To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (9 page)

Savage force thrummed his body. In a split second, he ducked low. Grabbing Sestra’s cloak, he sprang up and threw it at the tall one’s head.

“Wha—” the warrior sputtered.

Brandr drove his knife into the man’s belly and turned the blade inside unwilling flesh. The drinking pouches bunched around the elk bone handle as wetness bloomed like spilled ink on wool.

Grey Beard knocked the cloak away, a snarl twisting his lips. Eyes bulging, his face was a hands breath from Brandr’s. The warrior’s fast, coppery breaths blasted Brandr. The man’s head shook as he gaped at the knife pinning the cloak to his body.

Brandr yanked the knife free, the familiar metallic taste of battle his tongue.

Grey Beard snapped out of his shock and roared a battle cry, “
Ahhhh
!” He swung his hammer.

The iron arced wide at Brandr. He dropped low, and air whooshed over his head. Coming up fast, he jammed the blade into the man’s belly again. And again. And again.

Kill or be killed. The words blasted in his head.

Blood and spittle bubbled from Grey Beard’s lips. Life blurred in thin slices of act, react.

Air shot in and out of Brandr’s lungs, each breath sharp and hard.
Jormungand
lay on the ground, a silver streak in green grass. The stout warrior dove and grabbed the treasure, his other hand clamped around Sestra’s wrist. She fought hard, her nails scratching his face.

Sestra.
Her screams rang in the clearing as the stout one dragged her away, but the tall Viking was still standing.

“You!” Teeth bared, the older warrior wobbled. Arm shaking, he swung the hammer sideways.

Brandr leaped back. Too late. A metal corner knocked his mid-section.

“
Ooomph
.” He buckled at the waist, his hand hovering over white-hot agony bursting inside him, the cost of his hesitation on Sestra.

Momentum swept the war hammer wide. The warrior’s gut was unprotected. The man’s poor aim would cost him. Chest heaving, unnatural calm filled Brandr. Time slowed, a gift to get his bearings and kill these men one at a time. Saltiness dripped into the corner of his mouth, his body reminding him he was alive.

The older Viking stared at spots of blood on his belly. He staggered, as sweat streamed into his beard. The hammer wavered in his grip. Brandr picked up
Jormungand
and finished the grizzled warrior with a final death thrust to his gut.

Sestra?

Battle-born frenzy thrummed inside him, but his limbs froze at the sight of the stout one holding Sestra.

The man held a knife to her throat across the clearing, three red claw lines on his jowl. Calm, ugly plans formed, plans for the man’s slow, agonizing death.

The stout one jammed the heavy bag at Sestra. “Put your hand through the strap.”

With one jittery hand, she tried to obey. Wet locks hung over her eyes from vapor clouding Sestra and her captor. Her skirts shook, she trembled so badly. The warrior clutched her forearm, and the leather bag banged her legs, the treasure jangling as the man forced her hand through the loops.

Brandr stalked his prey on careful feet, his sword swiveling in his grip. “What kind of warrior hides behind a woman?”

“A smart one.” Fat lips peeled back into a cruel smile. “Lay down your sword.”

“What’s your plan? Run?”

“With the woman and the hoard.” His beefy arm shackled Sestra’s waist. “Once I’m in my boat, you might get her back.” He chuckled coldly. “Or not.”

Sestra cried out, which fed the stout one’s glee.

Brandr grit his teeth. “Better to stand and fight. Run from me and you’ll die a tired man.”

“Not if I have your weapons.” The warrior shuffled backward. He wrenched Sestra, his knife pointing above her collarbone. The tip nicked skin near her life vein.

“Brandr!”

“Quiet.” The man jerked her at the waist before jutting his chin at Brandr. “The sword. Drop it.”

A bright red drop beaded on the knife at Sestra’s neck. The sanguine drop slid the iron and dripped over the Viking’s knuckles.

“
Don’t
hurt her,” he ground out.

Mist touched Brandr’s face. The waterfall pounded.
Jormungand
’s leather-wrapped grip, the iron guard touching his thumb and forefinger warmed him.

Wetness trickled off the man’s bald pate. “If you don’t want her cut, drop the sword.”

A strange push-pull nagged him. He’d never yielded for a woman. Never. Sestra’s whimpers wrenched him. Animal need demanded her safety. To protect her at all costs. None would lament this man’s death, but Sestra…

He tensed from head to toe. Yielding
Jormungand
was a hefty price. One he was more than willing to pay. Nodding, he lowered the sword to his waist and set the flat of the blade on one palm, resting the hilt on the other. Arms outstretched, his steps careful, he could be a holy man presenting a worthy offering.

“Here. It’s yours.”

The warrior’s eyes lit brightly on the iron.
Jormungand
did shine beautifully in twilight. Brandr stepped closer, knowledge dawning as he watched the bald one’s greedy gaze.

“You’re not here to get the hoard for Gorm. You’re here to steal it.”

The stout one snickered. “You made it easy by doing the digging.”

“
The cattle are like their master,
” he quoted Odin’s wisdom. “You’re stealing from Gorm, the master thief. And the larger hoard? Where is it?”

“Don’t know.” The warrior licked his lips, his attention on
Jormungand
. “There’s a rumor Gorm buried the larger portion somewhere in the healer’s forest.”

By the ancient burial mounds, a place of mystical power.

“He thinks the gods will protect it,” Brandr scoffed, taking another cautious step forward.

He checked Sestra. She gaped at him, the whites of her eyes huge. The hoard swung from her wrist, and her body quivered as if she’d just walked out of icy waters.

He took another half-step. “It’s been said Ulfberht himself crafted
Jormungand
. I was told the famed smithy labored for days on the engraving alone.”

“I’ve heard of your sword.”

“Then you’ve heard of the Frankish blacksmith.”

The man snorted. “What warrior hasn’t? He made the best weapons when he lived.”

“His name is here. By the hilt.” He raised the blade higher on outstretched hands and took a half step closer on muddy ground. “You need to know the serpent tale. It’s etched in bronze. In the fuller.”

Brandr angled
Jormungand
higher. The last trace of daylight flashed on a serpent threading through runes in the fuller, the sword’s center trench, the artistry a sight to behold. The warrior’s mouth gaped before he tore his gaze away.

“Play the skald for another.” Colorless eyes squinted at him. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll cut her.”

The warrior’s feet shifted closer to the cliff, thick mud sucking the soles of his boots.

“It’s said in battle, the serpent uncoils from the iron.” Brandr raised his voice over the pounding waterfall. “The ancient words might save you. Release the Henrikkson thrall, and I’ll tell them to you.”

The warrior howled brash laughter. “You must think me twice the fool. I’ve said it enough times. Drop the weapon.”

Vapor dripping down his skin, Brandr began a slow crouch to surrender
Jormungand
.

“That’s it…put the blade on the ground,” the man cooed.

Huginn and Muninn squawked overhead. Did they disapprove of his fine offering? No warrior of any stature would yield his weapon to a lesser man. Better to see the sword destroyed than have its magic fall in the wrong hands. His mouth firm, he accepted the gods would judge him accordingly.

The stout Viking fairly drooled at Jormungand, relaxing his grip on the knife at Sestra’s throat. “So beautiful,” he crowed. “The serpent—”

“Bites!” Brandr yelled, springing up and smashing the hilt against the man’s temple.

Blood and spittle sprayed into the mist. The waterfall roared as if the island demanded it’s due. There was no chance to think, each movement, each expression a sliver in time.

Sestra shrieked. The knife skittered down her tunic to the ground. Brandr hurled
Jormungand
aside. The stout warrior stumbled, his feet slipping on the cliff’s slick edge. Eyes rolling back into his head, his grip on Sestra wilted.

The bald man dropped into the watery chasm.

Sestra’s body lurched in the thief’s wake, the clanking treasure bag swinging wide, dragging her to the muddy rim. Eyes round with horror, she reached for Brandr. He lunged for her, but his foot slipped.

“Sestra!” His knees and chin slammed on mud.

Mouth open in a silent scream, she fell off the cliff.

Chapter Six

Ice cold and wet, all ten fingers hung onto a long, slick root growing out of the cliff’s wall. Her body swayed from the tumble, jagged rocks and a dead man waiting below. The bald Viking’s body listed in the stream, his head turned with an ill twist. The fall wasn’t so deep, but jumbled rocks jutted from water as sharp-edged as a giant beast’s teeth.

The island wanted to devour her flesh and bone.

She shivered, yet her heart burst with the will to live. Soaked from head to toe, her dry mouth opened. “Br…Brandr?”

Rocks and mud sprinkled her face.

“Grab my hand!” Brandr flattened his body along the cliff’s rim, his arm extended to her.

Air heaved in and out of her lungs. A shot of hope surged her veins at the sound of his voice. Neck craning and blinking fast, she squinted through specks of dirt at the face above her.

The rugged Viking never looked so good.

Water thundered around her, the fall’s droplets slapping her cheeks. She licked life giving dampness across dry lips, and one shaky hand uncurled from the root. She stretched for him.

Brandr inched over the cliff, grasping, straining. “Goh!” The foreign word ripped out of him.

A narrow gap separated his hand from hers.

Her fingertips shook from straining to touch him. Her other hand slid down the slimy root as it wilted under her weight. “I’m slipping!”

Yelping, her stretched arm dropped. She seized the tuber with both hands at its thickest part, her breath coming in snatches.

 “Hold on.” Brandr leaned his body further out.

Mud clods rained down on her. Ducking chin chest, she shut her eyes and waited for the dirt to stop pelting her head. This couldn’t be the end. She wanted to live, wanted more than a slave’s mere existence. Yet, when she opened her eyes, the dead Viking stared back, water bubbling over his gaping mouth, the fast flowing stream tucking the fur cloak under his chin like a blanket for a long night’s sleep.

The unnatural sight strangely beckoned her to gawk.

“Sestra. Look at me.” Brandr. His voice was strong. Commanding.

Her head lifted sluggishly. She blinked slowly, her body heavy and drained. Up all night and helping Brandr today, her body had little left to give. Above her, fierce eyes promised she’d escape as if he were a host of warriors come to her rescue and not one man.

“I’m, I’m so cold.” Her voice wobbled.

“Don’t give up. Reach for me.” Fingers splayed, his hand came closer, raining bits of dirt on her face.

She tasted earth and the tang of copper on her tongue. To save herself, she’d have to try again. One trembling hand let go of the root. She reached higher, bracing the soles of her feet on the cliff. Brander’s fingertips brushed hers.

Snap
.  

She screamed, her body teetering wildly battered by water and the earth wall. Both hands grappled the ivory-colored stem, its flesh splitting in the thickest part.

“The root…it’s breaking!”

A wave of dizziness hit her. Swallowing down bile, sharp pain lanced her shoulders. A hard lump jangled against her ribs. The hoard. The bag swung, its weight shackling her wrist.

“Sestra, try again,” Brandr called out above the roaring water. “Reach for me.”

“I, I can’t…the treasure.” Breath huffing, she glanced at the bag. “It’s too heavy.”

“Drop it.”

Her head snapped up. “We’ll lose it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, sharply.

She blinked at him. Twilight outlined the Viking, shadowing hard features as her mind raced through the facts. The hoard veered below, a bulky weather vane buffeted by wind and water. Its jingling noises taunted her not to let go. Lower still, fast flowing water jostled the dead man. His body would soon journey to deeper waters beyond the island, but she was alive

And she possessed the treasure.

“I can hold. You…you find a safe place to jump in then wade upstream to me.” Her gaze shot wildly around her. “I’ll drop it down to you.”

“What? And wait for me to race back with a rope I don’t have?” He bit out the words. “Don’t be a fool.”

“But…our reward.”

Brandr’s mouth twisted harshly as if he swallowed another of his foreign curse words. “Sestra, do you understand? The fall. You won’t survive.”

How much longer could she hold?  

Feet numb, needle-sharp coldness crept up her legs. Frigid droplets rained down on her body, turning her wool tunic into a heavy weight. Sharp pain burned her arms and shoulders already exhausted from hauling stone. One hurt stung deepest, her vanishing freedom.

And she was supposed to drop the treasure? Simply let it go?

More dirt rained down on her. She hung in a half world, the choice, her future, balanced in her hands. Freedom on one hand or the life she’d known in the other. A thrall from birth, few decisions had ever been hers to make, yet this single moment belonged to her.

Above her head, Brandr’s hoarse voice rasped, “I want you more than the silver.”

Such potent, ache-filled words. No man had said anything like that to her.

Ever.

Brandr reached for her again, more of his body hanging over the cliff. He’d plunge into the ravine if he wasn’t careful. A lump thickened in her throat. He risked his life to save her. In the water below, the center of the pool was calm. She glimpsed Brandr’s reflection, his reaching for her.