Page 28 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)

Men and women married all the time for lesser reasons. Love was a luxury, and she was still a slave. It’d be unwise to get drunk on too much freedom.

“I was promised half his forest as a dowry,” he said. “A longhouse had already been built inland on a river. He vowed the rest of the forest would be mine when he dies.”

“A fine prize. No wonder you took it.”

Instant wealth and stature. What former slave wouldn’t grab the opportunity?

“I still had the matter of my service to Hakan. I said I’d consider the offer.”

She turned to him. “Then you haven’t accepted.”

“No. I couldn’t get a certain flame-haired thrall out of my mind.” His voice was hoarse as he reached over to twist a floating curl around his finger.

“Why did you never say anything to me?” Her lips pursed. “Except to insult me for flirting, laziness, and a sharp-tongue.”

“I thought it was a matter of lust,” he said, his thumb stroking the curl “And more importantly, I wanted you to want your freedom.”

“Now I want you.” She stood before him, heart open. “I would easily trade everything for you.”

Did he not understand the power of what they shared? Love wasn’t a transaction done between merchants. It was bigger and grander, the whole of it immeasurable. That’s what made the emotion perfect. Love was free yet was the most costly thing in the world.

His brow darkened at the humble declaration. He ran his fingers over the long red curl and let go. “First, I need to feed you.”

“Brandr—”

He set one finger on her lips. “Food first. Words can wait.”

Because he’d take care of her. Brandr gave his all when he looked after others.

He strapped his sword across his back. “Keep an ear open for Hakan’s men.”

His footsteps light, Brandr disappeared into the forest of trees behind the longhouse. Lord Hakan’s home had been built into the knoll, its roof covered in grass.

She touched his hudfat, burying her nose in coarse fur. His smell lingered on the sleeping fur and on his leather bag, his scent fresh like wind and water and pine trees. From his bag, the springy aroma of mint leaves wafted from the bag’s narrow opening.

She wandered the length of the longhouse, finishing her braid.

For all her relaxed nature, idleness felt wrong.

She settled on the earthen floor to sharpen her knife on a makeshift whetstone from the fire pit.

With a steady hand, she slid the small stone over her blade.

Orange cinders glowed amidst ashes beside her.

Up and down the stone sharpened iron, the action soothing.

There had to be a way to convince Brandr to forge a life with her.

If her palm full bought her freedom, wouldn’t his be enough for a good start? Not enough to build ships, but to start a good life.

The whetstone poised over her small blade when hooves pounded outside the longhouse.

She jumped up, dropping the rock. Feet rooted to the ground, her attention locked onto the open, sunny lintel.

She hid the knife in the folds of her skirt.

In the yard, iron rings clanked. It was the thunderous jangle of metal ornaments Vikings put on their horses for battle.

The noised chilled her spine. She’d heard the sound…in Cherbourg.

In the Dane’s slave camp.

Brandr crouched behind the tree. Through the leaves he counted Gorm with ten riders. Where was Sestra? Sweat beaded on his forehead. He glanced at the river. No boats. He checked the forest line beyond the rye field. Nothing moved.

Where were Hakan’s men?

The Dane pointed at the barn. “You three search the barn, the weaving shed, all the outbuildings.” He waved his arm toward the forest beyond the fields.

“You three. Check the forest.” Shading his eyes, he studied the Fyris before notching his head that way.

“The two of you, go to the river and see if you find any signs of boats in the sand.”

Hardened fighters galloped their horses across the fields to the forest, the others veered to the river.

Three men jumped off their horses, striding through the yard.

One knelt by the broken cauldron piece. He sifted through the ashes of yesterday’s fire.

He swiped a hand through the center of the broken metal and sniffed his fingertips.

“Gorm. I smell food cooked here.” His tongue tasted one finger. “Rabbit stew. Possibly yesterday.”

The Dane circled his horse around the man crouched by the cauldron. He scanned the line of trees by the longhouse. “They could be hiding in those trees. Keep looking.”

Had Sestra climbed through the shutter openings? Brandr spied no movement below the knoll.

The Dane spoke in low tones to a bulky man. The man turned to the forest, his beady eyes narrowing. The Red Bearded man of Aland, the one who ogled Sestra.

Sweat trickled down Brandr’s temple. Sven had his spies, the Dane had his.

Noises came from the barn and the weaving shed. One man ransacked the weaver’s shed, tossing out a broken loom. Broken pottery shards shattered in the yard. Foolish warrior. He wouldn’t last long with his lanky swagger and puffed out chest.

“Could you be any louder?” the Dane called from atop his brown warhorse. “If Hakan’s men were coming down river, you’ve just announced our presence.” Gorm jabbed a thumb at the longhouse. “Check in there. Quietly .”

Sestra.

Brandr dropped to the ground. He inched along on his belly, Jormungand in one hand, his knife in the other. If he rolled off the other side of the roof away from the yard…

A scream rent the air.

“Get your hands off me, you filthy swine.” Sestra.

The lanky warrior led her out of the longhouse, her braid wrapped twice around his hand, a small leather bag clutched in the other. “Look here, Lord Gorm. A woman—” He paused, jerking her braid with one hand, shaking the treasure hoard with the other. “—and the silver you’re after.”

“Give it here.” Gorm cupped his hands to receive the leather bag the warrior tossed up to him. The Dane hefted the bag in one hand, the metal clinking. “Not much is left.”

“Could be the woman knows what happened to the rest.” Red Beard folded his hands on the pommel.

Gorm raised the bag. “Either way, your payment for spying, as agreed.” And he lobbed it to Red Beard.

Red Beard frowned at the bag. “Let me at the woman.”

“Not yet.” Gorm nudged his steed forward, closer to the longhouse doorway where Sestra struggled against the lanky warrior.

Brandr inched along the roof, the grass covering muffling sound well. Three men were deep in the forest. Two searched the riverfront on foot. Five men here in the yard plus Gorm.

Ibn Dawla’s voice cracked with an ancient bahadur lesson. Cut off the head of a snake, and his tail is harmless.

His belly rubbing grass, his boot toes dug into the roof, scooting him little by little.

Get Gorm. Save Sestra. Get Gorm. Save Sestra.

The rhythm flowed through his veins. Blood pounded in his ears. Gorm badgered Sestra with questions. He couldn’t see her but her cries pierced his heart. He loved her more than life.

More than ships and land and promised wealth.

Sun beat down on him. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The three men led their horses toward the longhouse, jesting crudely about the curvy flame-haired thrall. His teeth gnashed hard. He’d kill them all. Get Gorm. Get Sestra.

Her tearful words carried, “No. I’m here alone. Brandr left me.”

He flinched. Her words sliced him. He’d vowed to protect her, yet this morning had one foot almost out the door.

“Yet, his belongings are here and his sword is not.” Gorm. The crown of his red hair shined in the sun. “I’ll ask again, where is the scout? And where is Hakan?”

“I don’t know anything. I’m a thrall,” she cried.

Slap. The crack of flesh on flesh burned him. He was ready to drop on the Dane and cut his throat.

“You’re a thrall who’s forgotten her place. I won’t—” Slap. Slap. “—ask again.”

Five men gathered around Gorm, entertained by the woman kneeling in the dirt. None paid attention to their surroundings. Copper spurted across his tongue. Every muscle tensed for the leap.

Brandr pushed off his hands and knees. He dropped on Gorm, and they tumbled in the yard. Jormungand rattled on the ground, coming loose in his grip.

His knife swiveled in his sweat-slick palm. He sliced the Dane’s forearm, but his tenacious enemy took the pain and jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Crack . Sharp pain. Near the bruise he’d got on the island. Air whooshed from his lungs. Dirt smeared his lips.

The Dane rolled them, yelling, “ Seize him!”

Beefy hands clamped his arms, jerking him upright. Panting, he strained with all his might for Sestra. She stood, crying, both hands covering her mouth.

“Put a rope around his neck,” Gorm ordered, swiping off his trousers.

A warrior tossed a rope around Brandr’s neck.

“No!” Agony wrenched Sestra’s tear-stained face. She lunged for him only to be caught short, her head snapping back from the cruel warrior holding her by her braid.

Rough hemp scratched his throat. White pain came with the stinging feel of a rope around his neck. The last time was in Sousse.

The warrior holding the rope chucked harshly, kicking Brandr until his knees hit the dirt. His head jerked in time to harsh hands pulling behind him, hands fashioning a knot, cinching it tight against his nape.

Sestra’s eyes rounded. Her gaping mouth moved as if she tried to speak but couldn’t. She shook from head to toe worse than when cold mist and the stout warrior assaulted her on the island.

The woman he loved looked into his eyes and she knew.

This was the end.

The canny warrior who’d tested the cauldron hefted Jormungand . Sunlight gleamed off the bronze etching. “A fine sword.”

Gorm wrapped linen around his arm. “It’s yours.” Blood seeped wide and vivid red on the white linen.

Brandr eyed the sword. Its loss hit him in the gut. The cost of his foolish warrior’s choices. He’d failed Odin’s test, but Sestra would pay the highest price and be counted of little value. Women always faced this when warriors, good and bad, played their battle games.

His chest heaved. “You have the sword and the treasure. Let her go.”

“Let her go?” Gorm laughed, stretching his arm out for one of the warriors to tie a knot. “I can’t do that. Mabon is upon us. Harvest End. Tomorrow night. We’ll need many to serve in the feast hall. Haven’t you heard? I’m leading Uppsala in the ninth year sacrifice.”

Hooves thundered from the pasture. Heads turned to the noise. It was the rest of Gorm’s men. He used the split second to slug the warrior on his left. Brandr’s body swiveled right, ramming his elbow into the other warrior.

Both doubled over. The warrior behind him yanked the rope around his neck. Air thinned inside him. Both hands flew to the rope. He tried to tug it. Pain screamed inside his neck.

A retch built in his belly, but he slammed a fist on the warrior’s instep behind him. He felt and heard the satisfying crunch of bone. The warrior yelped in pain, dropping to the ground.

“Would someone pl-ease contain him?” Gorm’s voice dripped with long-suffering irritation.

Four men stood over him. Two kicked him. His back. His cheek. His shoulder. His thighs. His arse. Again and again. The tang of copper mixed with the salt of his sweat. Clouds of dust billowed around him, and he’d swear ibn Dawla’s laughing black eyes flashed in the haze.

The fight yard…defeat.

“Kill him.” Gorm’s voice rose above the noise.

“No!” Sestra’s scream rattled him.

He’d take his fill of her one more time. She screamed again, iron shining in her hand. Her arm arced wide slashing the fighter’s hand gripping her braid. Blood spurted and the long, red braid fell to the ground.

“I said kill him,” Gorm commanded.

Jormungand shined overhead. Brandr tried to move, but boots pinned his wrists to the yard and one drove a boot on his ankle. White hot pain jabbed his ribs, his legs. His cheek in the dirt, the sun blinded him when he lifted his head. The men laughed cruelly as he moaned.

Another warrior held the viper sword high to deliver the ultimate dishonor, a blood eagle death by a warrior’s own sword.

A soft, feminine body launched on top of him.

“Sestra…” Dry dust and blood coated his mouth.

One eye pinched from flesh swelling fast, but she pressed her cheek into the earth, facing him.

Red curls blossomed around her face, her hair shorn around her shoulders.

Tears washed over freckles he’d once kissed.

She used her body to shield him. The ache of her will to sacrifice for him cut to core.

She tried to save him. His brave Sif ….

Dirty fingers snatched her by the shoulders, pulling her off his body. Another hand wrenched the knife from her fist.

His throat thick with dirt and defeat, he opened his mouth to say he loved her. Her wails pierced the air as Jormungand flashed high.

“Wait.” Gorm raised a staying hand. “Tomorrow night is the Feast of Mabon. Don’t we need a ninth man to sacrifice to Odin?”