╝ 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑 | | 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛!

Idunn knew Gunnar was right. The problem was not finding the treasure, it was getting it back to the boat. Already their chest of loot was growing full. She could tell without having touched it that it would be heavy, probably requiring at least two to carry it. That would only leave two with open hands to defend them on the way down the hill.

She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the windows. The silhouettes of the soldiers outside did little to reassure her. She could hear their voices growing agitated. It was only a matter of time before one thought to look inside the church.

Freyjr’s whispered voice sounded to her left, “Search the rest of the building,” he told them. “Perhaps there’s a priest or someone here we can use as leverage.” Idunn nodded wordlessly and set off around the corner, crouching to keep her head below the window panes. She stalked along the pews, eyes gliding down each row. She had assumed the church was empty upon arrival, but the mention of priests made her suspicious of every shadow.

There was no one hiding between the benches. She straightened as she reached the front of the room, where the far wall was rounded and windowless. There were a number of things lined up against the wall—chests, bookshelves, pedestals. Red curtains were draped over them. Something compelled her to step closer and to look under the cover of the nearest curtain. She started, nearly releasing a gasp, as she drew back the curtain to reveal a man. He was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest and back straight against the wall. He was equally startled by Idunn as she was by him, and he opened his mouth to scream. Idunn leaped onto the man, clamping her palm over his mouth.

“Shhhh,” she hissed, just loud enough to catch the attention of her companions. “I found one,” she called over her shoulder. The priest struggled a bit, but the effort was weak. He was an older man, probably about fifty or sixty. His round cheeks and slumped shoulders betrayed his inability to fight. He was no threat to them, that much Idunn could guess. Just as the others were coming over to help, however, the priest pawed Idunn’s hand off of his face just quickly enough to release a terrified shout.

Idunn’s eyes widened as the voices outside quieted. Their cover had been blown.

“Boys! Get the treasure!” she shouted, pointing back at the chest which was half way between them and the door, which seconds later would burst open.

When the guards came flooding into the entrance of the church, they would see Freyjr and Gunnar lifting the overflowing chest of wealth. And beyond them, Idunn stood on the stage, knife held to the throat of the priest.

“Put down your weapons or he dies!” she shouted.

Perhaps Freyjr was more intimidating, for the guards only threw down their weapons after he made a threat of his own. As they funneled into the storage closet, Idunn dragged the wheezing priest toward the open cathedral doors, blade held to his throat. She paused there and allowed Gunnar and Freyjr to lead the way out. Both of the men were injured, but they managed to haul the heavy chest through the doors without any hiccups. As the boys made their way out and down the stairs, Idunn and Freyja watched the guards lock themselves weaponless inside the closet. Only once Idunn had tested the lock did they quickly direct the captives out of the church.

The three priests were easier to shepherd than cattle. They mutely followed the Vikings down the hill toward the boat. None made an attempt to scream or run, undoubtedly because they feared retaliation. The older priest whimpered every time Idunn made the slightest move. She resisted the urge to laugh, not only because he was pathetic but because he clearly thought she was a demon spawn. All Saxons, particularly the devout, were too terrified of the Danes to realize they were humans like any other. In this particular case, it worked in Idunn’s favor. Any other time, however, she would be inclined to put those fears to rest with her charm. She hid her smile from the priests as they trudged down the final steep staircase.

When they arrived on the beach, Idunn abandoned the priests to help Gunnar and Freyjr lift the chest onto the boat. It was even heavier than it looked, and it was quite the struggle to get it over the edge of the vessel. Gunnar was still bleeding from his shoulder, and Freyjr sported a wound above his brow. Thankfully the priests stood docile under the watch of Freyja until the vikings had successfully boarded the wealth. From there it was simple enough to depart. The four danes quickly repeated the tasks of preparing to sail.

Before setting out, Idunn jumped down to speak with the priests one last time. “You can go,” Idunn told them. By this point she had dropped the intimidation act. Her eyes were softer, and the fierce set of her shoulders had now relaxed.

The older priest backed away without another word, and when he ran up the hill she could see from his dress that he had peed himself. Both of the younger priests moved to follow him. Idunn had begun to climb back into the boat when one of them turned. There was a wickedness to his expression that caught her off guard. “Good luck with the curse!” he called out. All four vikings paused in what they were doing. Idunn’s pale face contorted into an expression of confusion. The priest then called out in perfect Norse, "May your love whither, your coin fall through holes in your pockets, and your clan fall to ashes!"

“What?” by this point, the older priest was halfway up the hill and it was too late to chase them all down. The boat shuddered as it freed itself from the rocky beach and slid back into the current.

The young priest did not explain his comment further. He turned and ran after his companions, disappearing into the mist like a will-o-the-wisp. Idunn turned and looked back at the others. Something compelled her to walk over to the chest as the others drew out the oars. She threw open the top and plunged her arm down into the pile of silver and ornaments. Near the bottom of the chest, her fingers brushed against something wooden. She struggled to draw it up and out of the heavy pile, but when she did, her face fell. It was a rudimentary wooden sculpture, no larger than a dagger. Down its length were a number of carved runes. A Dane curse.