His Prey (Gay Vampire Erotica)

by Twist,Tommy

  Her eyes were getting heavy, and it was making it hard to see how many birds she could see. She'd managed to make it to ten, but then the treetops were getting blurry and she couldn't make one out from another.

  She had to stay awake. If Gunnar came this way, then he would need her awake, to make sure he didn't miss the little hidey-hole that she'd made for herself. If he could even get this far. She'd tried to keep going in a straight line, but she might have gotten turned around. She'd heard of that happening.

  And then she was asleep.

  Gunnar's hands worked in sync with the rest of his body. Easy, controlled movements. Swinging hard, but only hard enough to do what he needed to do. No movements wasted. The English had started to tighten up around them, pressing the Northmen in together.

  Being corralled was no problem, fighting one-on-one like this. A single fat ball would have cut them in half, but they held themselves firm, just enough space to move. Valdemar would have to wait to get his answer. All of them were busy.

  Gunnar tried to look and watch the direction Deirdre had escaped, but he couldn't see her any more. In the stolen moments, he'd been able to see her fading, further, then further still. At first it was upsetting, watching her run off. The idea that he was never going to see her again.

  Arne, the same man that he'd seen Ulf choking the life out of only the night before, ducked under an English attack and Gunnar brought the English blade he carried 'round to catch the Englishman under the armpit, taking the arm most of the way off with it.

  Gunnar turned away a weapon aimed at himself and pushed the Englishman away with his foot, but the man's place was taken quickly by another who saw an opening that wasn't there and paid for it.

  Things were certainly not ideal, and they shouldn't have been there. Too many men had already died for this fight to have been worthwhile, but they would recover. If things kept the way they had been going, Gunnar dared to hope, then they'd all be alright.

  But as he started to relax, a gap opened in the ring of English just wide enough to see, over a young soldier's shoulder, that there were more coming. The rest of the troop, that had seemingly separated from the main camp after Gunnar had nearly ridden straight through them, had heard the battle-horns blowing and were coming in.

  How much longer could they hold out? Their only avenues of retreat seemed to have already been closed. If he could get them moving, they might be able to escape, but it meant leaving their dead and wounded behind for whatever treatment the English saw fit to give them.

  Gunnar let his body take over from his mind, the mechanical movements making it easier to ignore the very real threat that the men would tire out before they could stop the enemy. His blade moved in a whirlwind of blood and death, and the men he had chosen for the journey were keeping with him each step of the way.

  Gunnar had chosen them, each and every one, because they would be able to stand up to a challenge. He hadn't anticipated this. No one could have, not sitting in a drinking hall in Denmark. But he had tried to anticipate every possibility, and then plan for worse than that, and this was certainly worse.

  Gunnar kept moving as the English pressed in closer. Their bodies packed in so tight now that he could strike a mortal blow no matter where he swung his sword, but at the same time he could feel them tightening. That movement was harder to finish, and it would cost him more in the instant it took him to turn his blade back to defense.

  The others would be feeling the pressure, as well. He couldn't turn to watch any but the two men directly beside him, both of them younger and less experienced than he would have preferred. Both of them made up for it with their courage and strength. Now was a time for all three, and any less, he feared, would leave them dead.

  But to his surprise they weren't being pressed in tighter. The English pushed, and the Danes were pushing back. The fighting was intense, and close, but the English bodies continued to pile up. The Vikings, on the other hand, continued to suffer only minor wounds. A cut to the face, a slash into the ribs. Nothing lethal.

  With adrenaline as high as it was, with the threat of death looming, it felt as if they could continue this forever. An hour, a day, a week if they had to. Until each and every English soldier had fallen or run. Gunnar didn't realize he was smiling until his mouth ached with the feeling, adding to the list of aches that seemed to go on forever.

  At the same time they seemed not to matter. He could ignore them. Could ignore the way that his hip pulled wrong when he twisted to turn a backhanded cut. Could ignore the pain in his side when he turned his torso to let an English blade fly harmlessly by.

  Colors were brighter. The green of the grass, the blue-gray of the sky. The wet redness on the blades of his men, spraying up onto his skin. The feeling was as strange and foreign as it could be. As if for the first time he was truly alive. As if this was what life was supposed to be.

  He grit his teeth and swung his blade hard, catching an English in the skull-cap and scrambling his brains. It felt as if his reflexes would carry him through even if he were to take a wound that killed him.

  Then, somehow, things got worse. A horn blew. It took Gunnar a moment to realize what was happening. The ground felt as if it were shaking, and a low rumble came from the south. From behind. He turned out of the way of an incoming cut and allowed himself a moment to look back.

  He couldn't count them in the single glance before his attention pulled back to the man in front of him. But there wasn't much question of what was happening. A dozen men or more on horseback. They had heavy lances and swords, and they looked ready to use them. The English took little time in pulling back.

  There were two Danes to every horseman, but Gunnar knew better than to think of the odds that way. The horses could ride them down and have the English gone before any of them had a chance to retaliate. Their only hope would be to catch them on the way in, and with the war lances they carried, they had the advantage in reach.

  The Danes kept themselves in the tight knot they'd already formed. If they needed to disperse, it wouldn't take more than a moment for each of them to go running, but until that happened they were better together than spread thin—especially against so many.

  Gunnar scanned around and made an informal count. He stopped when he hit a hundred men still standing. One of the horsemen called out to them.

  "Throw down your arms, and no harm will come to you."

  He could hear the comment being passed around and translated, and he listened to the answers they gave. There seemed to be some debate as to whether or not they could survive.

  Gunnar had no need to debate it. He knew the answer. It burned, but he stepped forward, holding his sword aloft to show he had it…

  And then he threw it on the ground in front of him. Their time would come, but if they made the wrong move, then those horsemen would ride them down without a second thought.

  He was surprised to see Valdemar join him. Before long, a pile of weapons lay on the ground, and Gunnar was trying to hold back the shame he'd brought down on himself.

  Twenty-Seven

  There had to be a good reason that Gunnar hadn't found her. No doubt at all. She pushed herself up out of the dirt and the pain that racked her shoulders was immediate and severe. She shouldn't have slept slumped over like she had and now her body ached badly where muscles had bunched up through the night.

  Deirdre took a moment to center herself. There was a lot wrong right now, but she needed to keep moving. Needed to find a way to keep going home. If Gunnar was going to find her at all, he'd know where she went. She had been asking for it since practically day one, after all.

  She pushed away the doubt that swelled up in her chest. The fear that whatever she did, she might never see him again. That her only safe way home was gone and lost forever. She didn't have time to think that way.

  Her feet still ached from the day before, and she could feel how sensitive parts of them were, where they'd been rubbed raw without any support. She would have
liked shoes, but they'd been lost weeks ago.

  The forest's noises around her, though, were an odd sort of comfort. Even if she wasn't home, and wasn't particularly close to home she had to admit, the sounds were familiar. It reminded her of what it was like to be human, what it was like to be back in that little cottage, raising melons and growing herbs.

  The problem, though, was that she was quickly realizing the limits of her feet, and of her ability to walk. It was easy to pretend that she could get home, to say the words that she wanted to go back to her home, but saying and doing were two very different things. She tried to hold back the swell of self-doubt.

  She held it back better than she held back the tears from her eyes as she realized the enormity of the task ahead of her. She couldn't do it without someone or something helping her. She could find work, if she had to, perhaps buy her way onto a cab. Any sort of work would do. She would even be satisfied with a few days' rest to let her feet heal, and a pair of sturdy shoes.

  But she couldn't keep going through the forest like this. She took a deep breath and kept moving. She would find signs of life somewhere. Civilization. Then she would go in. She didn't do it often, but she wasn't some country bumpkin who was afraid of towns or cities. She wasn't.

  She heard the sound of a river before she saw it. It was a welcome sound, if for no other reason than that she could cool her feet for a bit before she kept going. But towns meant water. They needed it near enough to walk, to get the wash.

  Or they could have a well, she reminded herself, but the point was moot. Somewhere along this, if she kept going and kept her bearings right, she'd find… something.

  The water was as cold as ice, but after a long moment Deirdre was able to push past it. Her feet needed something. The day itself was warmer than it had been, so she didn't find herself shivering, but as she soaked her feet she was getting colder.

  A quick look up and down showed something on the other side of the river. It was too far away to be sure what, but it was some sort of building. Deirdre pulled her feet out of the water, pale with the cold, and started to walk unsteadily. Her feet were a little numb and it made it hard to keep a solid footing. At least they didn't hurt any more.

  As she came closer she saw the wheel. A mill. That meant a town as sure as can be. There was a bridge, and a little foot-path. Nothing like a road, but it would get her where she needed to be. And, as she recalled, they'd crossed at least one river on the way out. This might just put her on the right side and save her having to retrace their steps exactly.

  Something stopped her. She looked down at her clothing. She could imagine how she looked, though she hadn't seen a looking-glass for a month. Like she'd been raised by wolves, no doubt. Especially after having slept on the hard ground the night before.

  And she knew how the people in towns had always treated her before. No, going back was not exactly an experience she wanted to repeat. But at the same time, could she afford not to?

  She was already feeling the needs of hunger, and as she padded her way through the grass and feeling started to return to her feet, so did the pain. If this was how she felt after only two days of walking, how was she going to make it all the way back home? And how could she even know that she was headed the right direction?

  Deirdre took a deep breath, clenched her teeth. The decision was made, and now all she had to do was follow through with it. The bridge was narrow, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, the cool wood worn smooth over years of use.

  As she stepped off the bridge, a huddled mass of children, perhaps five or six of them no older than ten, turned to regard her. Apparently a newcomer was more interesting than whatever it was they had found. She didn't mind it. She'd expected people to find her unusual, particularly with her clothes as ruined as they were.

  A girl and her mother walked down the street. Deirdre didn't need intense powers of observation to see the girl's shoes looked brand new, and the cobbler's shop gave hints as well.

  The place seemed to be not much larger than Malbeck; she guessed that, like as not, they had only a few dozen households in town, another couple dozen in scattered farms nearby. It was big enough, though. At least she'd be able to find some work, for a little while, if the need arose.

  If she was lucky, then they'd heard something about the Vikings in the area. She could convince them that she'd been a prisoner and barely escaped. It would be easy and painless.

  When she came back to her senses, though, Deirdre couldn't help noticing the girl had stopped in her tracks, turning to stare at her. A pretty girl, Deirdre thought. Dark hair fell in loose curls around her face, and her eyes were a light brown that immediately drew Deirdre in.

  What didn't draw her in was the out-and-out concern on her face. Fear, even. The girl's mother didn't notice at first that she had stopped, until her arm pulled tight a step or two later. She turned to tell the girl to keep moving, but when she saw Deirdre she stopped herself.

  There had been a long time for Deirdre to deal with town-folk who didn't approve of her. Long enough that she couldn't just lie to herself. That wasn't an expression of concern or worry. She needed to leave here before things went all sorts of wrong.

  Deirdre picked up her pace. She had to find someplace to be, and she had to make damned sure that she wasn't there when the woman got back with the constable.

  The rope was tight, and it was strong. He found his muscles flexing involuntarily, testing the bonds, and no matter how he tried Gunnar couldn't get them to budge a hair's width. There wasn't much hope of escaping, and if he hoped to get away with any of his comrades, the chances were lower still.

  They were tied together in a long chain, connected at the wrists with their arms bound behind their backs. Their legs, on the other hand, were free. It was a matter of convenience rather than a lax attitude, because it saved the English the effort of having to transport them somehow. Instead, they marched single-file, flanked on both sides by horsemen whose horses seemed to be enjoying the rest that they were getting.

  Gunnar had lost the least of all of them, in a sense. He had already lost control of the only thing he really thought of as his, and Deirdre was free. She would be home in a week or two, and then he would never see her again.

  But if she was safe, that was what really mattered. He ignored the sting of loneliness and longing. He had already made his decision; this was just the fallout of what he had already decided. There was no use in worrying himself over what couldn't be changed.

  They'd already left the forest behind, and had walked for another day through an open, rolling field. In the distance, he could see a hill, and it seemed to be covered almost completely with buildings.

  Yet, it wasn't until he started to get closer that Gunnar realized the full scope of what he was looking at. From a distance, there could be no doubt that some lived here, but as he grew closer it became more and more obvious that the hill itself loomed high over them, and the buildings near the top seemed to stretch all the way into the sky.

  This was where Valdemar had been leading them. Gunnar didn't doubt it for a moment. The place was like nothing he had ever seen before, not even in Denmark, and being able to lay siege to it would have been the greatest glory of all.

  They had a military to match their magnificence, though, and that was where he had been foolish. Dangerous, even. They would need more men than they had brought if they were going to raid here, unless it was to be a long, drawn-out affair.

  The second thing that he noticed as he closed in was how open these buildings were. Not farms, but still they had no walls, not even the short stone walls that had laced so many of the towns they had raided, or wooden walls that took too long to hack down when you were attacking.

  He barely saw any barricades. They would have been routed, with a military force this size—but they would have gotten fat on the villagers that weren't protected, first. The cogs in Gunnar's mind turned and turned on it. Easy pickings indeed. Too easy; no one would have s
uch a large city with no defenses, certainly.

  Before he could divine a solution they passed into the streets. The English folk lined the sides of the street, two or three deep in some places, speaking in hushed tones among themselves.

  Their gaze was equally split between the cavaliers in their bright-polished uniforms and the Vikings they escorted, though Gunnar could not hear what they said. He could guess well enough from their faces. They were afraid, but at the same time seeing them all subdued gave the townsfolk a measure of courage that they'd not have had otherwise.

  He turned back forward. There was nothing here but distraction. Gunnar had a job to do, and he couldn't let himself get distracted from it. This entire surrender had been a distraction. He had to get back to Deirdre, had to make sure that she would be safe.

  There was no room for regret, now that he was already here, but he realized dimly that he should never have stayed. He should have gone with her. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd chosen to stand and fight, and though he'd made his mark on the English troops they fought, the cost he'd paid was far too high.

  Something red streaked through the sky, slapping into the side of Arne's head. He stumbled a step, yanking Gunnar's hands. As he stood back up, he had what little remained of a tomato dripping, and he stunk to heaven.

  A brown muck that he hoped was mud smacked into another of them, and then the entire crowd had gone mad throwing things, cursing at the Danes as they walked. The mounted soldiers let it continue for a moment before the one at the head turned and gave a signal.

  Two of them peeled off from the group and rode up the sides. "Order, order!" they cried, using their height advantage and sheer radiance to convince the peasants that it wouldn't be wise to argue, and aside from a scant few more mud-pies they stopped. Gunnar took a deep breath and kept his back straight, kept his eyes forward.