Page 3 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)
Lithasblot. The festival celebrated the beginning of harvest. Men and women considered their accomplishments and asked their gods for strength to achieve what lay ahead.
Farmers culled animals deemed too weak to survive winter.
Though the season of snow and ice was far off, Vikings refused to waste fodder on unworthy livestock.
It was a time of cold, hard decisions.
And while all of Uppsala had feasted, Brandr had eaten in silence that first night before disappearing into the woods until the festival passed. Now the Viking avoided eye contact, pinching his drinking horn hard enough his fingertips turned white.
“I think you to be many things,” she said. “But a man without honor isn’t one of them.”
As soon as the words were out, she regretted them.
Brandr’s jaw tensed. “Sorry to disappoint, but you won’t have to think of me anymore.”
She went still, her body tensing as if a blow would come. “What do you mean?”
“He leaves on the morning tides.” Gunnar scooted into her side vision. “To Gotland. For good.”
Brandr would be gone forever?
Her feet were planted on the floor, yet the ground could be spinning.
She squeezed the clay pitcher in her lap, its coarse surface biting her palms. The weight anchored her on this night of bad tidings.
To not see Brandr anymore? They didn’t like each other, but there was comfort in seeing his broad shoulders in a room.
If he was nearby, she was safe.
Her lashes dipped lower at the revelation.
Brandr rested his elbows on his knees, and the iron amulet he wore swung free of his tunic. “Miss me already?”
A quiver skimmed her backside. His voice was low and there was something intimate when he leaned toward her, his hands linked together.
She glimpsed skin where Brandr’s tunic opened at the neck.
His chest wasn’t tan. Noticing the small detail struck her as seeing an inner sanctum, as personal as the scratched amulet he wore honoring Tyr.
A spear had been stamped into the metal, the symbol for the Viking god of war known for courage.
Yet, few spoke of Tyr. Thor, Odin, Loki, Freyja.
The folk of Uppsala relished discussing those Norse gods along with tales of giants and women warriors flying across the skies.
The well-worn metal dangling from his neck captivated her, a tell-tale secret of the man who wore it. “I thought you’d stay for the fight that brews.”
“You thought wrong,” he said softly.
His silver stare pinned her. The moment strung tautly and for once she wished the abrasive warrior would indulge in open, friendly conversation. But, he didn’t.
Gunnar scooped up his coins. “Ask him why he goes—”
“Why don’t you keep your mouth shut?” Brandr sat up, scowling at the warrior.
Her gaze shifted between the two men. Did Brandr’s business on Gotland have to do with King Olof?
“Even so, he who rules Uppsala rules Gotland,” she said, hugging the pitcher. “Don’t you care who sits on the throne?”
A tiny line cleaved the skin above Brandr’s nose. “The island’s far enough away.”
“Not so far from here.”
He rocked his cup on his thigh, the slanted indent between his brows furrowing deeper the more he held silent. The warrior cared fiercely about something. Or someone.
Why was she pushing him? She craved security but mostly the kind found by a wealthy lord who promised a safe home. Let the man she’d serve sift through the kingdom’s shifting sands. Men determined war and peace, never women like her.
“Do you leave because this fight yields no gold?” she goaded. “This would be a fight for honor and the good of Svea’s people.”
“Careful,” he growled.
“She’s a woman hungry for battle.” Gunnar dropped his winnings in his coin pouch. “Put her in the fight. She’d have no time to think of you.”
“No.” Brandr’s crooked smile slid back in place. “She’ll miss me.”
“Like I’d miss a pebble in my boot.”
But, her feeble insult had no bite. Air thrummed between them, raw and mysterious. Brandr’s eyes traveled the length of her red hair to her hips. Noise faded behind her. They could be the only two in the longhouse. She sat taller under his attention, the adjustment thrusting her breasts higher.
Men’s stares had latched onto her before.
Yet, none made her squirm or… want . Not like this.
“This isn’t my fight. I’ve stood in the shield wall with many here.” He shrugged but a bruised quality colored his voice. “It’s time I leave. Make a home on Gotland.”
Home.
The way Brandr spoke, Gotland could be an escape, a place he willed into existence as though any could do the same. She nodded, lost in the comforting image of an inviting longhouse on the fabled green island, but the fine image crumbled.
Brandr sought her out tonight to say good-bye.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. It shouldn’t matter that he was leaving. The hard-edged warrior would sail to Gotland, and she would serve a new lord—be he cruel or kind.
Behind her, shouts rang out. Brandr sprang to his feet and reached for his sword. She twisted around. Men clamored for weapons, knocking over tables and benches. The longhouse door swung wide, a vicious war axe lodged in the wood. Blood dripped down the handle.
She jumped up, a metallic tang coating her mouth. The earthen pitcher smashed to pieces at her feet.
Was this a raid?
Brandr jabbed a finger at her. “You. Stay inside.” And he ran for the bloodied door.