Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (6 page)

Sindre scooped it from the box. The leather appeared to have been folded many times. His uncle began to unroll it, revealing a bulging pouch made in the form of a belt. Plainly wrought, but well crafted, it was soft, more flexible than the leather that had wrapped the box. The width of two of a man’s hands, and long enough to wrap at least thrice around his waist, it was cleverly designed to transport its contents on the body itself in such a way none would mark it. Sindre measured the belt’s heavy weight between his hands. Swallowing, he stretched it across the floor.

A deep flap, the full width of the belt, folded over from the top and was secured with cords along the bottom seam. He untied the cords and opened the belt. He exhaled, long and slow. Inside was gold, much gold, as much as either of them had dared hoped to find—and that was only the top section.

The belt had five more sections, each separated lengthwise by a strong, double-sewn seam, and each with its own individual, secured flap.

Treasure. A fortune in gold.

Brandr was shaken by the extent of the wealth. Sindre was worse. His mouth hung open, and the blue ice in his eyes was alive with a rapacious lust.

“Sindre!”

His uncle blinked and slowly raised an awed gaze.

“Uncle, Father will take much of it. You know this. Do not let the hunger take control!”

The avid light slowly faded from Sindre’s gaze. “Já.” He ran a trembling hand over his eyes. “Já, I know.” His jaw firmed and his expression hardened. “But I will have my share!”

“You will. Father is greedy, but he is fair—most of the time. We will insist upon it. The whole family, já?”

Sindre swallowed, slowly licked his lips and nodded. “Já.” He inhaled and sharply blew it out. His fingers fumbling a little, he began to make fast the cords that secured the top section, then folded the wide overflap closed, and tied it.

Brandr peered at Lissa, hoping he did not look as dazzled as he felt.

She met his look with a frank regard. “Will you leave now?”

He raised a brow and inclined his head in query. “Have you somewhere to go, a place where you will be safe?”

Some emotion flared in her eyes before she looked away. “I…not here.”

“Where then?”

“I had hoped to accompany you.”

His mind blanked before thoughts of her, warm and soft during nights in his arms, came crashing through it.

“Brandr!” Sindre’s hand came down on his arm. He spoke in their tongue. “She cannot! She must die.”

“Nei!”

“Do not be a greater fool than you have already been this day. She cannot come with us, and you refuse to leave her on her own.” His eyes narrowed. “To deny her the gift of a quick death would be a cruelty I might inflict, but would not expect of you.”

“Why not?”

Sindre’s eyes narrowed. “Why not what?”

“Why can she not come with us?”

His uncle stared at him as if he had lost his mind. Perhaps, he had. Only moments earlier, setting her free to fly safely to her god had certainly been his intent. Why did he now consider changing his mind?

“You know. Look at her, lad!”

He did, and beheld a delicate, slender female, pampered and reared in the comfort of her family, completely unsuited to life outside her home. He wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any woman, but to bring her on the hard, dangerous trek across the width of the kingdom for his own selfish reasons would indeed be brutish. It was doubtful she could withstand the harsh rigors involved. He had no certainty he and Sindre would survive the journey. The distance was very great, and the territory they must pass through, hostile to their kind. Beyond that, she would slow them down and lessen their chances. Sindre was right. Honor demanded he not fail in this responsibility.

He stood. “Leave the coffer. It is too large to carry. Gather whatever else you have found to carry with us. I will join you quickly.”

The look that passed between them was long, but Sindre finally nodded. He collected the gold and left the house.

Brandr faced Lissa. For the space of ten heartbeats, they stared at each other. He gentled his voice and spoke in his own language. “Do not be afraid of what I am about to do. I give you my word. I am very good at this. It will take but a moment, and you will feel no pain. When you pass to your god, I will bury you alongside your lady.”

Silence fell while she blinked at him. He hated the hope in her golden eyes, hated worse that he must extinguish it. He steeled himself against the voice that cried in his mind to spare her. He would do this, for her sake. Switching to Saxon, he said, “Trust me. Turn around.”

“Why?” Uncertainty replaced the hope. He felt its loss as if it were his own. She started to back away.

He captured her gaze and held it. “Do as I say, Lissa Wolnoth-daughter. Do not be afraid.”

She licked dry lips and drew herself up. “Please. I do not understand what you want of me.”

He took hold of her shoulders. A tiny, doubtful frown furrowed her brows together and she resisted his effort to move her.

Freyja’s tears. Does she guess?

He set his hands to her waist, picked her up and turned her, setting her down so her back was against his chest. He slid his arms about her, cradling her. She trembled in his embrace. The sweet scent of her, mingled with the earthy smell of wood smoke, tantalized his senses. He closed his eyes, hating the necessity of her death and fighting the desire for her that raged even as he raised his hand. His fingers were gentle as he captured a soft, golden curl fallen over her forehead, and brushed it aside. Whispering softly in her ear, he simply held her for a moment, gentling her, then rested his chin on top of her head. He wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, pinning her arms to her side, while the other hand slid to cup her chin.

“No!” In sudden comprehension of his intent, she lunged against his hold, but he held her fast. Her hands came up to grasp his arm. Her nails tore at his skin as she struggled in a vain attempt to break free. “No! Please! Do not!”

“Shhhh. Be still, lítill blóm. I promise it will not hurt.”

He felt, rather than heard the whimper she uttered. Her breasts heaved beneath his arm. He let her terror steel his resolve.

For her sake, because it is right.

He tensed the muscles of his arm, tightening his grip. One quick snap, and it would be done.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Hold!”

Lissa gasped at the low-voiced command that heralded the precipitate return of the one called Sindre. The big hand that cradled her head in that death-dealing grip froze.

Her thoughts scattered. Panting, she sagged against the powerful body of the warrior, and felt his arm drop to clamp around her waist. Release from profound terror stole strength from her legs. Had he not held her, she would have fallen.

Sindre lurched to a halt in front of her, a sack thrown over his shoulder. There was no sign of the belt of gold, but beneath his garb, his trim waist had gained considerable bulk. He threw at her a hard, searing glance.

“Brandr, prepare yourself. Our little friend forgot to mention we might have company. They will arrive shortly.”

She sought to burrow into the hard chest behind her, trying to comprehend why Brandr had almost killed her, and now this one breathed fire as if he wished he could. Did the víkingrs believe she betrayed them? How could she have known the raiders might return?

“How many?”

“Too many.”

Brandr’s hands settled once again on her shoulders, this time turning her to face him.

“Is there another way out?”

She heard the words, but try though she might, she could not take his meaning. She still grappled with the knowledge of what had almost happened. Only at the last moment had she realized what he meant to do. She stared at his mouth, framed by beard and mustache the same streaked barley color as the tight curls of his hair.

By the saints! He almost killed me.

He shook her gently, bringing her gaze back to his. “Lissa, think! Are we trapped here?”

Deep and resonant, his voice mesmerized, as did the intense blue of his gaze. She could not bear his scrutiny and dropped her gaze to the lacing at the neck of his tunic.

“Answer me!”

Like a key to a puzzle, the sense of his question snapped into place. She blinked once, slowly. “No. The thegn had a bolthole. I hid there during the attack. It is built into the space between the back wall of the house and the timber of the palisade.” She eyed Sindre. “It is very confined. Your friend will find it difficult to pass.”

“I will manage,” the big víkingr growled. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into the flesh. “But do not think to call out to those who come. You will be the first to die.”

“I do not know who they are!”

Brandr spoke sharply in their language. Sindre’s hand dropped away.

Brandr took her hand. “Show us the escape route.”

“Come, then. Quickly.” She pulled aside one of the large oiled tarps that hung against the back wall to help keep out moisture. Behind it was a narrow, bolted door. “Bring the bar. We can secure it again from outside.”

Moments later, they were within the cramped, covered passage, the door barred behind them. Twilight had deepened while they lingered inside the house, rendering the space, already shadowed, almost as dark as night. She needed no light and went first to lead the way, followed by Brandr and then Sindre. Their progress was slow, for they had to turn sideways to push through. The huge víkingr had the hardest time, for the width of the passage was little more than that of his great chest.

They came to a place where the wall angled to meet the timbers of the palisade. They could go no farther.

Brandr’s breath against her ear tickled like the touch of a butterfly’s wings. “What now?”

A great shout of rage lifted from the direction of the gates. She froze. Talon! His voice was unmistakable. Something akin to panic assailed her. Talon knew of the gold, and the bolthole.

I did not have time to fill in the grave before I went to find Brandr to ask his aid in completing the task. Talon will see it and learn it was for Lady Eadgida. He will assume I survived, for no one else would bury her, before any other. He will think I heard him coming and hid, not knowing who it was that came. He may search the safe place first, and immediately.

Her hopes for a new life crashed at her feet. She was leading the víkingrs to the safe place. He would find them.

Brandr pressed against her, his face so close his beard, surprisingly soft, brushed her cheek. “Lissa! Where to?”

“A tunnel. It is long. It runs beneath the clearing and into the forest.”

He gave a muted groan. “I hate tunnels.”

But she was already grasping the ring to lift the trap door at her feet, praying all the while the thegn had recently oiled the hinges. He had. It lifted easily and with no more sound than a dormouse might make.

Heart thudding, she slid into the darkness.

Why did I not tell him of Talon? If I do not warn the víkingrs, they will die. Or maybe, Talon will die. Oh, I do not wish that! If I lead the Northmen slowly enough, Talon might come to the safe place before we get there. When he finds it empty, and the guardian undisturbed, he will then return to the village. He will check the bolthole, find it barred from the outside, and assume I remain hidden in the tunnel. He will come after me, but it will take time.

The crawl through the blackness of the tunnel seemed endless, though her progress, purposely slow, was partly to blame. She blessed the thegn’s diligence in keeping his escape route maintained, though in the end, it had not served him. Fresh tears further hindered her advance at thought of his poor, slashed body lying upon the floor in the private chamber they had just left. She had found Lady Eadgida crumpled beside him. It had taken much time and effort to wrap her for burial and drag her body to the burial site.

Talon will finish it, and bury the thegn, as well. But will he tarry to take care of the others, or follow us? Will he guess we have the gold?

She squeaked when Brandr’s hand landed on her bottom, and he chuckled. Had there been room, she would have whipped around to confront him, her ire surging at his levity in this place of sorrow, but his groping fingers merely tangled in the fabric of her syrce and yanked her to a stop.

“Lissa!” The whisper came from nigh her shoulder. “How much farther?”

He must have raised himself until he scraped his head against the tunnel ceiling to loom so close.

The useless anger drained away. To these warriors, there was naught here to grieve. She shook her head and then realized he could not see the movement. “I do not know for certain. It is hard, in the darkness, to guess how far we have come, but I think we must be nigh the exit.”

“What then?”

“The tunnel goes into the woods, and opens inside the hollow of an oak so ancient none can guess its age. Its trunk is very great in size.”

She sensed him pull away and heard a fast, whispered conversation.

He leaned close again. “We have supplies hidden which Sindre will need time to relocate. Keep going.”

Soon after, her exploring hand ran against the packed earth and timber supports of the tunnel’s end. “We are here.”

Has enough time passed to assure Talon has come, and gone? If so, he now wastes time searching for me. By the time he returns to the safe place, we will be gone.

“Wait,” Brandr said. “Let me go first.”

“But you cannot get past me.”

“If you lie with your back pressed against the wall, I can.” The smile in his voice came through clearly.

Doubtful, and not understanding his mirth, she scooted to the side and did as he said, then inhaled sharply as he brushed so closely by she could feel him across all her length. Heat scorched her face. No man had ever touched her in such a way!

Then he was past.

“Watch your eyes. Dirt may cascade.”

“It will not. You forget. This is where I hid this morn.”