Free To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) by Gina Conkle Page A

“Shouldn’t we search the rest of the island?”
    “It’s too late.” He upended his water pouch. A trickle landed on his lips.
    A cool breeze blew the waterfall’s mist into the clearing. The sun hung lower over tree tops, signaling the day’s end. Shorter days meant fall’s frost would soon come and with Gorm burning farms, the land would yield no food. Winter would be starving time for many if the Dane had his way.
    He’d hated only one man in his life. The Dane came close to making it two.
    Sestra searched the dirt, hugging herself against the cold. “What happens if we return with this smaller portion?”
    “Get a smaller reward? I don’t know.” He tossed the shovel to where his axe lay. His voice was hoarse. Weariness made his eyelids heavy.
    “But we need to stop Gorm.”
    He laughed softly at the fierce determination in her voice. “We’re not giving up. First, we take what we have to Hakan’s farm.”
    She inspected her grimy palms. “And clean up.”
    Dirt smeared her skirt and sleeves. The excitement at finding the rune stone had fueled them both to tear away stones big and small. Hours of shoveling sapped his strength. Sestra had to be just as weary.
    She stood up, her face sweetly streaked with dirt. “I’ll get my cloak. Then we ought to go downstream and fill both water pouches.”
    Aching in bone and sinew, he dropped down to get the other pouch. His brain worked the riddle: the trail signs, footprints by the stream, most of the treasure missing, some left behind.
    Nothing made sense.
    Odin was silent. Had been all day. The All-Father preferred cunning warriors who fought all-out battles, not men who scrabbled in dirt. Salty sweat stung his eyes. He squeezed them shut and wiped, resting in the pit. Despite his hot labor, he dared not take off his tunic. Sestra could never see his back. She’d ask more questions he didn’t want to answer. The redhead was growing on him; roots he’d have to sever.
    He pinched the bridge of his nose. Beyond the pit, the waterfall roared, voices drifted closer, deep voices of men.
    His eyes snapped open. “Sestra?”
    The voices stopped.
    Limbs locked, he knew. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he quietly reached over his shoulder for Jormungand . Grabbing air, he cursed under his breath. His sword lay beside his axe far from this hole, an error worthy of the greenest warrior. Earthen walls enclosed him. The dirt hole was the close in size to Christian burials, a fitting place for a Viking fool to die.
    Smiling bitterly, he had the low ground, the worst place to be. He searched the sky above him, his ear cocked. Did they have Sestra?
    “Br…Brandr…” Her voice cracked oddly.
    Whoever was up there had her.
    “I’m getting the water bags,” he called out, stalling for sacred seconds.
    His gaze ricocheted around the hole. How to save her? His knife. He pulled the blade from his boot and folded the water pouches over it. A late afternoon shadow slithered over the pit. One warrior? No. Two. Moving closer.
    He inched back on the balls of his feet, out of the strangers’ striking range and rose to full height. Two battle-hard men stared back. A bald, stout warrior gripped Sestra, his fat fingers digging into her arm. His other hand covered her mouth. Wide-eyed and pale, she struggled against the warrior’s grip.
    A taller warrior sized up Brandr, a war hammer dangling from his fist. A flat smile split his greying beard before he stepped sideways, letting sunlight blast Brandr’s eyes. Brandr squinted and shaded his eyes. The taller one would die first, but he’d relish killing the stout one.
    Thinking fast, he held up both hands in a friendly gesture, the pouches folded over his knife.
    “When did Gorm send you to help us?” he asked, hefting himself out of the pit.
    “Help you?” The tall one tapped his hammer against his leg. “Gorm didn’t say anything about others being here.”
    “That’s because you’ve been in the north.”
    The bald