, picking her way along the faint track and keeping her eyes peeled for the faint signs her father had left to show the way—a cut in the bark here, a pile of stones there. To keep her spirits up, she hummed one of Kjartan’s favourite songs, a great rollicking one about a brave warrior.

      Twice she lost her way and the track vanished into a pond or off a cliff, and she had to retrace her steps, going ever deeper into the woods. She kept one hand clasped around the dagger at all times.

      A noise caused the hairs on the back of Sela’s neck to prickle. She stiffened and tightened her grasp of the hilt.

      An animal? Bear? Wolf, or worse—one of the berserkers who had lost their minds and become more bear than human?

      She half-turned, caught a flash of dark blue cloth. The energy drained from her body. So close and yet she had achieved nothing. She could throw herself down on the soft moss and weep.

      ‘You have had your amusement,’ she said, carefully enunciating her words so there could be no mistaking them. She put her hands on her hips and stared at the place she was certain he had concealed himself. ‘I wonder that you let me get this far. When did you plan to let me know that my attempt was pitiful?’

      ‘Your escape showed faint glimmers of ingenuity, Sela, I will give you that, but they have faded. Will you never learn about concealment?’