Reviews:

"Four Angels! This was just a marvelous story to read. Talon was described so well and he appeared so sexy. I could not put it down. The scenery; the descriptions were so wonderful in detail. I loved the names; I have brothers named Leif and Olaf. The relationship between the two was hot and steamy. I was just really impressed. Look forward to another written by Ms. Katros." Fallen Angel Reviews

"VIKING RAIDER is a book not to be missed. Heide Katros weaves an unforgettable tale, bringing vividly to life the majestic warriors of long ago. Talon, a complicated man with a tender heart, is fierce in battle -- even a battle of wills. Danielle is a heroine who is neither faint of heart nor harsh. She is free-spirited and independent, and she makes a remarkable transformation from a young woman calmly accepting her fate to a woman who decides her own destiny. Danielle and Talon fight to maintain their own identities as they discover the love neither expected to find. The secondary characters add a touch of humor and depth to this tale. For an exciting read, don’t miss VIKING RAIDER by Heide Katros." Edith Morrison, Romance Reviews Today

"Viking Raider is an amazing story. The author's vivid description, engaging plot and fluid writing style make this story come to life. Thanks to Vikings always spoiling for a fight, there's plenty of action and adventure to thrill. At first, Talon seems to be nothing more than a violent brute, but is actually quite tender and caring."

"Danielle is spunky from the start and just gets spunkier as the story progresses. The ending is a pleasant surprise. This is a wonderful book you don't want to miss." 5 Flames, Renee, Sizzling Romances

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Hedeby, Scandinavia 845

Talon Herjolfson raised powerful arms, their bulging biceps encircled with costly silver bands, toward the heavens. "May the great all-knowing Odin grant us his blessing!" he roared from the bow of his warship Raider. "May he give us strength to distinguish ourselves on the battlefields, so when we die we may enter Valhalla in glory." Icy, aquamarine eyes briefly connected with each warrior.

"Valhalla and glory!" his men shouted in unison, their sentiment echoed by Ragnor Lodbrok’s crew, who watched spellbound from the sister ship Seadragon.

Talon waited until the warriors quieted. A wry smile tugged at the corners of his generous mouth. The fervor of both crews pleased him, but he intended to push their spirit to fever pitch. Closing his eyes, he threw back his massive head with its thick white-blond mane. The cords in his strong, sun-tanned neck bulged against the strain. Taking a deep breath, he let loose a blood-curdling war cry. Before the last note was carried away by the soughing winds, the rest of the men echoed his whoop, creating an eerie howl that rivaled the caw of the gulls overhead. Talon paused again until the din died down.

"Two days hence, as we travel ever southwest, we will go ashore in the lands of the Franks!" he shouted. "We have it on good authority that the people there are rich ... richer even than the English monks." A note of disdain crept into his booming voice. "It seems only fair that the Franks should surrender a portion of their wealth. If they refuse, we will fight for that which should be ours!" His gauntleted fist slashed through the air accompanied by a roar of approval from the warriors. "We’ll take no prisoners and we won’t leave anything of value behind. What we can't take with us, we will burn ... If you find a likely wench, take her quickly, then slit her throat." He glowered down at his crew, his massive arms akimbo and his muscular legs braced slightly apart for balance. "Let the world know that we are Vikings, warriors of the sea, and we are not to be trifled with! In time they will learn to pay homage to us and give us our due without a fight." This time the howl of appreciation from the men was deafening. Talon’s eyes narrowed to hide his satisfaction. The crews were ready. Raising his gauntleted hand, he brought it down in one fell swoop, the signal to slip the mooring.

As one twenty elite warriors leaned into their oars and the craft pulled steadily away from the dock. Once they reached the open sea, they would unfurl their solitary sail and allow the wind to catch it. Craftily mounted precisely in the middle of the ship, this single sail gave them the unique ability to travel in either direction without turning around.

On shore a large crowd of well-wishers watched in silence as the two vessels eerily silhouetted against the blood red backdrop of the setting sun sliced swiftly through the undulating waves. A raucous cheer went up when Talon's black sail adorned with a lone silver gauntlet caught the breeze alongside Ragnor's red sea dragon in a field of white. A few seagulls accompanied the two crafts; their short shrill whoops sounding as if they too were caught up in the excitement of the moment.

Only when the ships were but small specks against the darkening horizon did the crowd disburse. As they headed for their homes they were immersed in their own thoughts and fears. The warriors would be gone less than a fortnight, but since they would engage in battle, the women who stayed behind never knew whether they would still be wife or widow when the ships returned.

The second night brought the Vikings within sight of the coast of what would some day be called Normandy. Talon stood at the bow of the Raider, his keen eyes skimming the barely discernible outline of the shore against the background of the dawning horizon. They would make land before the sun was fully up. Grimly, he recalled other raids, when they had surprised their targets in the wee hours of the morning. He remembered the fear his horde of howling warriors inspired when they came charging into the towns ere the sun was up rather than attack at a later hour.

Talon chuckled at the thought of how the French would try to flee before his heavily armed men and how little chance they had of escape. A white-toothed grin split his handsome, sun-kissed features as he signaled to his second in command. Asgard came quickly to stand next to his friend and strained to identify what Talon was pointing out to him.

"It won't be long before we will have to cease all talk and the men will have to ply the oars to the rhythm of silent cadence."

"When do you want to lower the sail?" Asgard inquired anxiously, his own eyes fixed on the ship up ahead. Now that battle was imminent, the tension aboard had grown tangible as each warrior contemplated how he might distinguish himself this very day.

"I will raise my arm as soon as I see the Seadragon lower her sail. Go among the ranks and tell the men again that once I lift my arm, I expect complete silence. Only with the added advantage of surprise will we meet with the least amount of resistance."

Asgard's brow lifted slightly in question. "The men will be disappointed. They are looking forward to a good fight."

"Never fear, my friend, the French are a hot-blooded lot." Talon chuckled in wry amusement. "They will not meekly hand over their possessions like the English monks."

He saw it then. The Seadragon started to lower her sail and Talon raised his arm to follow suit with the Raider. "Tell the men that they will need to give their full attention to the oars," he cautioned. "The river Seine is said to have as many curves as a well shaped woman."

Asgard laughed into his beard at Talon's crude comparison and slapped him resoundingly on the shoulder. They were tall, rugged men and almost of an equal height, both standing above six feet. Where Asgard had a bushy beard and thick mustache, Talon was clean-shaven by choice. A choice that often garnered him vulgar jokes about the supposed lack of his manhood.

There never was any doubt about his sexual prowess, since the women back home made no secret over their feelings for him. His bed was never cold at night and he had plenty of options. Indeed, even his strongest detractors would not deny him his handsome looks.

Talon's square jaw sported several small battle scars that added to his mystique. He rarely smiled, but when he did, his wide, finely sculptured mouth would reveal even white teeth. His nose was strong and set amid high, flat cheekbones. Thickly lashed, wide-set aquamarine eyes, that crinkled in the corners from the steady squinting against the sun, and the straight slash of darkly golden brows redeemed his otherwise forbidding demeanor.

His friends, as well as his crew, merely teased him about his clean-shaven features, because it was as good a reason as any to provoke a rousing fight. When Talon had enough of their jibes, he would take their good-natured bait and either challenge them to hand to hand combat or a sword fight, which was exactly what they tried to arouse with their unfounded criticism. However, his gauntleted hand was never mentioned or made fun of. And no one was more aware of the deformity the glove hid than Talon himself.

Talon rarely thought of his given name anymore. The name Gundar had fallen by the wayside, when an accident at the smithy reduced his left hand to an ugly claw at the tender age of ten. At the time his disfigurement loomed like a pall overshadowing his future, but nothing was more painful than his sire’s rejection.

"I want no cripple for a son," Holgar Herjolfson proclaimed, when he was told of the accident. His father never found it in his heart to retract his harsh words. Not even after Talon distinguished himself in battle time and again, fighting with a vengeance to prove himself as worthy as any man with two good hands.

When the Viking ships finally crunched to a jarring halt in a sandy cove just North of the city of Rouen, the sun was still struggling to top the horizon. The sails had been furled several leagues from shore as the warriors rowed the rest of the way. It was cool. Dew sparkled on the leaves of the shrubs and trees that dotted the shoreline, but the beauty was lost to the invaders who only cared about concealment.

Not a word was spoken as the men quickly unfastened their shields from the gunwales and checked their weapons. Their battle axes at the ready, broad swords hanging from heavy belts hugging their hips and wicked wide-bladed knives tucked in the cross garters of their fur boots, they looked a deadly lot. Talon allowed his gaze to drift over each warrior before he nodded with grim satisfaction.

As his eyes locked with Asgard’s, he quirked an amused brow at his friend. "You look like a denizen straight from Hades," he quipped in a hoarse whisper. "Your hair stands away from your head in salt encrusted spikes and your clothes didn't fare much better." His shoulders shook in silent mirth when Asgard rewarded him with a baleful glare.

"And you look just as lovely as a maid on a spring day?" Asgard jeered. "You should take a gander at yourself in that river yonder. You look like old Loki himself. Your hair is frosted with salt and your wolf's skin seems to stick to you as if you had grown it on your own hairless hide."

At mention of his hairless chest, Talon's hackles rose and he stepped closer to his friend, glowering, his wide shoulders hunched in preparation of a scuffle.

"Hey, you two fighting cocks," intervened Ragnor. "Save your strength for the real enemy. The French will try to defend what’s theirs."

A muted roar of approval from the rest of the men did more to quell their urge to fight one another than Ragnor's warning. They stepped apart, rueful grins replacing their scowls.

The eagerness of the assembled warriors to attack showed plainly on their rugged faces. Adrenaline coursed through their veins and added to their brute strength as they chafed in their tracks anticipating Talon’s signal.

With Ragnor and Talon in their lead, they hacked their way through the dense brush and silently marched toward the city of Rouen, where the citizen were just getting ready to face another day. Many of them would never see another.

As the warriors approached the town, a collective murmur of satisfaction passed through the ranks. The gates were already thrown wide. Several farmers had left before daybreak to till the land, never guessing that they would be among the few lucky ones who would live to tell of the Viking attack.

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