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

Judging by the chill in the air, she had needed it during the night. She looked around. No one was in sight but the big víkingr. Where was Brandr?
    “I said, get up! Did you not hear me, thrall?”
    She hid a frown. How could she not? The whole of the kingdom could hear that roar.
    Strong hands grasped her from behind and lifted her to her feet. Brandr’s dark, quiet tones affirmed his uncle’s command. “Preparing food is one of your duties, Lissa, but you may go first to the stream yonder to wash and relieve yourself.”
    The hot blood rose at the personal nature of his words, but he turned away without further comment and started to rummage through the things that had been transported in the sleep sack, which he called húdfat . Strange name to call the baggage containing one’s personal belongings. But then, everything about these Northmen was different, Sindre especially. Brandr was powerful and solidly built, his shoulders so wide when she stood close, she could see little beyond them. He was also taller than most men she knew.
    But Sindre was like no other. Not a giant exactly, but at almost a head taller than Brandr, with a chest like one of the thegn’s ale caskets, it was no great wonder she might think him one.
    His garb was outlandish. Baggy crimson pants stopped below his knee, emphasizing his height. A purple tunic covered a ring-shirt over a padded green under-tunic. His shaggy hair, white as chalk, fell to his shoulders, restrained by an intricately braided leather band around his forehead. He, like Brandr, wore an arm ring, but of bronze, and a double-strand necklace of multi-colored glass beads. A thick mustache and a white beard, long and plaited, concealed most of his lower face. A handsome man, despite heathen black markings and battle scars, he was perhaps five and ten years older than Brandr.
    Different than the younger man, his spirit was darker, colder, with a primitive love for dealing death and a thirst for blood. He terrified her.
    Brandr took a small item from among the things in the sleep sack and handed it to her, drawing her from somber thoughts. “You will need a comb.”
    Her own comb was in her sash, but the gesture was appreciated, and she accepted it. Crafted of bone, it was carved with runes. “I thank you.”
    “Do not tarry. We must eat and be away.”
    She nodded and stumbled in the direction he had pointed, groaning at the stiffness of her body. The cold ground offered unhappy contrast to the soft pallet to which she was accustomed.
    As ordered, she made short work of her grooming, such as it was, and hurried back to camp. At its outer edge, she stopped as if a tree had suddenly dropped into her path.
    Brandr waited, bare to the waist.
    Saint’s bones! He is…he is…I want….
    Words failed. Thoughts failed. All she could do was stare, while everything inside urged that she go to him and run her hands over skin as sun-dark as his face. That she slide her fingers through the scattering of light hair covering that skin, and familiarize herself, intimately, with the hard, battle-sculpted contours of his arms, his shoulders, his chest. The broad expanse of his torso was only lightly crisscrossed with minor scars, testament to his skill in battle…or to exceptional luck. Perhaps both. Two pendants hung together from his neck, one of silver and bronze, the other pure silver. These were what she had touched earlier, when she had outlined them in the dark with her fingertips.
    He saw her, beckoned her over, and pointed to the seeping slash in his side. “Stitch it.”
    When she did not move, his brows came together. “What do you wait for? Come!”
    Her gaze rose from his nude torso to meld with his. A blush took her, like no other she could remember. She felt it crawl, like a current of heat from her chest to her hairline, in counterpoint to the rapid thudding of her heart.
    His scowl deepened. A heartbeat later, his eyes widened, ever so slightly, and his expression