by Lola Rebel
In either case, they cut a thick swath through the forest, now. Anyone could have seen that someone—or, more pointedly, many someones—had been through the area. Gunnar's concern now was trying to stay far enough away that he wouldn't get spotted right away.
He was skirting wide when he saw that they'd stopped a bit early. Earlier than he would have, certainly. The question of why didn't worry him nearly so much as the fact that he couldn't afford to show up with the sun as high in the sky as it was.
There must have been something to it, and Gunnar couldn't entirely shake the fear that the reason had everything to do with him. He needed to make sure that he wasn't walking into a trap, and that meant taking things slowly.
He made two circles, one at the edge of the clearing, trying to stay out of sight, and the second further out. Nothing, and that worried him.
So the answer, the only answer he could see, was to think about their next move. They were heading more-or-less straight, and had been for days. They'd even passed by smaller towns in their movements. Not surprising, given Valdemar's desire for the greatest glory.
No, he'd much rather lay siege to a big city, Gunnar thought. Even if he could only make it into the outskirts before being routed, he would think that would be that much better. Foolish, but predictable.
So it made sense to get a day's start on them and see what they would find. He set the horse going in the right direction and let it go, keeping himself down and tight for fear of falling from its back. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing. He'd been concerned for no reason. A half-hour of nothing. Three quarters.
He was so surprised to find something that he nearly rode straight through the camp before he realized what he was seeing. The men weren't particularly well-set for a night out in the wild, but then they were natives. Perhaps they had no special fear for rain. Perhaps they were so used to rain that they didn't worry about it.
But even without tents, he could see them going back until the trees were too thick to see through. There must have been a hundred of them, or more.
Thanks to his hesitation and his poor handle of the horse, he stood still, high atop his horse, for a long time. Both of them looking at each other, each as surprised as the other.
The English sorted themselves out first, and then everything started moving at once. Gunnar wheeled the horse back around and kicked it into a hard gallop, heading into the wrong direction.
This was bad. Very bad. He heard an arrow thud into a tree, another barely missing. A third, though, hit home, deep in his leg. He managed to keep his composure, didn't cry out, and pushed the horse harder, the wind blowing through his hair.
This was bad. No matter how good they were, the men that they had remaining, some thirty-odd, couldn't take on a force this size. Even if they were poorly organized. After they'd seen Gunnar, they would report back to whoever commanded them, and more troops would be sent.
Troops less likely to react as slowly as these had. No, they absolutely couldn't go this way. They'd be killed to a man. Gunnar couldn't afford to keep waiting. He'd have to go back, and it had to be tonight.
Nineteen
Deirdre tried to calm her breathing and settled down with her legs dangling out of the wagon. The boy hadn't been as careful as perhaps he should have, but she wasn't about to complain.
The feeling of the air on her face, the wind in her hair, was oddly comforting. If he was going to let her feel it, and all it cost her was some juvenile looks, then she was perfectly ready to let him look. Any more, and she'd have to stop it.
Just like she needed to stop being passed around from one side to the other, used as a pawn to position the other side. She had waited far too long to start trying to use her connection to Gunnar to her advantage, and once she had, it had been easy to start thinking that she was done.
That mindset was exactly what had gotten her into this situation in the first place. She needed to start thinking again, start strategizing. What would her teacher have said if she saw Deirdre trying to make herself as scarce as possible?
'Always think three steps ahead,' she had said. Here Deirdre was, risking everything on a single gamble, and wiping her hands of strategy like it wasn't something to worry about.
Well, she was over that. It was time for her to start thinking hard, and do it before Leif and Eirik came back to hear what she'd found out.
The thing that bothered her was Valdemar's threat. If he was going to poison Gunnar as soon as they saw each other, then why did it help him to have them learning about it first? He was right, in a way. There was little, if anything, that they could do to stop it.
But what did that matter? He wouldn't have done it just to boast, she thought. He seemed to be thinking, to have planned and connived. He'd waited until Gunnar was at his weakest to strike.
When Valdemar had seen that Gunnar wasn't going to have a moment of weakness in a timely fashion, he'd gone out of his way to make sure that one would happen for him. No, he wasn't just boasting. He wouldn't just boast, not when things were tense. Not just before the critical moments.
So what was his plan? They would have to react to a threat like that. No avoiding it, they would have to. They could find Gunnar, warn him. But how could they, unless they knew where he was? Perhaps that was Valdemar's plan—to see if they immediately reported it.
But Deirdre knew better. He wouldn't bide his time one instant longer than necessary. If Gunnar was near, lying in wait, then he would have already struck. If Valdemar didn't know that about his former leader, then he was a fool, and he had known Gunnar longer than Deirdre.
No, it couldn't be that. So what else?
They could warn Gunnar, certainly, or they could prevent the stabbing. But if someone could stay his blade, then Gunnar himself would be the man. He was as quick as anything that Deirdre had ever seen, and he'd been on battlefields since she was barely waist-high.
To stop it at the moment of the strike, then, wouldn't make any sense at all. They wouldn't be that foolish. To stop it before? They could attack Valdemar in a gang, overcome him with numbers. But more than a few would stand with him because they were loyal to him in particular, and as many more would defend him because he was the leader.
What, then? They would try to take the poison, or at least learn the truth of the poison. An ambush waiting for them, they could be painted as traitors and trying to sabotage equipment. That would be enough to effectively and permanently silence any rebellion on their part.
Deirdre watched the sun setting, the purple streaks spreading through the sky. They would be coming by soon, and she had a decision to make. They would come to the same conclusion she had. That much was clear.
If she told them that he had planned a poisoning, then they would realize that there was no way to warn Gunnar, no way to stop the blade at the point of impact, so they had to remove the threat of poison. It was why Valdemar had come up with the plan.
If she didn't tell them, then Valdemar would know. That would be a problem in itself, because as much as they promised to protect her, they weren't ever-present and they weren't capable of perfection.
With Valdemar's servants constantly surrounding them, it would only take a short moment for her to find a knife in her breast. An instant of slack attention, and she could be a dead woman.
She had another gamble to make, then. Another choice. Would she trust them, or would she make the choice for herself? She'd already made that mistake once. She needed to get out of here, and the first step to that was making sure that she was still alive for Gunnar to come and rescue her, when he caught up.
She heard them coming a long time before they walked into view. Heard their voices as they tried to play the part of casually inspecting camp, giving themselves an excuse for being near the medical cart and the prisoner.
"You met with Valdemar," Eirik began, waiting for her to fill in the blanks.
"He's planning to ambush you," she said softly. "When you go into his tent to steal something."
"You have to," she said softly. "He's discovered a poison. If Gunnar takes a wound with a weapon coated in it, he's as mortal as any man."
The men reacted slowly, but finally Eirik spoke. "Is that true?"
"He told me to warn you about the poison, and that was all."
"Hm."
"He'll expect you to try to steal it, or destroy it, and then he'll be waiting. I'd stake my life on it."
"And why not just ignore it?"
"If he thinks I haven't told you, then he'll kill me."
"I'd like to see him try that," Leif growled. "I've kept a close watch, though I don't think you'll have heard it."
"I believe you, but how closely can you watch? A moment to duck behind the wagon and a blade in the hand, and I'm a dead woman."
Eirik's jaw set. "If the Gods will it, that will have to do. If Leif says he watches, then you are safe."
She nodded. They started to leave, keeping their thoughts to themselves. A thought made her call them back.
"How soon can you be ready for a fight?"
"How soon do you need us to be?"
"I could tell him that you told me you would steal it tonight. If he believes me, then he'll be waiting. All it would take would be one of you to break in. The other two could lay in wait. A double-ambush."
"How do we know he'll believe you?"
"Leave that up to me," she said, trying to hide the fact that she wondered the same question.
She wasn't even sure how to get him to talk to her on her own schedule. She would have to hope that he had an agent watching, and that he would call her soon after they left. Otherwise, she would have to get creative and find a way to signal him.
She closed her eyes as they left, took a deep breath. This was going to be quite a plan, and she had to hope to heaven that it would go off without a hitch.
Otherwise, someone was going to get hurt.
She was surprisingly calm about the fact that she knew it would be her.
Gunnar's first instinct was to go in, but he tempered it. He'd learned a long time ago that his instincts needed to be guided by his mind. That was the only thing that made him a good leader, the only advantage he knew that he would have over Valdemar.
He shifted on his perch and looked around. How far would he have to go to escape the English ambush completely? He could still hear, at a distance, what sounded like people padding through the forest. They would find his horse a mile to the north. Perhaps they'd already found it.
Then they would decide that he would be in the area. But how far would they range, and how close would they look? He had to gamble that he was in a good position; up in the tree, he could just see the camp.
If the English approached it from any direction, he would see it easily. When he approached himself, anyone with a good view would be able to see it just as well. It was too early for sneaking.
He'd picked the spot because they had already marched where the line of torches would be. He would be approaching straight toward one. Anyone in a good position to see him would be looking from the light into the dark—barely able to see a thing in the thick inky black of night.
If he were caught, though, or the English were to find him and signal the rest, then it wouldn't mean anything. He couldn't warn anyone of anything, and he wouldn't make it in to get his answers.
He regarded his options, considering and turning the problem over in his mind. If he moved, he only opened himself up to more people seeing him. He couldn't risk it, so he would have to wait. He looked around, trying to move as little as possible, until he could see where the sun sat low on the horizon, already dipped nearly completely below.
But it was not time yet. He took a deep breath, waited, and watched. No one came or left. He was thankful for that, at least. No sign of treason, based on a few hours' watch. It wasn't conclusive, not in the slightest, but it was some comfort at least.
As the sun continued to circle around the other side of the world, and darkness fell, the sounds of English looking for him diminished until all was silent save for the faint sounds of voices coming from the Dane camp.
But still Gunnar waited and watched. Men came out to stand watch, and he examined their position and where they swept their eyes. How much they were paying attention, and to what.
Something was going to happen in camp, he was sure of that. Though three men stood at the corners of camp they looked over their shoulders too often. Things were tense, and something was going to happen soon.
Gunnar could easily wait all night, wait until it happened and use the diversion to slip in without a lick of trouble. But without knowing what might be happening, he couldn't afford that risk. It was possible that what Gunnar had feared had exactly happened, that the band had split internally.
It didn't take long to put together a list of the men who would be upset to see him left behind, add to that the forced marches and the fact that as far as most of them knew he was injured for the first time they'd known of.
Then take the ones who wouldn't think that way, Valdemar's lackeys, and… the sides weren't hard to figure. Not at all. If that was the case, it wasn't hard to believe that Valdemar might find the opportunity to apply pressure in just the right place. A knife might find the right throat in the darkness.
He couldn't keep waiting, not any more. Gunnar kept himself low, and moved slowly. Painfully slow, through the grass. It was only twenty yards from the treeline to the camp, but it took him the better part of ten minutes to cross the gap.
Taking care was important. He couldn't afford to be caught before the time was right. Not before he'd warned Leif of the danger lurking ahead of them, and even then being caught was only a last-resort effort.
He took a deep breath and started moving again, having to force himself to move with an aching, unnatural slowness. But when he made it past the distracted guards, he already had his reward.
He heard the sound of footfalls from around a tent, coming towards him. A patrol? Suddenly the time for slow moving was gone in an instant, and he had to take a few quick, loping steps until he was around another tent.
With luck they wouldn't have been listening for him and they'd not take a quick jag over to where he now crouched, waiting. The question of which tent he wanted hadn't crossed his mind before, but now that he waited for the footsteps to pass by, he realized that he had no idea.
They weren't marked, after all. Everyone knew, because you saw the man set it up. But not Gunnar. He cursed himself for the oversight. Most men would still be in the middle of camp, of course. The drinking and relaxing, what little they had of it, would go on for a little while longer at least.
But he couldn't risk showing himself there. Perhaps a peek would at least tell him if he was right to worry. A quick glance to either side told him that no one watched him at the moment, and then he was across the way, and a short few seconds later he had a good line of sight.
Not as many as normal, he decided, but it didn't take more than a moment to realize that he was only looking at half of them. All of these were Valdemar's loyalists. A quick look around showed nothing of those who would chafe under his leadership.
It was too odd, and yet he hadn't seen any sign that the other half had split off. They'd just all, in a bunch it seemed, gone off to their tents. Gunnar listened closely for a minute to see if he heard the sound of stirring in the tent beside him.
Then he moved on to the next, and the next. Some sign that someone occupied it. Finally he caught one, and ducked down to look inside through the bottom edge, but—nothing. Magnus wouldn't have the authority to help him, but he sat on his bedroll, legs crossed and his sword leaning against his shoulder.
He looked ready for a fight.
Then Gunnar did the same again, listening then looking. A second wrong guess, but on the third he was lucky. He pulled the bottom up a bit and slipped himself inside. It made ple
nty of noise, but by the time he was in Leif had already realized who it was.
"Gunnar!" He whispered. The surprise wasn't hard to hear in his voice.
"Back from the dead," he answered, though the jest didn't touch his expression.
"Very much so! What's happened to you?"
"That's not important, right now. You have to know. There's an English ambush waiting for you. A hundred strong, at least."
Leif cursed under his breath. "You are sure?"
"I've seen them myself." He touched his thigh where they'd grazed his leg, but it hadn't healed yet. He didn't have time to worry at it right now, he had important things to take care of yet.
Leif nodded silently. "You should join us," he said after a long moment. "Tonight, we rid ourselves of a thorn in our side. Valdemar has a plan to ambush him, but we've tricked him."
"How have you tricked him?"
"Your witch gave him false information, or so she says. We've got more men waiting. When things get ugly, we give the signal, and nearly a full score of men descend on his little ambush."
Another question that Deirdre would have to answer, he thought. She'd been a busy little bee since he had been gone. If it wasn't already certain, his next stop had just been decided for him.
Gunnar shook his head. He had things to take care of.
Twenty
Deirdre laid with her eyes closed and tried to sleep. Her ears strained to hear the noises outside, the sound of the Northmen speaking their strange Northern language. It distracted her, made it harder to sleep, but she couldn't stop herself, either.
Any minute, a shout would go up. Surprise and alarm, it would overtake the camp, and then everything would go to hell. She'd been too lax. She'd let things follow the course that everyone else wanted and now that she wanted to play she found boogeymen in every dark corner.
The entire force was arrayed against her, and she'd given them all the time in the world to choose their positions, to hide their traps. Finally she sat up and rubbed the sting from her eyes. She wasn't going to sleep. That much was clear. So she might as well look out at the stars.
