Page 4 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)

A Norse hammer hurled end over end, splintering the lintel. The square metal head narrowly missed an eager warrior running past. Brandr rushed outside to the clash of iron on iron. Men poured around him into the yard to war cries and the crack of wooden shields.

A pair of behemoths brawled, ringed by the crowd holding pine pitch torches. He should leave, wanted to, but couldn’t. He’d served both men locked in battle and like everyone around him stood mesmerized.

Two great friends warred for supremacy, but this was no friendly test of skills. Hakan the Tall and Sven Henrikkson fought wild-eyed in a struggle to kill the other.

“Ahhhh!” Hakan yelled a warrior’s cry and lunged at his bear-sized friend.

Sven’s shield caught Hakan’s sword, the blade sticking. The bearish Viking clenched his teeth and raised his axe at Hakan.

The White Wolf, as some called Hakan for his white-blond hair, pivoted. Sword lost, his shield blocked Sven’s axe and sent it spinning across the ground.

Hakan rammed his shield boss into Sven’s shoulder. The giant howled in pain. Hakan’s boot caught Sven’s ankle from behind, and the Viking tumbled.

“Grab him!” Sven shouted, pushing himself off the ground.

Four men rushed forward. Black runes marked their yellow shields – Sig to win and Tyr to sacrifice . These were men of Aland, the island to the north. They’d come to take and kill.

Hakan knocked one fighter off his feet. His fists slammed two more warriors when Sven, breathing hard, collected his shield.

“Hakan,” Sven bellowed, pointing to the outer circle where a warrior trudged from the shadows, holding a knife on a dark-haired woman. “Yield and she won’t be harmed.”

Hakan froze at the sight of Helena. Lady Mardred, Hakan’s sister, smothered a scream.

Brandr jabbed his sword tip into the earth, staunching the burning urge to slice the knife-wielding warrior.

Sven could be an impulsive fool, but the bearish Viking scanned his surroundings. He had to know he was outnumbered.

Skirts brushed his legs. Sestra. “ Please . Do something. It’s Helena.”

“I told you to stay inside,” he said under his breath.

Of course Sestra had done as she pleased. The thrall nettled him at every turn. He wrapped a protective arm around her and spoke low in her ear. “Keep quiet. Sven won’t harm Helena. It’s for show. To stop Hakan.”

“I’d say it’s working.”

The Aland warriors seized the moment, jerking the White Wolf’s arms behind his back. Another man quickly bound Hakan’s wrists.

“I needed your attention.” Sven’s breath billowed. “This was the only way.”

“Holding a knife to my wife’s neck? A new low for you.” Hakan nearly spat the words as men shoved him to the ground. “Lower than siding with Gorm.”

“ Wife ?” Sestra whispered.

Murmurs rippled around the battle circle. Brandr tried to read Sven’s flinch. At the news of Helena now Hakan’s wife? Or the slur at siding with the hated Dane?

“So the rumor’s true.” Sven bowed his head to Hakan, his arms spread wide. “May Freyja bless your home with many sons. You must agree my holding Helena gives you good reason to hear me.”

Hard-eyed stares glittered from the crowd.

Orange flames speared black skies from torches held high to wisely read the faces of Sven and Hakan.

Men had come to decide Uppsala’s fate tonight.

In truth, these two lesser chieftains held more sway over who’d sit next on Uppsala’s throne, and every grim-faced man gathered here knew it.

Sven shifted from one foot to the other. “The same is true for all of you,” he said, his gaze roving the circle. “Tomorrow. Meet here and we’ll talk of what’s to come.”

A few sheathed their weapons. Others cast side-long glances at dark-haired Helena, a knife gleaming at her throat. Most of the men had gone a viking with Hakan and Sven in times past, but Hakan’s favored thrall, a woman liked by many, now held a wife’s elevated status.

Nor did the White Wolf look defeated.

“Untie me and you can talk with Solace as much as you like.”

Sven barked harsh laughter, hefting his shield with the stuck sword. “A hard thing, my friend, since I possess Solace .”

Sestra tugged Brandr’s sleeve. “Can’t you do something?”

He hated getting between the two. Yet, Hakan sat hands trussed, surrounded by four men. Brandr stared at the leather ties. His own hands fisted against bindings not there. A hazy, long ago memory washed across his vision, a single thread binding him to Hakan deeper than any vow of service.

Sweat nicked his forehead. He stood on dry earth, but sensations of water creeping up his neck choked him. Mouth wide open, his chin tipped high, a reflex he couldn’t stop.

The chieftain had saved him once in ways no man can count. He didn’t have to do this. He’d fulfilled his oath ten-fold to Hakan, the friend who’d once cut the death bindings and rescued him years ago…the friend who now sat defenseless on the ground.

For those reasons he tipped his sword, Jormungand across his shoulder and stepped into the circle.

“You have his attention, Sven. Hands tied behind his back, he’s ready to listen.

But with a knife at his wife’s throat—” he nodded at Helena and all heads turned to her “—what man will hear what you have to say?”

Sven’s dark eyes narrowed, likely assessing Brandr’s loyalty and finding the virtue lacking.

Half the crowd unsheathed their knives. Restless hands grappled axes.

The whole yard teetered on becoming an all-out battle with Sven and his Aland warriors sorely outnumbered if he counted right.

In these changing times, one could never be too sure.

“Why not take this inside? You and Hakan with a trusted few.” Brandr glared at the warrior wrenching Helena’s neck so hard she whimpered on tip toe. “And tell your man to put away his knife.”

Sven scanned the yard full of twitchy men, his massive chest still heaving from the fight. “Yes. We’ll take this inside.” He eyed Hakan. “If you give me your word you’ll listen.”

Hakan’s face pinched in the way of a man badly wounded, yet not a single cut was on him.

His whole body strained toward Helena as if by force of will he’d save her.

Brandr gritted his teeth. Was this what love did to a fierce warrior?

Made him cool his anger in the dirt because he couldn’t save the woman he loved?

No man should be hamstrung over the fair sex.

“You have it. Let her go.”

“Your bindings stay.” Sven slid his axe into his belt, and he waved off the Aland warrior.

Helena slumped free, caught by Lady Mardred. Sparse words rippled through the crowd.

Much of Uppsala’s turmoil could be solved by these two.

None would gainsay what Sven and Hakan decided tonight.

Once they were in the longhouse, Brandr would breathe easier, his obligation done.

Jormungand stayed on his shoulder, a surety Sven would honor his word as the crowd thinned.

He kept a careful eye on the Aland men hauling Hakan upright. A few more steps inside and he’d leave.

“Brandr,” Hakan’s voice rang out. “I need you.”

A knot coiled in his chest. Beyond the crowd, three dragon ships anchored in the Fyris River, their tall masts touching the moonless sky. Come sunrise he’d be on one of those vessels and make his way to Gotland.

Two of Sven’s men flanked Hakan, pushing him forward, but he broke free and took four long strides toward Brandr before the men grabbed him.

“Let him go,” Sven ordered. “He gave his word.”

The Aland Vikings stepped back. Torchlight glowed on the iron torque around Hakan’s neck, a sign of his authority, the thing as solid as his word. Behind his proud back, leather bindings dangled to the ground.

Leather ties. A man bound without hope.

“Brandr.” Hakan’s ice-blue stare slid to his wife as a man dragged her into the longhouse.

Keep her safe .

Brandr rubbed the heel of his hand on his breastbone. He’d be gone come morning. Why not go inside, a last nod to their friendship?

“I’ll go.”

Hakan led the way, the crowd of lingering men parting for him.

Warriors and fishermen alike tipped their heads in respect before disappearing.

Some left on hushed feet into the dark forest. Others ranged in packs down the road, torches lighting the way.

Brandr turned to follow when someone touched his arm.

The freckled hand was pale against his black tunic.

Sestra.

She was another twist in these final hours.

The thrall could be the sweetest tangle if he yielded to the urge.

He nearly did. Her kneeling earlier, wrestling with her bodice messed with him made him want to steal her away and test the desires raging inside him.

He liked baiting her. Sestra’s quick tongue, red hair, and full curves teased his senses, always had, though he’d never let her know.

I leave come sunrise.

“Let me go with you.” Her brown eyes shined softly in starlight.

His whole body went stiff. “What?” She wanted to go with him to Gotland?

“Helena’s scared,” she continued. “I want to help her.”

Sucking in cool night air, his gaze shot skyward. “You mean go with me inside the longhouse?”

“Of course, to help my friend.”

The twinge in chest tightened. The mouthy thrall cast a tender net around his cold heart. She thought only of helping Helena. He thought only of escape. Someone should warn Sestra about what was coming—about the men inside, about men like him with blood on their hands and savagery in their veins.

“And who helps you?” he asked quietly.

Sestra’s lips parted. A breeze blew a fat, copper curl across her face. With her beautiful hair, she embodied Sif , the fertility goddess. It didn’t matter that Sif was the shade of wheat. Sestra’s red hair was made for sensual pleasure, and her body made for a man.

He yearned to bury his hands in the silken waves…to bury himself in her.