Into the Deep: Chapter 8
A wounded stranger, a dead language, and a growing darkness pull Cassie deeper into a world she cannot explain...and Ragnar sets off to find Alarik.
Cassie’s knees buckled under the sudden burden of the unsteady man, his body a dead weight against hers. They tumbled backward, landing in a heap on the spongy ground, the force knocking the air from her lungs. Gasping, she struggled beneath him, his frame heavy with exhaustion but not lifeless.
He groaned, a ragged sound, and shifted, his forehead pressing briefly against her shoulder as if the mere act of lifting himself was too much. Then, with effort, he pushed up just enough to grant her escape.
Wriggling free, she scrambled to her feet, her body screaming at her to run.
“Cass-ee.”
The man’s voice, thick with pain, stopped her cold.
So…he had understood her earlier.
But just because he knew her name didn’t mean she was obligated to stay and help him. He was a man meshed with something dangerous, something that had already nearly cost her life. Running was the smart thing. The safe thing.
But still she hesitated. After all, he had pulled her from the water when she’d been the helpless one. He could have left her then, but he hadn’t. And in the long, dark hours that had followed, his presence had been a steady comfort she hadn’t known she needed. He had been, if not a gentleman, then at least something close to it.
Mostly.
She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her tangled hair, echoing his groan—though hers was born more of frustration than pain. Before she could overthink it, she turned back around.
He inched toward the water’s edge on all fours. The effort it took just to keep himself upright was painful to watch. When he finally braced himself with one hand and dipped forward to drink, a thin stream of red swirled into the creek.
Her gut clenched. That wasn’t good.
His forearm—now wrapped like her feet—was soaked through with blood. Clearly his brush with the axe-thrower had been far less successful than hers.
And where was that axe thrower now?
She scanned the green canvas of forest, slowly turning in a circle. Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the forest floor in deceptive beauty. The whole scene looked peaceful. But that could be a lie. The woods had already proven themselves a breeding ground for danger, and she wasn’t about to trust that silence now.
Yet no danger emerged.
With a slow exhale, she turned back to the man. By now he’d moved away from the water’s edge and propped himself against the thick base of a tree. His legs sprawled out in front of him, giving her the opportunity to take stock of his injuries. A fresh rip marred his tunic near the ribs. Dark blotches stained his breeches. So much blood. Her stomach flipped. What if he bled to death?
She approached him, debating how to help. Obviously she should apply pressure, but how much exactly? And where? She swallowed hard against the queasy feeling creeping up her throat.
“Where, uh—” This was ridiculous. Think! Use what you know. “Listen, we need to get you to a hospital.” She crouched next to him, scrambling to translate musty old words from the sagas into dialogue. “Where is the nearest town?”
A faint smile ghosted his lips—one that did absolutely nothing to calm her nerves.
She narrowed her eyes, about to repeat herself when he shifted, bracing his palms against the earth. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, muscles tensing beneath bloodied fabric. He wobbled for half a breath, then squared his shoulders, standing tall, as if answering some invisible call to arms. With an angle of his head and sweep of his uninjured arm, he indicated another hike—in the direction from where he’d come.
Oh, no. Neither one of them would be up for a repeat performance of whatever violence he’d been part of.
Rising, she shook her head and pointed opposite. “Ja?”
His jaw twitched. His dark gaze flickered from her to the path he wanted, then back again. A silent standoff.
But she would not back down.
He smirked and stepped over the log, moving with a confidence that might have been convincing if she hadn’t caught the slight hitch in his stride. What a stubborn oaf. He might act as if that wound were nothing, but the stiffness in his movements told a different story. If he fainted now, she’d have no chance of getting him anywhere remotely helpful. She barely knew where she was, let alone how to haul a fully grown, half-dead warrior through a forest.
She raced in front of him, planting herself directly in his path. “You can’t go back there, and I won’t.”
One of his dark brows lifted in amusement.
“You can’t go back there,” she insisted, waving an arm in the general direction of impending doom. “And I won’t.”
He said nothing, only watched her with that unreadable expression, head tilted slightly as if weighing her words.
Cassie glanced heavenward. How to make him understand? Exaggerating her movements, she gestured toward where they’d left the man with the axe. Then, in slow motion, she ran her index finger across her throat accompanied by a guttural sound effect.
His eyes widened, then he laughed. A deep, full-bodied sound that startled a flock of crows in the trees, a flutter of black wings taking flight.
Her concern vanished as quickly as the birds. She gaped at him, hands clenched into fists. “Don’t you understand? I’m trying to help you!”
Still, he chuckled, shaking his head as if she were the one who had lost all reason.
Fine. Let him laugh himself into unconsciousness. She was done. “Well, go back to your little turf war, then,” she huffed, throwing up her hands. “I’m going the other way.”
With that, she bypassed him, marching in the opposite direction, her steps hard and determined.
Behind her, he called her name, his voice laced with amusement, along with a string of words she couldn’t understand. If he wanted to follow her, fine, but if not, she’d traipse through the wilderness alone if she had to. Eventually, she’d find some kind of civilization, even if it meant wandering all the way to Iceland.
Iceland?
No. That wasn’t right. She meant Timbuktu, of course.
I’m the one who must be crazy.
But…wait a minute.
She stopped mid-step, jarred not only by the recognition that he might be speaking Old Norse—that had already hit her—but the clarity of it. The structure beneath the sound. Turning her head slightly, she listened—not just to the deep timbre of his voice but to the rhythm of the words themselves. She closed her eyes, shutting out distractions.
The man’s word endings were cleaner now. The cadence sharper. Not half-remembered. Not reconstructed. This wasn’t the softened echo she’d heard in Iceland. This was the source.
Her pulse quickened. Real Old Norse. For all her years of study, she knew the written word—and only those penned in the sagas. Spoken, though, it had slipped through her grasp. Pronunciation was a whole different animal, but one she could learn—if she listened.
She turned back, heart thudding, and took a breath. Tentatively, she reached for the simplest word she had. “Nafn?” she called.
His smile vanished.
Her stomach flipped. That had certainly gotten his attention.
He stood silent, his body completely still save for his eyes—which watched her with an intensity that made her throat go dry.
She retraced her steps and stopped a few paces away. “What is your name?” she said in the best Old Norse she could cobble together, then winced inwardly. She’d probably butchered the ‘what is’ part, but he clearly understood the rest. She could see it in the way his dark eyes latched onto hers, searching, assessing.
He hesitated, just for a breath, then answered. “Ek em Alarik.”
She barely had time to process it before he kept going, speaking rapidly, gesturing as he spoke.
She caught maybe one word in five, but it was definitely Old Norse. A fluently spoken dead language from the mouth of a Viking-looking medieval hippie.
Too weird.
