His Captive (Historical Viking Romance)

by Amy Faye

  "You can't do this," she said softly.

  His eyes turned to her. "I can not avoid it."

  "You're hurt."

  "Yes."

  "You'll die if you fight, you can't do this."

  "If I will die, then I will die fighting."

  "At least let me tend to your wounds. Numb the pain, at least."

  "Then do it," he said. His voice was hard, not anything like the man that she had grown used to over the past week.

  She frantically tried to think of something she could do. She might be able to apply belladonna. It could have a numbing effect, if she used the right amount. She folded her pouch of herbs out and looked through them.

  In an ideal world she would have had so much more time to do this, enough time to be safe and accurate, but she didn't have the comfort of time. She needed to have this done before he decided it was time to march to his death.

  She tore the leaf, then again, and again, until she had a pinch of finely-shredded pieces, and rubbed it in the wound. Gunnar, to his credit, kept silent as she applied it, though she knew that it must have hurt.

  Then he looked at her, his expression serious. "I will free you. I promise that, but I can't do that if I don't have authority. Do you understand?"

  Deirdre nodded, the need to think quickly and everything going on around her creating a growing panic. She was dead, she was absolutely dead, and it was her own actions that had condemned her to the fate that she was now going to suffer.

  Gunnar put his hand on her shoulder, and then walked past, his sword at the ready.

  The sword in his hand felt heavy, but Gunnar ignored it. It still hurt to take in breath, and the wound in his side hadn't healed up half as much as he'd hoped that it might. But he couldn't let that get to him, either.

  If it came down to it, he'd have to kill Valdemar, and he'd have to do it without hesitating. Without worrying about the consequences. Either that, or he would be at serious risk for losing himself. There was more experience on his side, quite a bit more in fact. But that meant nothing if he were fighting at half-strength, trying not to hurt him "too badly."

  The moments stretched thin as he waited for Valdemar to join him. The challenge had been implicit in his declaration that he had control of the raiding party, and Gunnar had gone the extra mile, declaring that he'd be waiting in the middle of camp.

  The wait wasn't quite cowardice—yet. But if he were another few minutes, Gunnar thought, he could fairly claim an easy victory. There was no way that the rest of the men, even the youngest, would accept the commands of a man who wouldn't even show up to a simple duel.

  That wasn't to be, though, to Gunnar's severe disappointment. He pushed through to the middle, hefting a shield. It was an unusual sight, his carrying a blade and hefting a shield on his left arm. He must have been unused to it, but it would have been wrong of him to use his ax. Another point in Gunnar's favor, he reminded himself.

  The two men clasped hands in what could only be called an illusion of civility, and then separated, each watching the other for any signs of movement. Gunnar tried to catch his breath, wincing with each. The longer this went on, he thought, the better chance that he had to recover and start to feel like himself again.

  Valdemar must have known it, because as Gunnar stepped back he stepped in, testing the older man's guard with the point of his blade. It was gone before Gunnar could slap it away with his shield, pulled back before it touched flesh.

  Faster than Gunnar had expected, he judged. That worried him. Before, in battle, Valdemar had always relied on his strength, wielding an ax that most men would have struggled merely to keep aloft. Yet it seemed that with a sword in hand, he had hands that could have matched anyone here.

  Gunnar was quicker, though. He'd always prided himself on the speed of his thrust, on his ability to hide his intentions until it was too late. He stepped up, his hands at the ready, his shield up—Valdemar's blade snaked out, Gunnar managing to catch it with the flat of his own sword and smacking it away.

  The riposte came suddenly, and arced around the edge of the shield, heading for Valdemar's unprotected sides, but he danced out of the way, tapping the blade with his shield as he did so.

  This wasn't going to be a fight that was settled quickly, Gunnar decided. There was time enough for him to be careful. He took a step, and as he did, his blade came around to see how Valdemar defended his forward leg.

  The shield came down hard, smacking the blade down before it found its mark, but as he stretched for the attack Gunnar felt something tearing in his side, a wound reopening. Something that hadn't happened since he could remember.

  The parry set him off-balance, and then the pain distracted him, and Gunnar stumbled. Valdemar, as quick as he had proven himself, didn't let the opportunity by. He moved in, his elbow kept in close. If he hadn't been practicing with a sword, then he was a natural genius with his body.

  The form was perfect, his blade making a straight shot towards Gunnar's ribs. It was all that he could do to get away with a light cut, barely able to smack the weapon away before he was skewered through.

  What was happening to him? Gunnar had fought better opponents. He could see the moves happening almost as if they were in slow motion, but his body was… sluggish. Something was wrong with him, very wrong, and he needed to get it sorted out immediately.

  He stepped back and tried to feel his muscles. Feel where he was tight, and what moved properly. What was wrong with him?

  His side was numb, even the ache of having torn something gone, and yet he still felt as if he could hardly move his sword arm. Even trying to adjust it, find a comfortable position, seemed to be as if he were moving through water.

  His shield arm was moving properly, but it was little consolation. A solid blow or two, and it would be splintered completely in half. This was certainly not the position he had hoped to find himself in when he had accepted the duel.

  Every advantage had seemed to be his when he had started. Valdemar fought with an unusual weapon, and he might have been caught off-guard by the challenge from a man who was, by rights, already dead.

  He hefted the sword again in his hand and circled around a testing jab, watching Valdemar for openings. He kept a neutral stance, and he wasn't too aggressive. Surprising. The unfamiliar weapon must have been having an effect on him after all, making him feel as if he had to compensate by being particularly careful.

  If that was what he was thinking, then it was absolutely right. How Gunnar could manage to get around him, though, that was the real question.

  "Have you had enough yet?" Valdemar smiled wolfishly, whirling his blade. He'd measured the distance well; it would be more than a step inside his guard, and the way that Gunnar's body was moving… he wouldn't make it before the big man could dance out of the way.

  The only way that he could turn this around would be to fool him into attacking when Gunnar was already waiting. That would put him in position. His shield was heavy, and it wasn't going to help him. Not if he had to bait an attack. He would need to give Valdemar an opportunity that he couldn't refuse, and at the same time one that Gunnar could close in an instant.

  He dropped it in the soil, the heavy wooden shield landing with a thud that seemed to Gunnar to be louder than it was.

  "Giving up?" Valdemar didn't relax for a moment, even as he claimed his victory.

  "I don't need a shield to protect myself from an amateur," Gunnar called back. One of the boys laughed nervously. The words were bold, coming from him. He'd narrowly avoided a skewer through the heart once. Without the shield, it wouldn't happen again.

  He watched the point of Valdemar's blade carefully. He had to respond in an instant. The very moment that his point started towards Gunnar's unprotected flank, that would be the time to launch his counterattack.

  Valdemar circled, certain that there was some kind of trap. Gunnar silently agreed. There most certainly was a trap in store, but it was the furthest thing from certain. He only hoped
that he wouldn't guess wrong about which way Valdemar would move.

  The berserker finally stepped in, his blade still waiting. He moved closer, too close for a lunging attack. Either could have caught the other with a swing, but still he waited. Gunnar let out a heavy breath. He wanted to attack, wanted to strike home and end this.

  But if he moved too soon, guessed wrong, then it would be easy for Valdemar to stop him. He would need to move suddenly, quickly enough to make it decisive, and he couldn't afford to gamble wrong.

  A movement caught his eye, Valdemar's blade starting to arc up for a swing. The swing that he would try to use to finally knock Gunnar from his command, the attack that would end the fight. He brought his elbow in close to his body and thrust over the incoming blade, right into the gap between the shield, moving aside, and Valdemar's shoulder.

  Right at the berserker's unprotected heart.

  Nine

  Deirdre watched the duel with all the interest of someone whose life depended on the outcome. What she hadn't expected was for Gunnar, confident as he always had been, to face the kind of opposition he did. He was supposed to be powerful, he was supposed to be the leader.

  Yet, as he stepped and circled, one thing was certain. He was outmatched in nearly every way. When he dropped the shield, she looked nervously at the others. That had to be some sort of admission of defeat. So why did no one move to finish the fight, to stop them?

  She took a breath and settled down, ready to watch as her last hopes of survival floated away. It was strangely calming, knowing that her entire life relied on a man who thought that losing use of his shield would save him from a faster, younger, bigger man.

  At least she knew what to expect. He had a plan, and it was going to come down to whether or not his plan worked. Valdemar had seen it as well. She could see him, measuring the chances of Gunnar's trap succeeding. It was strange to see men so willingly gambling with their lives.

  Compared to the prisoners they had taken, it was a difference of night-and-day.

  Valdemar circled a bit more, hoping to have an instant-long opening on Gunnar's flank, but the smaller man left nothing to chance, turning slowly as he kept the distance exact. Just long enough for the point of a blade to touch if either man took a long step.

  It was over in an instant. Valdemar's sword whirled around, but Gunnar was inside the arc in an instant. As if he'd predicted it. His sword thrust, straight and true, and it dug into Valdemar's chest.

  Only, it didn't. Instead, Valdemar brought his own blade up in a wicked-looking arc, a loud metallic slap echoing through the halls. A sword lay in the dirt, and Gunnar dipped his head, trying to take Valdemar with his bare hands.

  The fight did not last long, after that. A few hammering blows on the back of Gunnar's head, and he was down on the ground. He looked as if he were napping, but Deirdre knew well enough that if he could have kept fighting then the fight would still be on.

  The onlookers shook their heads, separating. Valdemar seemed to consider his options for a moment, looking from the sword in his hand to Gunnar's body, and then he tossed it aside. He looked strangely… deflated, Deirdre thought. As if he were disappointed about something.

  She wasn't about to ask him what was bothering him. She came up to him, making sure that Gunnar was unconscious. "I gave you what you wanted. Now that you're in charge, let me go. That was the deal."

  Valdemar took a seat, one that let him watch Gunnar as he laid. As soon as he began to stir, Valdemar would know it. Deirdre hoped that he had no plans for Gunnar.

  "The deal was that I let you go when he is dead, if I don't recall. There he is, lying in the grass. He still breathes. Even as we sit here, the cuts I gave him heal up before my eyes." He turned toward her. "You are lucky that I let you continue breathing. Each and every one of you prisoners is another mouth to feed, and of dubious value. You've proven yourself useful, but your use is not at its end."

  "I don't understand."

  "We could use someone like you, around here. Someone capable with medicines. There are two wounded men in the party. Men who would very much appreciate medical attention."

  "And if I choose to help them, then I can go?"

  "No." Valdemar turned back to the body, watching it steadily. "Of course, if you had some better idea how you might be more use to me out of the band than with it, or some reason I shouldn't cut you down to save on food costs—" He craned his head toward her, his eyes pointedly on her low-cut neckline. "Or if I were to have fonder feelings toward you—"

  "There's not a chance of that."

  "Why not? You did it for Gunnar, and you hardly knew him a week."

  She slapped him without thinking, and the moment that she felt the sting in her palm she regretted it. He had been absolutely right about one thing. He held her in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing he couldn't do to ruin her life. Valdemar was not the sort of person that she wanted to get on the bad side of.

  Then she saw the smile on his face. Victorious, the complete opposite of what she'd seen in his expression after he won the fight with Gunnar. As if he had found something in that slap that he hadn't been able to get from the duel.

  "Good girl! I always heard that you English were spirited, I'm glad to finally find one of these mythical English women." He turned to her, standing from his perch. Up close, he towered over her. She was thankful when Gunnar began to stir, taking Valdemar's attention away from her, and putting it on the man lying face-down in the dirt.

  "We'll continue this later," he called over his shoulder.

  Then he said something to one of the men walking past, and she was taken away and tied back in place on the wagon, the eyes of every prisoner on her. What had happened? She didn't want to say, and aside from their curious staring, they thankfully didn't ask.

  What was she going to do now?

  They wouldn't assassinate Gunnar, she decided. It wasn't going to happen. Yet, at the same time, could Valdemar afford to have him running free? He had shown through his own actions what a man could do if he were committed to taking control of the band.

  What would happen if the man who did it were essentially unkillable? How long would it take for that man to retake control? She didn't have to ask herself the question, not seriously. It would be impossible to keep him out of power, even if he had to kill every member of the party who tried to stop him.

  He had, after all, all the time in the world. No, they would either have to find a way for him to die and to stay dead, or they would have to accept that a free Gunnar was in control of the party.

  She saw out the rear flap a pair of men carrying Gunnar, still mostly-limp from the beating he had taken, toward his tent. If they were going to do something to stop him from taking power, they would need to do it soon.

  But, she realized with a shiver, it didn't matter all that much who was in power. It was a matter of time until Gunnar realized the ruse that she had used on him. She wasn't going to be free from this prison, she feared, until she died.

  Every opportunity she had, she'd missed.

  Gunnar didn't remember what had happened. He'd been so sure that he would succeed. Clearly Valdemar had seen his attack coming, and had acted to ensure that he won the fight. But then he'd seen red and that was the last that Gunnar could remember.

  His head hurt, and the gouge in his side, previously numbed from Deirdre's ministrations, now hurt worse than it had before the fight. He'd definitely torn it back open from what healing he'd managed to get.

  He tried to sit up, but the pain that shot through him managed to convince him to lie back down. Looking around, he was alone. He should have died. He hadn't won the duel, that much was certain. Why had Valdemar let him live after?

  Rain was coming, he had known it before the raid that morning. It was merely a matter of time before they were all soaked through, so a march in the morning was unlikely.

  That would be enough time, he reckoned. Enough time to let his wounds close up, enough time to recl
aim control of the band. Valdemar had beaten him, though, with what seemed to be every advantage. With a weapon he rarely used, he'd been faster, been stronger, been smarter than Gunnar. He'd had the edge in defense, in offense, in strategy.

  How could Gunnar beat him, if they were to face each other again? He wasn't suddenly going to grow seven inches, nor grow twenty pounds. He wasn't getting any younger, either. Now that he had lost his ability to heal from wounds—

  He touched the tender spot beneath his arm, where Valdemar's blade had cut him, feeling the smooth skin. What could that mean? The ache of the wound in his chest told him without needing to check that it still stayed with him, but he hadn't kept a single wound from the duel.

  Even his head was beginning to clear. He had to think clearly, and he'd never been able to do it on his back. Gunnar pushed himself up with what little remained of his strength, crawled over to the box that he used as a table.

  He tried not to remember the sight of Deirdre, sitting on the box. The distraction of thinking about her was unwelcome, when he wanted nothing more than to think about getting his revenge.

  No, he wouldn't be able to become stronger than Valdemar. There was no chance of that, regardless of how much time he had. Quickness, he had always had. If he weren't injured, Gunnar thought, then he might have been able to take the berserker in a straight fight.

  But that wasn't what had happened, and he had chosen the time of the duel himself. There were no excuses to be made, he'd lost a fair duel.

  He'd have to have a plan, and it would have to account for time to heal his wounds. How long that would be, he wasn't sure. But it would be enough to make sure that he did heal. Sitting up might not have been the best course of action, with the way that the strain had screamed through his entire body.

  He couldn't afford to kick the can down the road any further, though. He needed a plan, and a plan that he could start working on now.

  Gunnar tried to think through the situation. The bad news, well, he'd already figured out. Valdemar had always been a physical specimen. Had always insisted on trying to take power, too, Gunnar noted silently.