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

by Norris, Màiri

  Honor.

  She stared into the grave, seeing not the end of life, but the birth of a fragile hope.

  That morning, sorrowing for the untimely deaths of her friends and for all she had lost, she had worked her way through the bodies of those she had known her whole life, praying that some might still live. When that had not proved so, she had wished death had found her, as well. Aye, walking into the sea at Yriclea’s tiny harbor seemed better than the agony of slow, lonely starvation.

  Through the long hours since, reason had returned. She did not wish to die. She confronted her plight and found it desperate, yet not without hope. Many days earlier, when the raids by the northern war band began, Talon, first marshal of Yriclea’s hearth companions had taken a patrol and gone in search of the thegn responsible. Why he had not returned, no scouts could discover. If he did not come home by the time the food ran out, she had not notion of what she would do. Still, it was possible he might, though her heart quailed at the thought. Talon was not one to whom she wished to be indebted.

  It was not as if she had another choice. Yriclea was a small village, and isolated. She knew of no other place she might go. Talon had once told her of a tiny enclave of houses some distance to the east, but had claimed its people were suspicious of strangers, and unfriendly. A great city, Eaxanceaster, ancient beyond ken, lay to the west, but she had never been more than a half-day’s walk from Yriclea, and that only with escort. She feared to trust anyone not of Yriclea, for it was a rival tribe of her own people that had brought death and destruction to her home.

  Her spirits lifted a little as she raised her gaze to the gates. The arrival of these two Northmen offered hope of another path, one that led neither to Talon nor death. She was not without useful skills. Perhaps they would escort her to a new village.

  Of course, the choice might not be hers to make. Though they might have come only to trade, these víkingrs were fierce warriors, and she feared them. All her life had she heard tales of their strange gods, of their great size and matchless skill in battle. They were said to be cruel and ruthless fighters who gloried in soaking the ground with the blood of their enemies. Pitiless and hard, they sowed terror throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom. Word had come to Yriclea but a few years before that her king, mighty as he was, had nigh lost the kingdom to their armies. Though he had managed to force them back into the east, his soldiers remained unable to prevent their continuing raids. They would kill her without thought if they wished.

  That conclusion nigh sent her fleeing into the forest to hide until they left, but cowardice would leave her no better off. Nor would she leave the body of her lady to the scavengers. She would face whatever came, and with what courage her soul could spare. She coughed as a breeze off the sea blew smoke into her face. Realizing she stood unmoving, shovel in hand, she resumed scooping dirt back into the grave.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  Smoke increased the ache in Brandr’s head as he loped into the village, seeking Sindre. The crash of something solid—likely a piece of furniture—being thrown aside led him past the burnt-out bones of the mead hall to a home of substantial size against the far side of the palisade. Unlike most of the other buildings in the settlement, it had escaped devastation by the flames. As he stepped inside the darkened doorway, a menacing movement of shadow in his peripheral vision had him whirling into a fighting crouch.

  “Look, Músa, what I have found!” A certain quality in the tenor of Sindre’s voice alerted him.

  “Show me.”

  Sindre grabbed his hand and held it, palm up. He upturned the small bag he carried. Brandr sucked in a breath as a fall of yellow fire, glittering even in the muted light from outside, filled his hand, the metal cold against the heat of his skin. A shiver raced down his spine. He raised his gaze to meet the greed shining in Sindre’s eyes.

  “Gold. Not silver.”

  “Já, Brandr. Gold, and pure.”

  Brandr held aloft one of the pieces, trying to read the inscription. “This coin is called a thrymsas. Once before have I seen one, but it was only one, not many, as these. I was with Father on a trade journey to Heithabyr. The coin belonged to his merchant friend. He said the piece was very old, and rare, and that it had been many scores of years since the Saxon kings struck them. I wonder how this Thegn Wolnoth came to be in possession of such a treasure.”

  A quiet voice interrupted. “He found it as he walked beside a river.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Both men wheeled at the softly spoken words to face the slight figure blocking the door. Neither had noticed her arrival.

  Brandr tightened his fist around the wealth in his hand. Silver was good. He liked silver. It was useful. Gold was different. Rare and very, very precious, it was dangerous. It too easily bewitched a man, its allure rendering him careless, as the female had just this moment proved. He felt its pull, though he was not given to great avarice, for there were other things in life of greater value than the shining metals.

  Sindre, on the other hand, seemed to have difficulty breathing. He snatched at Lissa’s wrist and pulled her inside. “Is there more? Are the stories of treasure true, then?”

  Brandr saw the flicker of surprise in her expression. “Speak the truth, Lissa Eadgida-thrall.”

  Her gaze flew to his. Her lips tightened. He thought she would refuse and tensed, prepared to intervene between her and his uncle. Denying Sindre would not be wise. He relaxed when instead, her posture slumped ever so slightly.

  She sighed. “Apart from himself, only three Thegn Wolnoth trusted knew the truth of the rumors. He did all he could to disabuse them. He did not display great wealth, as do most men with riches, so that the few outsiders who visited here—tradesmen, peddlers, the king’s reeve—saw and heard naught to convince them otherwise. He spent the coins but rarely, and in secrecy, and only when need was great. Because of this, most accepted the talk was naught but whispers spread by wistful fools.”

  “Where is it?” Sindre’s grip must have tightened, for she gasped and pain flashed in her golden eyes.

  “Sindre! Release her.”

  Sindre growled, but complied, waiting.

  “We will have the treasure, Lissa.” Brandr firmed his tone. “You will show us.”

  She made a vague gesture toward the back of the room. “It is there. What you hold in your hand is part of a cache. The thegn spoke of it only twice, the first time to tell of the discovery, and the second, to show where it was hidden. He told of how he walked beside a river and caught a glint of yellow. It was a single coin, half-buried. He wondered if it might be part of a hoard buried nearby, and that the one piece had been dropped unaware in the mud, to be later uncovered when floodwaters washed at the riverbank. He began to search. He said he had nigh given up hope there was more, but decided to dig at the base of a large rock some distance from the bank. The rock was situated in an unusual place, nigh ancient ruins through which he had already combed.” A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “I remember the night he came home bearing the treasure. His tunic showed a bulge around his middle. He had strewn out the pieces in a strip of cloth so they were evenly spread, then rolled the cloth and tied it around his waist. Later he had a special leather belt pouch made. No one ever guessed.”

  “This was the thegn’s house, then?”

  She glanced at the shimmering mound in Brandr’s hand. “Yes, and my home, as well. Thegn Wolnoth kept that small bag separate from the rest. It was his hope that if ever misfortune deemed he should be forced to speak of the gold, he could offer its contents, and those who demanded it would believe it all there was and leave satisfied, for even that much is wealth.” She looked around the room at the sad shambles. “It is very strange the war band missed it, for it was not well hidden. It would seem they did not search, but sought only to inflict ruin. There are things here that should have been taken did they wish to carry away riches.” She lifted from a shelf a beautifully worked glass beaker that lay on its side, and held it to t
he light. “This bears considerable value, but they ignored it. If they searched for the treasure at all, it could only have been briefly.”

  “All of which is now of no concern,” Sindre said, his voice hoarse. “Show us the rest of the gold.”

  Brandr took the beaker from her and set it back on the shelf. She threw an enigmatic glance his way as she stepped around destroyed furnishings and over the hacked bodies of two slaves, trying to avoid stepping in a congealed puddle of dark blood.

  At the back of the room was a wattle partition of woven reed. Beyond that was a sleeping chamber. The inert, twisted form of a stout man garbed in rich clothing lay in front of a box bed, its cloth hangings ripped. She swallowed, averted her eyes and pointed to a linen trunk, the soft contents of which had been scattered across the room. It was quite empty, its base chopped apart.

  “There,” she said.

  Brandr jerked his chin toward the dead man. “The thegn?”

  “Yes.” She blinked several times, and he caught the sheen of unshed tears.

  Sindre kicked the chest and a single silver coin dropped through a hole in an inner compartment. He picked it up. “Is this a jest? Whatever was here is already taken.”

  He did not sound pleased.

  “There was money in the chest, but only the household coin of the thegn. The real treasure lies elsewhere. If the war band sought it, they did not find it.”

  Brandr eyed her. “How can you know that?”

  She seemed outwardly restrained, but he sensed a deepening storm gathering beneath the surface. She was nigh to breaking, yet she spoke with apparent composure.

  She glanced at Sindre. “He stands upon it.”

  Sindre frowned and looked at the floor.

  “I will show you.” The fluid grace of her movements intrigued Brandr as she bent over the chest. With every moment in her company, his instincts clamored, and doubt of her servitude grew. No slave, no matter how trusted, would be given knowledge of the master’s secrets. Yet, in her shorn hair, she wore the badge of a thrall. He drew his sax and with a single, precipitous move of the long knife’s blade, sliced open the neck of her cyrtel. She gave a soft cry, and tried to pull away, but he held her with unbreakable grip and jerked down the sleeve to reveal the soft, pale skin of her upper arm. She bore upon her flesh no mark of her ownership.

  “You are no thrall.” His tone accused. “I think you are the thegn’s daughter. Why did you lie?”

  “I did not. You assumed. I but followed your lead.”

  He thought back to their initial encounter and realized she spoke the truth. He had made a hasty assumption. “Why did you shear your hair and wear naught but a cyrtel, instead of the clothing of a woman of status and substance?”

  Her chin rose. “I did these things as a token of mourning. I was alone. There was none to see.”

  She leaned over the broken chest again and slid open a shallow, hidden compartment in a corner of the lid. From inside she retrieved a small key. She stepped back. “Underneath your friend’s feet are loose floorboards. You must pry them up.”

  Within moments, Sindre had several of the panels lying to one side.

  “It is not deeply buried,” she said.

  Sindre’s axe loosened the surface dirt, and uncovered what appeared to be a leather-wrapped box the size of a small chest. He looked up at Brandr, his expression alive with expectancy. His eyes glittered more brightly than had the coins.

  Lissa turned away.

  Brandr’s eyes narrowed. Was she disturbed by the gold-hunger she glimpsed in his uncle?

  She returned to the outer room. Arms wrapped about her middle, she turned in a slow, aching circle, making no effort to avert her eyes from the shattered remains of what had, until that morn, been her home. A sudden vision rose in his mind of Ljotness plundered and his family murdered, of the rage and grief he would know. Did such a thing occur, he would seek vengeance. All those involved would pay with their lives.

  The wish that Lissa had someone to avenge her loss took him by surprise. He felt himself flush and scowled. Witless thought! It was right to take from others what they were too weak to defend. It was the way of the world, and always would be. As well, had events played out differently that morn, it would be himself upon whom he wished retribution!

  He angled his head to follow her movements through the gaps in the wattle screen, and watched her rummage through the mess. She picked up a small, intact earthen flask from the floor, unstoppered it, sniffed and nodded, then stopped at a table, the only furnishing in the room not in pieces. Slender fingertips stroked the rim of a once beautiful bowl of deep yellow hue, richly patterned, now broken and useless, then paused to rub the mesh of a torn reed basket. She lifted it, then uttered a hushed cry as something dropped from inside to land with a tinkle on the table surface. She picked up the object and held it against her lips. Tears crawled over her closed fist to drip onto her bodice before she lowered her hand to rest it against her heart.

  His brows rose as with a furtive glance in his direction, she tucked the article into a fold of her cyrtel.

  She knelt beside a sleeping platform he assumed was hers. From beneath it peeked a battered chest with a broken lid. Pulling it into the open, she removed a green cyrtel, which she carefully refolded and laid aside. Taking her time, she moved about the room, collecting a number of small items. She placed them with the cyrtel in the middle of a wide sash of vibrant, dark blue linen that might have been a mantle or a voluminous headrail, then folded the sash into thirds with the items secured in the center. From a corner where it had been flung, she lifted a trampled syrce of fine, unadorned linen the same blue hue as the sash, shook it out and donned it over the brown cyrtel. Tying the folded sash about her rounded hips as one would a girdle, she left the ends to dangle in front.

  He suddenly realized she was packing, and saying farewell to the home where she had been happy. Did she hope to accompany them? His heart thudded faster. It was not possible, but the knowledge did not stop his whole body from tensing with the wish that it was.

  Why? She is of no value, and no use.

  Or was she? Certainly, he wanted her. But satisfying his lust was no justification for dragging her along on their trek.

  Sindre reached up to slap his cheek. “Pay attention, Músa!”

  He wrestled his unruly thoughts under control and dropped to his knees on one side of the treasure hole, Sindre on the other. His uncle had cleared away the dirt that covered the box. He lifted it from the earth, carried it into the outer room where the open door would provide more light, and pushed aside the edges to reveal an undecorated coffer of polished rosewood.

  Lissa came to stand beside them. She stared at the box, her face devoid of expression.

  “The key,” she said, extending her hand to Brandr. Her soft voice was as empty as her eyes.

  He set the key in the lock and lifted the lid to find more leather.

  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?