by Amy Faye
But instead of punching through, the camp smashed into them, broke the defenses, and then…
Gunnar cursed. They should have known better. But then again, he should have known better, too. The chances of the men turning down a fight, even one that they couldn't win—Gunnar realized quickly how foolish he had been to hope against hope that they'd do what he wanted them to.
If he didn't get down there now, it would be a bloodbath. But worse than that—Deirdre was there. If he was lucky, then the English soldiers would recognize her as a prisoner. They'd let her go.
Gunnar had just seen first-hand, though, that he couldn't hope on being lucky.
At best, he would have to make his own luck. He put his hand on the unfamiliar English sword and let out a roar. He'd need all the strength he could get to cross the distance in time to make a difference in the fight.
And whether he made a difference or not to his men didn't matter, either, he realized.
He had a promise to keep.
Twenty-Four
Don't go any faster, Deirdre prayed. Whatever happened, everything would be fine if they could just keep going slow. Slow meant there wasn't any danger. Slow meant everything kept going as expected.
Slow meant that Gunnar had been wrong about what was waiting for them in the trees.
She looked nervously to see what sort of signs she could see. If she was lucky, then she had all day to herself, and then in the evening she'd be taken away. If she wasn't lucky, she had at least an hour before trouble was going to start. She didn't feel lucky, that much was certain.
The time gave her plenty of space to think about the night before. About what had happened—the first thought to jump into her mind brought a heavy blush to her cheeks. She blinked the thought away.
He'd said something else. Asked her about the poppies. If she believed him, then he had seen someone putting up flowers that marked their trail. But it hadn't been her. She still had all of them—well, those she hadn't used.
That meant that either someone had been trying to leave a trail for Gunnar, or for someone else entirely. Deirdre wondered at it for a long moment. Eirik, Ulf, and Balgrouf—they were certainly Gunnar's allies. She couldn't consider them helpful to her, but they had at least both wanted him to make it back.
But she couldn't just let herself think that things were going to be alright. That would be all well and good, but it wasn't remotely safe.
Could it be that they marked the way for someone else? Every friend that the Northmen had was in that camp right now. Even Gunnar was dubiously friendly. Anyone else, they wouldn't be following to help out.
She couldn't know for sure, but it seemed unlikely that they had someone else coming along for backup. Gunnar certainly hadn't thought so.
The wagon lurched hard, nearly sending Deirdre sprawling onto the floor, and they kicked into higher speed. No luck after all, she thought frustratedly. It was a good thing that she'd known to expect it, or she might be afraid.
Gunnar had warned her that they were going to find an ambush. He hoped they'd circle around, but she didn't find that likely. The next best outcome would be that they broke through without too much fighting. From what Gunnar said, there was no hope that they were going to fight to a victory.
Deirdre knew Valdemar, though, and she didn't have any illusions. More than likely, he thought he alone could fight the battle—and win. It would be an ugly realization that even if he did, his men most certainly couldn't.
The Northmen, who had continued pretending injury through the morning, sat themselves up and braced against the sides of the wagon. Seeing them moving so easily brought the blush back to her face when she realized that if anyone heard her the night before, it was those two.
If they had heard, they gave no indication of it, holding on tight to the seats and the front-side of the cart and waited to see what would happen. Seeing them holding on so tight, Deirdre realized that they had exactly the right idea. If the wagon were to tip, or flip, she'd be in a world of hurt.
And then the cart bounced hard as it went over a large stone. Deirdre's view out the back immediately told her that her assessment had been wrong. That wasn't any sort of rock. An English soldier lay on the ground, his head caked with bright-red blood.
He wasn't moving.
She had a moment to worry as the cart slowed, and then stopped seemingly on its own. Fighting was going on all around them, on all sides. It was a strange place to choose to put a cart, she thought at first, until she realized that whoever had been running the team had likely either died or jumped off to join the fight.
A young-looking Northman, brown hair worn long, went down under the attack of a pair of English soldiers who seemed to then decide that their pairing hadn't been as much use as it seemed, and split off.
One of them saw the tent and seemed to realize what it meant. She had to hope that he was going to be intercepted before he arrived to ruin her last hopes. As she felt the wagon dip to the rear with a man's foot, she knew that her hopes had been in vain.
As he came in Deirdre pressed herself back against the canvas side, trying to get herself as far away as she could, but it was no use. He ducked his head and came through. He looked nothing like the others that Deirdre had seen. Nothing like the men back in Malbeck. This wasn't a farmer who had been handed a sword.
His nose looked twice-broken, and never set properly, and he had a scar on his cheek that she guessed wasn't left by an overzealous lover. His sword, though, was still a dull steely gray—no blood on it, yet.
Both the wounded Northerners started to raise themselves up to meet the attack. Seeing one armed, the soldier turned his attention to the other in the moment of surprise and thrust his arm out to catch him square in the chest.
A movement, almost reflexive, sent the blade wide into the younger Viking's shoulder. He might have been able to respond, if not for the English boot that came down hard on his head, sending him back to the ground. The blade didn't miss a second time.
The one with the knife—the one Deirdre hadn't disarmed, she thought glumly—gave him a little more trouble. By the time he'd dealt with the other, the English soldier had a fight on his hands. The knife-wielding Northlander had made his feet, and his blade was streaking towards the Englishman's face, left uncovered by the metal cap he wore.
A quick duck back and the blade was past. The English abandoned his blade in the dying boy's chest and planted a steel-clad fist into the Viking's nose, which came away pouring blood onto his face.
To his credit, the Northman didn't let up. He pulled the knife back in and made another stab, this one trying to arc wide before darting into the Englishman's armpit. The Englishman stepped in and jabbed his forehead into the man's face again. This time he couldn't keep his footing and stumbled back, then hit the bench and fell onto it.
Deirdre felt the movement, felt it jar her back to reality, and remembered the knife that she had kept secreted, reached for it with her tied hands and hoped that she wasn't seen doing it.
The Englishman took the opportunity to pull out a little dirk of his own, more suitable for the close quarters of the wagon. Another thrust missed badly, the Viking's vision completely ruined by the repeated hits to the head. The Englishman didn't miss his own riposte.
Last he turned on Deirdre. She had the knife in her hands, now, tucked to hide behind her arm.
"Please don't hurt me," she begged, her panic very real.
Where was Gunnar now that she needed him? He was supposed to protect her. This wasn't supposed to happen.
She could see the Englishman's eyes move up and down her body, lingering for a moment on where her dress now hung open lewdly.
"Got no sympathy for a Viking whore," he said, and spit. "But I'll make it quick."
Deirdre saw him hesitating, turning the knife over in his hand, but she knew that he wouldn't hesitate forever. She felt the wagon dipping just as his hand started to move, and she moved herself. Leapt into the Englishman's chest,
knocking his stab wide, and then she used both hands to push the knife in as deep as she could.
Then the flaps separated again, and she pulled her little knife free of his ribs, slick with blood to deal with them as well.
Gunnar's lungs already burned with the exertion, his legs moving as fast as they could carry him. Each stride felt as if he might not be able to move his feet fast enough to catch him before he tumbled to the ground. Yet, like clockwork, they fell in place just as he needed them to. That was how it had to be.
He could see the English descending on the Danes, and could see that there were fewer than he had seen the night before. Perhaps, seeing him, they'd anticipated a move to skirt around, and spread their forces.
It might have been enough to save them, but he didn't have time to worry about it. He saw the cart driver slump down, in spite of the distance. Could see clearly that he was dead. No use in worrying about him.
He had promised her safety. She'd been right to be upset with him when he thought that he could keep his promise. Now he had no such illusions. There was no way for him to keep her safe if he weren't there. He pushed himself harder. No time to worry about that any more, he had to get there.
He tried to will his legs to move faster, but they had nothing left to give. He caught an Englishman, coming up behind as Gunnar's men fanned out to deal with the attack. They should've kept moving. With this few, they would have made it through, easily.
His shoulder dug into the man's back, and he turned, too late to stop Gunnar's charge but in time to watch the big man spearing him to the ground. Gunnar was up in an instant, his hand moving to the sword that he'd stolen.
He didn't have time to fight. He had more than two hundred paces to the wagon. No time to get caught up, but he couldn't protect Deirdre if he arrived swarmed by English soldiers. He'd already had to learn that lesson. It didn't need to be taught a second time.
The blade slipped into the Englishman easily, and Gunnar pulled it back free without stopping to admire his work. He was tired. Too tired to keep going at the pace he had been taking, but the danger was too great to do anything else.
He took the hilt between his two hands and caught an approaching English soldier in the throat, but he wasn't quick enough to catch the second. He took his long blade in one metal-gloved hand, halfway up the blade, and made a short, jabbing stab.
It was all Gunnar could do to smack the blade away. His wounds still weren't healing, and he couldn't begin to afford the risk. Whatever had kept him going all these years, something had changed when he needed it the most.
As he turned the blade aside he brought the sword-hand crashing down on the man's head, thumping him with the big, round pommel. The moment that it took him to regain his bearings was all it took for Gunnar to start his blade moving.
The parry was ready, but not fast enough. Gunnar's boot caught his knee and sent the Englishman to the ground. His sword cut a deep notch in the man's shoulder, and when Gunnar pulled the blade away he fell face-first into the grass.
Gunnar started to move once more, keeping himself moving as quickly as he could while taking a complete stock of the battlefield. The opportunity to dash in as fast as he could, if there had ever been one, was lost.
He wanted a shield. It would have been easier, and safer. The strange weight imbalance, carrying a blade in one hand with the other free, was disorienting.
Archers dotted the trees, but they didn't fire. That was a small blessing—if by some miracle the English were routed, then the archers would pick off the remaining Vikings without trouble.
Between himself and the cart, two Englishmen fought one of the younger fighters Gunnar had brought with him. He'd been inexperienced, but he had a knack for fighting that might have developed into something, if he didn't turn away a blade just in time for the second one's sword to ram through him.
The other wasted no time in turning, seeing the wagon, and moving over toward it. He was a priority, Gunnar thought, but then there were the two boys in there. They might be able to keep her alive. Might be able to win a fight. Even injured, Gunnar hadn't brought anyone he didn't trust in a fight.
The second turned and immediately saw Gunnar. The man let out a yell and readied his sword, bringing it around in a wide arc like a club. Gunnar considered running past for a moment. He wouldn't have made it, he decided. If he tried to run past, it would give the man plenty of time to pick his moment, and then what use would he be to Deirdre?
No, he would need to deal with the man. The blade swept in a mean arc toward his shield-arm, and it took every ounce of discipline Gunnar had to ignore the instinct to raise his arm to block.
At the last instant he took a step back and leaned away, hoping the blade would swing past, but the soldier saw it before he was too late and caught the swing. Gunnar thrust, and the parry came around. Quick and easy.
Gunnar took a breath and tried to still himself for a moment. The parry had gone wide. If he was quick, he could pin the man's arm down, and then deal with him shortly. He tucked his shoulder down and caught the man's arm above the elbow, blocking him as he tried to turn the sword for a back-handed swing.
Both of them went down into the grass and Gunnar used his free hand to pound once, twice, three times into the Englishman's face, until he felt something break. He didn't have time to deal with this.
Deirdre was in danger. He was back on his feet again and running. Leapt up to the buckboard and ducked under—the Englishman inside stumbled back, a knife stuck in his abdomen. He seemed confused for a moment as the light left his eyes. Deirdre took that instant to turn the knife on Gunnar.
Twenty-Five
It took her a moment before she could bring herself to drop the knife. He'd played with her so many times, seeing him there now brought up a confusing jumble of feelings. Finally Deirdre slumped to the bench, surrounded by the bodies of the men who had just died in the cart, breaths coming in sharp bouts.
Gunnar was worried about her, she could see that. Whatever she felt, he seemed to feel responsible for her. She took some pride in that.
No matter how she breathed, it seemed she couldn't get enough air. Her head was getting light. She realized dimly that she was hyperventilating, but she couldn't stop. She must be in shock, but the realization did little to calm her.
No, she was experiencing unbridled, uncontrolled panic, and there was little at all that she could do about it but wait and hope that it would go away. The feeling settled into her stomach and stayed there, holding out any potential for rational thought. Any hope of figuring out what to do next.
She could hear something outside and she could see Gunnar turn, out of the corner of her eye, and step off the back of the cart. For a moment she thought that she saw his blade, painted red with blood, but she couldn't be certain.
The clanging of steel, though—that seemed to bring out her attention. Her head peeked out. She had a small space of safety surrounding her, perhaps thirty feet from the back. She clutched the dagger and stepped out onto the back step.
The grass under her feet was a comfort, starkly contrasting the scenes of chaos and death around her. The Northmen worked mainly in pairs, and she was surprised to see that few Vikings lay on the ground, beside perhaps a dozen English.
She tried to pick out the faces she recognized, but couldn't. Except Gunnar, who was beside the cart, trying to untangle his blade from an Englishman's arm, where he'd caught it and now held it firm.
Deirdre called out to him as the Englishman's other arm came 'round in a wide arc, aiming for the Northman's scalp with a sword. Gunnar's head dropped, letting the English attack sail harmlessly by, and then abandoned his own sword to grab the Englishman's sword arm.
Gunnar pulled him to the ground and twisted, and then with a pop that made Deirdre's stomach do a flip, the Englishman's sword-arm stopped moving. Gunnar took his time taking one of the swords, and when he was finished the soldier wasn't fighting any more.
Deirdre waited for him to
turn and regard her. He only took a moment to look at her before he started to move to intercept another English soldier.
She stayed at a safe distance, turning and watching and trying to make sure that she wasn't about to be taken. Hoping that she didn't draw too much attention, and that if she did that the English would think her no special threat. She was unarmed, after all, and a woman.
"I want to go home," she said. Gunnar didn't respond, just continued fighting. He hit a man in the face and left his lip a bloody mess. Turned aside a strike and seemingly in the same motion chopped into the man's shoulder. The violence and gore, she found, had disturbingly little effect on her.
He turned, and for a moment Deirdre thought that he would respond to her, but as his eyes swept past she realized that he was scanning the battlefield. She turned to see what he looked at, and saw nothing. What he was looking for, she couldn't have begun to guess.
Still he didn't respond. She followed him a few paces and he stepped up behind an Englishman who had been turned around in a fight with Eirik, and thrust his blade through-and-through. The men turned and mechanically, as if rehearsed many times over, they cut him apart. Then a third.
Deirdre spun around, watching from every angle. She had to leave. This was craziness. If they stayed much longer, then Valdemar would realize what was happening, and he would make sure that she couldn't leave. He needed her. There were too many injured now to be completely without medical help.
But that didn't mean that she was prepared to be the one to give it. She had to leave, and if that meant that some injured men would be hurt, her heart went out to them but it didn't change anything.
She nearly screamed when she felt a hand on her shoulder, pulled away and flailed with the knife she hadn't remembered keeping. Her hands hurt, gripping it so tight—she let it fall when she saw it was Gunnar. Too tired to keep holding it.
