Page 14 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)

I ce 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.

Courage was a gift given to the man or woman brave enough to grab it.

Giving a jerky nod, she chose to be one such woman. “You’re right.” Her lips trembled. “I know you’re right. I need to let go of the treasure.”

“Keep your eyes on me. I’ll guide you.”

Numbly she obeyed. The whites of his eyes were bright in the darkness, but his voice was the rope she needed. Strong, a fighter to the end, Brandr would not give up on her.

He pointed at a fist-sized tip of a rock sticking out of the cliff. “Brace your foot there.”

She lifted her leg, sopping wet skirts clinging to her skin, and one foot found purchase on the bumpy earthen wall. The waterfall thundered behind her, spraying her head, her back.

“Let the bag fall from your hand,” he said.

Arms shaking, she pressed her cheek against the cold cliff. “My one hand…I’ll have to let go.”

“You can do it.”

She gulped air. Her hand dropped to her side, slamming the bag against her leg. The root shook and blood rushed her ears. Wriggling her wrist, the leather strap slid over her hand, pinching the skin to shades of purple-red.

“That’s it. Keep going,” the Viking crooned encouragement.

Her face crumpled at the bag’s slow descent.

The treasure jangled innocently, inching its way down her leg as a haze of loss engulfed her.

Her mouth opened wide for a deep wail building inside her.

The roiling ball of loss welled up from the pit of her stomach, its hard lump rolling on through her chest to her throat.

“Go on,” he pleaded. “Don’t give up.”

Fresh sweat beaded her forehead. A piece of silver glinted through a rip in the leather, the metal winking at her, a conniver persuading her not to let go. Eyes stinging, her lids fluttered low, surrendering her to blessed blackness. She didn’t have to watch her future fall away.

Grainy straps slipped to her fingers, fingers curved in a hook not ready to let go. The old bag wouldn’t withstand the sharp rocks. The silver would scatter in deep, watery places, gone forever.

“Let it go, Sestra. Let it go.”

Her forehead bumped the cliff wall. Muscles cramped her shoulders. She swallowed hard, her mouth sticky and dry. Words echoed in her head.

A lifetime of enslavement…

Opening her eyes, she let go.

The hoard dropped, taking with it her muted sob.

A metallic clink sounded, the treasure hitting a rock.

Below her dangling feet, the bag split open and silver coins sparkled everywhere, beautiful as stars clustered in darkness.

The half-full leather bag tipped over onto a piece of drift wood battering the rock.

Without the burden, she was lighter, and oddly, freer.

No pieces of silver could compete with life.

She sucked air the way swimmers did after coming up from a long time under water. Their open mouths devoured life-giving air, a thing she’d seen often sitting safely on the Cordovan shore. Now hanging from this cliff, she lived it, finding a hunger for what could be hers.

Was this what happened when courage demanded action?

Her heart drummed inside her chest, and she wanted to laugh.

It took standing up to a roomful of battle hard Vikings and falling off a cliff to learn this truth.

Taking a calming breath, she angled her face to Brandr where he waited, his arm outstretched.

The warrior was ready to rescue her body, but no man could save her life.

Free or slave, she’d have to save herself.

“Sestra,” he called out. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’m coming.” Hand over hand she inched back up the thick, half-broken root. The toe of her other boot chipped away at the cliff, making a crumbly foothold. Today wasn’t the day to yield her body to the earth.

“That’s it. You’re almost there.” Brandr’s voice was a prayer above her head.

Life surged through her veins. She gripped the root’s unbroken part jutting from the dirt and pushed herself up with one hand while reaching for Brandr with the other. His calloused skin felt good touching hers. His big palm skimmed lower, clamping her arm as though he’d never let go.

Her breath came in fits. She clawed the earthen wall with her free hand, sending chunks of mud flying past her.

Both feet toed the wall. She fought for every inch, arms and shoulders screaming in pain.

Brandr lifted her little by little, the sinews of his neck standing out in full relief.

His metal amulet swung free of his tunic. The spear of Tyr. Courage.

She fed on Brandr’s will, locking onto the spear etched in iron. When she was close enough, he grabbed her other hand. The grip crushed her bones. Her body smashed against the cliff.