by Amy Faye
She could go right home and live her life, hale and happy and grow her food, the same as she had before. She worked the rope under her feet, groaning with discomfort, and then finally… she had her hands 'round front.
She stepped over the rope to stop it hiking up her dress any more than it already had, then turned to the pole. It was only six feet stuck out of the ground, just high enough that she could lift the rope that held it if she jumped. She turned back to see if there were any men on the horizon.
She saw none, but Deirdre knew that didn't mean anything. She could have missed them cresting a hill, and they hid now in the valley that two hills made, and she would have been none the wiser. She still had to hurry, as if they could top the next hill at any moment and see her going.
Hers was, to her great displeasure, not the top loop on the post. In fact, as she looked, it was very nearly at the bottom. She would have to free ten people before she could have a solitary hope of going.
She loosened the first, letting it slide up. Standing just on her tip-toes in the soft earth, she was able to… just barely… push it over, with the point of her fingers. She had misjudged the height, she thought, and now she was beginning to realize how much of a disadvantage it was going to be that she was far from a tall woman.
Perhaps, she thought to herself, looking askance, if she had help from any one of them, things would have been different, but she did not. The man whose thong she had loosened stood up, testing his bonds.
Oh, now he is interested in escaping. What a good, principled man. It was hardly a wonder that Deirdre had given up on marriage, she thought bitterly. Cowardly and opportunistic, what a wondrous combination.
"If you're going to help, then come here and I can untie you."
He turned to face her, clearly unimpressed by her attempt to be reasonable and polite. An attempt, she noted to herself, which had taken no small amount of effort. He was a pig, the worst kind of animal, out only for himself and using only the easiest possible means.
He stepped up to her, looking her right in the eyes. "You don't get it, do you? I want to live. My wife, my daughter, they're gone now. I don't have any reason to risk my life to escape back to something that's gone. I want to live, and I'm going to live. I'm not going to let you, or any of these men, put that in jeopardy."
He reared his head back, and brought it down, and the world went black.
Finding her on the ground, her eyes still out of focus, put Gunnar into a mood that he couldn't afford to show. She was a prisoner, he reminded himself. Just a prisoner, not his woman. The fact that he seemed to have forgotten that… it was hardly any wonder why Valdemar had thought he could stand up to Gunnar.
No, he had to make sure that he kept his head on straight. There was no way to say for certain what had happened, unless they interrogated the prisoners, and there was little reason to worry so much about it. Aside, of course, from Gunnar's wounded pride, but even he could manage to stifle that.
Once the prisoners were checked, the next thing he had to do was… he thought. They wouldn't break camp tonight. Not with so many injured. How many had they lost today? One had died. Leif, he'd been too old for the expedition by a few years. Older than Gunnar, and without his peculiar talents.
Another two had taken bad wounds. They wouldn't be up and moving again for weeks, but it was a risk you faced. Eirik brought up the rear, with the wagon that Gunnar had suggested they steal from the town. It would make a better way to keep the prisoners in line, and it would let them carry the wounded.
He turned back and helped pull the wagon the last bit of the way up the steep hillside, until he and Eirik stood beside one another breathing hard.
They would rest tonight, post a guard, and in the morning they would be off. How long would it take before the witch could cure him? How would he know when she had, for that matter? Was it something that he would feel right away?
How many more nights would he have to call her in, to feel that stirring inside him and have to squash it? He pushed the thought away. No, he wasn't attracted to her. That was out of the question. He couldn't afford a distraction and he wouldn't allow one.
It was becoming a near-hourly struggle whenever he had to stay in this camp, reminding himself that he had a job to do and couldn't afford to dally with pretty fire-headed witches.
He went to check the firewood stocks. They had been plenty the night before, but they went through them at a surprising rate, and the wood was needed to cook supper for the camp.
Valdemar caught his eye as he walked back through the center of camp. The younger berserker had seen him, and knew that Gunnar had seen him as well. After a moment he pushed himself forward, off of the cart that he'd leaned himself on.
Gunnar wanted to ignore him. Wanted to keep on moving and let him do whatever fool thing he was going to do. There was no advantage in wasting his attention on Valdemar's attempts to goad him into a disadvantaged fight. All he would be doing would be to give them credence.
But at the same time... he pushed the thought away. No, he would have to ignore it. There was nothing else for it, he had to ignore it or he would face trouble.
The man spoke loudly, in Norse that told the entire group that he did it for Gunnar's benefit.
"What a pretty little whore. I wonder what she'd say to spending a night with a real man, for once! What about you, would you like that?"
He leaned down into her face. Gunnar couldn't help seeing the leering stare he gave her, one that left little to the imagination whether you could understand his words or not. She wasn't questioning what he wanted.
Gunnar could imagine what was racing through her mind right now. Had seen how she acted the first night in his own tent. She was trying to decide how quick he was, trying to figure out if she could kill him and get away with it. In the midst of the group of prisoners, her arms in front of her—
Gunnar cursed below his breath and made his way over. At best she would do nothing, but at worst she was going to get herself killed. He had searched for ten years for a chance to make himself a proper man again, he wasn't about to let his opportunity slip through his fingers.
And as far as the camp was concerned, she was his. He didn't want to admit it but if he were to let Valdemar continue then he would just be showing everyone that he was too weak, too afraid to fight back. Well, he wasn't afraid, and he wasn't weak. If it was a fight that Valdemar wanted, a fight he would get.
His foot came up and he put a boot into the side of the berserker's face, sending him sprawling to the grass. He was barely down an instant before he rolled and was on his feet, his hand darting toward his waist, where he kept his knife.
When he saw that Gunnar hadn't pulled out a weapon his body relaxed, just a little bit. There would be no need for an immediate response. If it were just a punch, he could take one of those.
That was where he made his mistake, Gunnar thought. He ducked his head and darted in, using his shoulder the same as he had earlier that day. With both of them tired, he didn't get the effect he'd had earlier, but Valdemar stepped back. The leader's hips dropped, and he pushed up with his legs, lifting Valdemar until he tumbled head-over-heels to the ground.
Gunnar stepped back, looking down on the berserker as he started to stand. Gunnar's foot came up, pressed into his shoulder and sent him back to the grass. It didn't escape his notice that a crowd had formed, nearly every man who could walk having started to circle the central clearing of the tents.
This was all about the show, now. There was nothing he could do to escape it any more, whether he wanted to or not.
"You think you can face me? You couldn't best me with your ax against my bare hands, what makes you think that you could win?"
Valdemar's eyes burned with anger. This wasn't going to be the end of it, whether the others took the lesson or not. Not by a long shot was this the end.
Gunnar looked over at the woman, the fire of anger managing the dampen whatever he felt for her, then looked at the
circle of men that surrounded the pair of them.
"The witch is under my protection, and I will not see a one of you trying to go around that. Am I understood? Can you all hear me? Anyone who wants to know her, that man has to go through me first. And I'm not going to give you an easy fight."
Eirik was opposite him, he could see. He stood, impassive and seeming not to judge. The Gods could be cruel, and they had no problem with what might happen between a man and a woman on a raid.
Eirik spoke oft as not with the Gods' own voice, but Gunnar knew one other thing. The Gods respected strength and respected a man who could protect what was his. Eirik might think what he wanted, and the Gods could allow whatever they wanted to allow.
Gunnar did not speak with their voice and did not pay them any special mind. If he declared that she was protected, then no one—not Valdemar, not Eirik, not Ulf or Leif, would challenge him.
Not because he had command, or because they were not permitted to stand up to him. Because if they tried to, and it was very possible that they might, he would see them sent along to Valhalla before he let them touch her.
The thought shocked him for a moment, almost curing his rage. He hardened himself again. He hadn't wanted to think of her this way. Hadn't decided it consciously.
But she was his, whether she was his tool or his woman, and he wouldn't let anyone have her.
If the Gods did not understand that, then to Hel with them.
Five
The night before had been worse than she'd expected, for reasons that Deirdre didn't want to think about. She had expected something, expected the nights to transition into something different, but they never had.
She'd been brought to his tent again, and again they spoke. Again he had told her to make him normal, and she had racked her brain for a solution.
How to fix it? She closed her eyes. Her teacher hadn't taught her anything like this, but she had taught Deirdre how to think with a clear m ind about complicated problems. That was where the answer lie, no matter what it turned out to be.
But how was she supposed to use her skills when she had no access to any of her herbs, had nothing to use to find her answers?
She tried listening to the wildlife, but all it seemed to say was that the animals were afraid. They wouldn't come even within a quarter mile of the camp, for fear that they'd be killed by the invading, terrifying outsiders.
Deirdre felt more in common with them than the animals would have realized, if they were capable of communicating with humans beyond vague signs, wildly open to interpretation.
That was useless. The weather… she had never understood how to interpret it. It seemed to simply come in cycles, and what would the point in the cycle mean? Nothing, she thought. Nothing at all.
So she had left the tent again, having done nothing. She could see the frustration, even anger in the leader's face. At last, after three days, as she left he had finally asked her name. She hadn't given it, and he hadn't given his in return.
The march today was exceptionally slow, compared to the last. The last march had taken them most of what she could have moved in a day, but now with the wounded that had been brought back, were being carted with the prisoners, they were taking frequent breaks to rest the horses and make sure that the wounded were not being badly jostled.
Part of Deirdre was angry, wanted to use what little freedom she had to kick them, to make them suffer every bit of the humiliation she had suffered.
Another part, larger, had been taught a good deal about medicine. Had been taught to save life, not to injure even the bad men.
She closed her eyes and tried to push away the thought, when a cry went up in the northern language, one she could not understand. It was a voice she hadn't yet placed with a face, but she understood well enough what it meant when the wagon stopped and the men who kept guard moved away from their places behind.
She wasn't going to get another chance like this. She had spent the better part of the last night loosening her bonds until she could, with a great deal of pain, slip a hand out. With the hand removed, the second came out easily.
All it would take, as the sounds of battle picked up behind her, was the ability to deal with a little bit of pain, and hopefully without crying out. The wounded could barely move, compared to a hale and sound man, but they could still threaten her with a knife, even hold her still.
She had no desire to be stopped again, not after the debacle of what had occurred the day before. The others, they had no ambition to escape. They thought that if they stayed, there was a chance they might live, but Deirdre knew better. She'd seen them in action and knew exactly how little regard these men had for human lives.
Her thumb seemed like as not to pop all the way off as she tried to pull, to stretch the rope and her skin just enough that she could pull her arm free.
Just as she worried that it just might pop off, that her skin might tear open, the rope seemed to lose its will to fight, and slipped around the knuckle of her thumb. The added slack made pulling herself free the rest of the way near trivial.
Checking out of the covered wagon, back and front, gave almost no view of what was going on. She was left to guess that there was plenty of danger outside the room, but there was no way to be completely sure. She hated to admit it, but that was perfectly fine by her. As long as she got her freedom back—it didn't matter.
She darted her hand out and pulled a knife free of the wounded Northman's belt, deciding as the handle came free that she wouldn't waste the time putting them out of their misery. Her anger, she thought, wasn't about to override who she was, who she had been taught to be.
Instead she ducked her head under the gap in the back of the wagon, taking a lay of her surroundings as she hit the ground.
They were now further north than she'd ever gone, and the wagon cover made it difficult to see much of the road that they passed. She could make it back to the cottage with a little effort, and keeping her eyes out for the smoke from Malbeck. It would still be burning for another day or two, and once she was there it was a day's hike, but a day's hike that she knew well.
The first thing to do was to get away, though, and that was where she put her energy. She made the treeline and kept going, convinced that it was going to be enough to get away from the Northlanders.
She was wrong, but she already knew that.
Gunnar was the first to see the signs. He wished, once things had started, that he had said something sooner. After the last village, though, he was wondering if he wasn't just paranoid.
After all, it was hardly likely that there were two ambushes, one right after the other. If there were, why not just use the men from the second to make sure that the first sticks?
That was his mistake, after all. There was nothing stopping them from bringing a hammer down on the group, and that was why he was so frustrated it happened. His sword came out easily, and his shield was already at his side before he consciously realized what he was doing.
A shout went out from the other side of the bridge as ten men stepped out. An arrow flew by and hit Lars in the eye, sending him to the ground silently. Another missed its mark by too little, leaving Eirik to thank the Gods for their mercy after the battle was done.
Another English cry came up from the rear, cutting the group effectively in half on the bridge, leaving Gunnar separated from the back half of the group along with Valdemar and Ulf. They could win this fight, he thought.
All they would have to do would be to focus their attention correctly. But the archers stood on the other side of nearly ten men, and if Gunnar focused his attention there, the men behind would run right through them. A deadly pincer, relying on the green half of the band.
He took a half-second to assess the situation before running across, hoping to bowl straight through the line and get to the archers himself. His immortality carried a heavy burden, knowing that he would never die a hero's death.
But it had its advantages, and dealing with archers was
one of the biggest.
He smashed his shield into two men at once, each of them helping to absorb half the blow, and yet still their knees seemed to buckle a bit under the force of his tackle. His sword slipped around the edge of his wide, round shield and found its home in an English belly, cutting a thick gory line as he pulled it free.
Letting the second man slump off his shield, he moved past, daring to take only a second to check on the rest of the band, and try to keep his sense for what was going on. They'd split fairly evenly, he saw. Valdemar was making a very fine showing, even as he was out of the battle-trance that made him so formidable.
His ax came down and knocked a man to the ground, a man who wouldn't again get back up. Then he turned and took another. Eirik's sword had found a place in someone's ribs, and another arrow had sunk into his shield. Blessed by the Gods, that one.
And then, with a start, he saw something else. Someone moving, outside of the battle. At first he thought it might be a deserter, until he saw a flash of bright blue and green.
The witch had gotten loose. It took Gunnar only a moment to change his plans, though he realized his mistake as he ran. The point of his shield found an English throat, and his sword was sheathed in another's torso.
They were winning, but the archers—the greatest danger in the battle, already claiming three lives from what he could see alone—would have to wait. He couldn't afford to lose the red-headed maiden, not yet. Not when he still needed her.
She was a faster runner than he gave her credit for, but he was the fastest in the company, and the fire of desperation made him push his limits harder, his breaths coming in sharp, fiery gulps. He ignored the pain in his chest and shifted to let himself slip by a tree, trying to keep his eyes open for more signs of reds, blues, and greens.
