Page 13 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)

Gorm’s men looked up at beady black-gold eyes peering down from high above. A man’s life could change in the space of one look, one breath. Nostrils flaring, Brandr took his fill of island air and seized the chance Odin gave him.

Now! The word bellowed in his head.

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 on 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.