by Amy Faye
He had closed the gap quite a bit, but when she turned her head and saw him she seemed to spur herself to greater speeds. He knew how to run through forest, knew how to navigate the trunks of trees, but it was her home. She could have outpaced him on any other day, but not today.
He caught her in the middle of her back, sending her tumbling to the ground in a copse between the trees. She tumbled to the ground, finally landing on her back. Her breasts pooled pleasantly, an image that Gunnar couldn't deny in spite of himself.
He rolled over her, putting his hand down on her chest, low enough to avoid choking. He could feel the pleasant softness, but he wasn't in a position to enjoy the feeling. He glowered at her. "Don't run, Witch."
"Let me go! Let me go back to my cottage," she shouted. Gunnar considered the request for a moment, but didn't move his weight from her.
"I can not. You know this."
"What if your so-called 'curse' can't be lifted? Have you thought of that?"
"You want to go," he said, pausing to hear her answer. Both of them knew it was a question, even if he hadn't spoken it as such.
"Yes, I want to go, you brute!"
"Cure me. When I take a wound that does not heal itself as I stand, you'll have your freedom."
She looked at him with those eyes, the anger inside built up to a fever pitch. Yet, he could see that she knew there was nothing she could do. With a three-hundred pace advantage on him he'd caught her easily, and even if she stabbed him with her stolen knife she would do nothing.
Both of them knew it.
So he lifted off, silently thankful that he no longer had to deal with the subtle temptation of her soft, womanly flesh. She wouldn't invite him, couldn't invite him, but it certainly did not mean that he was unaware of her. That much, he was sure of.
He tried to gulp down breath.
"I swear it, on anything you choose to name. When I stay injured, you are free to go to wherever you like." He held a hand out to her. "Have we an agreement?"
"And what about your men? How do I know that they'll keep your word?"
"They are my men. They will do as I say. You will be left alone, with enough food to keep you for a three-day journey. That should get you to the nearest town."
"I will need herbs. I can't do anything without medicines and herbs to do my magic."
"Can you get them here?"
"In the forest?" She seemed to think about it, then nodded and then took his hand and let him pull her up.
"Agreed."
"I am Gunnar," he said finally, following her as she started to walk through the forest.
"Deirdre," she called back.
Gunnar watched her bend down to examine a flower, trying not to smile. Trying not to think about the image of her on her back. Trying not to think of what it would look like if perhaps her clothes had been just a little more torn, and what she looked like underneath them.
But whether he liked it or not, the thoughts managed to niggle their way into his mind, a constant thorn in his side as he remembered that as soon as she had his solution she would be gone.
There was nothing to be done, he reminded himself. As soon as she had fulfilled her end of the bargain, she would go. There was no time for romance, as he had tried to remind himself more than once over the past days. No time at all.
The words sounded hollow in his mind. There was no time, that much was true. But that didn't change how a man felt, on the inside. It was going to be a long night.
Six
Deirdre hid the bundle of herbs as soon as she heard someone coming. She hoped that they wouldn't be taken from her; after all, they were only herbs. But that was no guarantee of anything, not even Gunnar's word was enough to make certain that she would be unmolested.
She didn't recognize the man who pulled back the wagon cover and looked inside, but he recognized her. When he spoke she remembered, with a flash, that he had been the one staring at her, getting close to her. That he'd been beaten soundly by Gunnar.
"Witch, come with me," he said softly. He seemed to have a surprising hold on English, for a Northlander. Perhaps they spoke more of it than she realized.
When she didn't move, he reached in and grabbed her, pulling her bodily out of the wagon. If she screamed, Gunnar would come running. She knew that, somehow, instinctively. Even as she couldn't explain why she believed it, every bone in her body did. She kept silent, waiting to hear what he had to say.
He pulled her a little way away before speaking, his voice hushed to avoid anyone hearing. "I want to make you a trade."
"What do you want? I'm not going to sleep with you," she added, perhaps foolishly. He could have hurt her quite seriously, if he had wanted to, and both of them knew it, but she didn't want any confusion between the two of them either.
"I want Gunnar killed."
Deirdre was somehow unsurprised to hear that. The men appeared to be rivals. But to hear him make the request right after Gunnar had made a deal with her… it couldn't have been a coincidence, could it?
"What do you want from me?"
"You are a witch. Kill him with magic. During the next raid."
"I'm not a sorceress," she said, all thought of trying to use simple words gone. "There's no way to do that."
He spit. "Then why keep you?"
"Why keep me, indeed? Let me go."
"No," he said, his voice hard. "You will stay. I want Gunnar killed."
"I don't know how. I stabbed him, the first night. He laughed."
The man threw his head back and laughed hard, slipping from the crouch to sitting back, barely able to keep himself under control. "A woman with fire. I can see what he likes about you."
"If I could kill him, then I would have done it already," she repeated. "I don't know how to help you."
"I am Valdemar, and when Gunnar is dead I will take control of this band. When you find a solution, one that ensures Gunnar's death, then you are free to go."
Somehow, the declaration sounded less like an introduction than a boast. "How can I be sure that I can trust you?"
"How can you be sure that I won't kill you now? Or take you to my tent, and teach you how much a woman is allowed to question my trustworthiness?"
"You wouldn't."
He thought about that for a moment. "There's your answer, then. You seem very sure of the one, why not sure of the other?"
"I want your word."
"I give it. When Gunnar dies, you may go."
She held her hand out, the way that Gunnar had to her, and he took it. When he took her back, though, things seemed all that much stranger. She wouldn't be able to use her herbs until she had an enclosed space, as private as possible.
All of the men in the wagon with her, they would probably lose their minds if she started doing any 'witching.' She could do it tonight, she hoped, when Gunnar called for her again, but it was hardly a guarantee.
What, then? She closed her eyes. She had to wait, that was what. There was nothing else for it, whether she liked it or not.
Two men, in the same day, had come to her and asked her, in essence, to kill the leader of this band of barbarians.
That left two very important questions for her. What would happen if she failed? If she could never find the answer, what would happen to her?
She had seen the way that Gunnar looked at her, but she had seen the way that Valdemar had looked at her, as well. Could the Powerful man keep her safe from him? Would he, if he thought that she was of no use to him?
She couldn't rely on that. She had to find an answer, because not doing it was not an option. She would just as soon die, because that future was too uncertain.
The other question, the one that bothered her more, was what would happen if she succeeded.
She could take Gunnar's invincibility from him, perhaps. If she was lucky, she could have an idea, but that left the risk that he died a slow death.
If that happened, then even if he fulfilled his end of the bargain, she could still be in
danger. How well could a man defend her, keep his promises, if he was on his deathbed? If he took a minor injury, then would that be counted?
Worse still, what would happen if she were completely successful and she gave him the warrior's death that he wanted? Valdemar promised her freedom, and she had little choice but to trust that he was telling her the truth about letting her go when he had power.
But that didn't mean that the Weak man couldn't get power. She caught herself thinking about the men in those terms and realized her mistake, silently correcting. She had no idea who was who, from her vision. Only that of these thirty-odd men, there were five who stood at the center of the storm to come.
And that the one who would end the bloodshed was marked by his weakness. Another, marked by his strength, another a priest, a madman, and one seeking approval.
What roles they would play, and which faces were attached to them, she couldn't have begun to say, and it was important to remember.
What use was the ability to gain insight into the secret goings-on if she wasn't able to make a difference between them? The weak man and the powerful man were going to come to blows, she saw that. She had seen Valdemar, beaten and laid low by Gunnar. She could put those two in those places.
That left three others, and a very real question of what part they had to play in the coming difficulties. She didn't look forward to finding out, but the vision was becoming clearer and clearer by the day.
There would be a great deal of blood shed. She no longer needed the vision to see that. Deirdre didn't like to make guesses. It wasn't part of what her teacher had taught her. In fact, it was the very opposite: she had always said, Deirdre, trust your feelings, but investigate further.
Never use your guesses alone.
But now it seemed that if she wanted to prevent more bloodshed, she had to make the right guesses, and she had to make sure that it happened quickly.
The bracing wind blowing through the hills wasn't helping the emotional atmosphere in the band as they marched. Gunnar could feel something stirring, something brewing, though he couldn't say what it was yet.
He looked left, looked right. There were serious questions to be asked, now. Two ambushes. They weren't hitting unprepared villages and towns that weren't going to do anything about them, not any more. From now on it was only going to get worse and more violent.
He'd been thinking more and more about it, about their chances moving forward. What had been forty had dropped below thirty-five. At what point do you start to give serious consideration to your chances of making it off the island at all?
Gunnar didn't want to leave. He'd come here for riches and glory, and he knew that nobody was happy with what they'd taken so far. There had to be so much more, even as they'd gotten plenty. He took a deep breath and came to a stop atop the hill, looking into the distance. There was a real choice to be made here, and he'd put it off as long as he could.
The road split. Left, they go inland. There would be more money to be found inland, bigger cities. To the right, they stay on the coast. There are choices that are more important in hindsight, things that seemed as if they were of little or no consequence at the time.
This wasn't one of those times. Gunnar didn't need to consult with Eirik to know that the Gods were watching him, judging him based on what he would decide at this very moment. A portentous moment.
Valdemar and Eirik seemed to come up beside him at the same moment, on each side. Valdemar, for once, spoke softly. As if he weren't trying to issue a challenge, which was a gift in and of itself.
"We go to the left. The path is more traveled, we'll run into more on the road. We'll find a larger target."
"We've already lost men," Gunnar responded softly. "How many more?"
Valdemar stepped in front of him, his face showing shades of anger for a moment before he managed to hide his frustration. "Where was your concern for the men who would be lost when you ran off after your English whore?"
The words were soft, soft enough that the men behind might not have heard them. That did not mean that they didn't demand an answer.
Gunnar had no answer to give. He had known this would come, if not from Valdemar then from another, but there would be no defense. He had made the decision that he had to make, but that did not mean that he was happy that he had made it.
Eirik spoke after a tense, silent moment. "Valdemar is in the right. There's more glory to be had, and the Gods haven't turned their eyes away from us just yet. We continue to march."
"We should return home," Gunnar said, soft but firm. "There's too much risk in this venture, with fewer than forty. We can regroup, recruit a few new hands for the next leg of the journey, and come back."
Eirik was insistent. "That's a coward's way of thinking, and the Gods will not ignore it. I cannot make that any clearer. We need to make the right decision now, to keep them happy and supporting us."
Gunnar knew better than to argue with him, but knowing that Valdemar would have his way stung at Gunnar's pride. He looked Eirik in the eyes, and then Valdemar, who still stood with his chest nearly pressed against Gunnar's.
Then he turned and called back to the group. "We go to the right! We continue along the coast!"
Valdemar's voice shouted from behind. "You coward! Has your woman made you afraid of glorious battle? Do you fear going inland? I do not fear it! I think only of the riches I could win, and the tales I will tell in the halls of Valhalla!"
The murmur from the crowd told Gunnar exactly which sentiment they supported, and it made it all that much harder to answer him. Valdemar was many things, but he was hardly a fool.
Aside from Gunnar's rivalry, he had to admit that the man was likable enough, as well. He understood the men, and argued from their perspective as often as he did from his own. They would hear his sentiment, not the argument for a cautious, safe raid. They hadn't seen what Gunnar had seen, didn't know the dangers. He closed his eyes.
There was no choice, even though it burned. They would have to go inland, now. The argument had already been made, it couldn't be taken back. The only choice he had now was to either go inland, or look a coward. No, he couldn't afford to look cowardly. No amount of immortality would save him if the men left. He'd be left to find his own way home.
He turned to where Valdemar had stepped up beside him. The problem was that he couldn't give Valdemar his victory, either. He may as well have given up control at that point. He wanted command, anyone could see it. But Gunnar wasn't about to cede it.
The idea came to him in a flash of inspiration, and he spoke nearly before he'd thought it all the way through.
"Of course we go inland, Valdemar, but if we march direct, on the road, then we give away our intentions. We risk response from the English army. I look forward to that fight, but I'll have it on our terms—not theirs! We march to the right, and then double back after half a mile. That should throw them off our trails."
Valdemar made no effort to hide the look of victory on his face. There was no reason for him to, after all. He'd gotten the victory he wanted. Gunnar knew it as well.
He could argue until he were blue in the face that he had always planned this. Nobody in the band was going to be swayed by an obviously-false argument. No, he had changed his plans to make it seem as if he weren't listening to Valdemar's challenge.
The illusion was only paper-thin. A small voice in the back of Gunnar's mind told him that not one of them was fooled by the ruse. He glowered at Valdemar, and then began to march down the coast-ward road.
He would have to deal with that boy, and he would have to deal with him soon. Otherwise, he risked mutiny, and that was the one thing that he couldn't afford. He had more important things to concern himself with than trying to keep his men in line, but without doing at least that much he wouldn't have the men to make his plans work.
So that meant Valdemar had to go.
Seven
Her freedom was finally in sight, so why was it so hard to reach out
and take it?
Deirdre tried to ignore the eyes that she could feel watching her. Gunnar's eyes. He had stopped talking to her during her nightly visits, when he sensed that she was trying to concentrate. His silent notice, though, was as distracting as anything he could have said.
She couldn't help noticing him, either, and it chafed against her mind. She wasn't supposed to be thinking about men. She was thinking about freedom, and about how to take it for herself. She had already given up on men, on motherhood, on a future. She'd moved past it.
Which made it that much more confusing that she was thinking about Gunnar that much more than she should have been. What she needed was some time alone, by herself, to sort her body out. But that wasn't about to happen, not a chance.
She could have understood it if it were anyone else, but somehow Deirdre had always thought that she had control over herself, over her mind. The woman who taught her everything she knew, the first thing that she had taught was to control her own thoughts. Deirdre had remembered that lesson, had tried to emulate it, but now she was having trouble remembering why she'd always thought it was so important.
There was no future, though, in the fantasies that she was having. Gunnar wanted her for her magic, and her magic he would have. Nothing more, nothing less. He hadn't even shown any interest in her outside of it. What she'd interpreted, before, as some sort of attraction was only his interest in what she could do for him.
She took a deep breath of smoke and let the scent go to her head, sending her mind further away from her body. In her mind she looked down on both of them, sitting across the room from each other. Her mind imagined that she was seeing them doing something else, something very different. Something that brought a blush to her very real, very physical cheeks.
This wasn't about that, she tried to remind herself. She didn't need to know what it would be like, what it would feel like if he were to give her what she really wanted. It was about trying to find a solution to his problem. A solution that would give her what she wanted: freedom.
