Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) by Màiri Norris Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Màiri Norris
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
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
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