by Lola Rebel
That had always calmed her down, no matter what had happened to her. Nothing was nearly the equal to what she had to deal with now, but it was something. More than she had before, at least.
She slid her feet off the back and sat. Her feet kicked forward and back, swinging naturally, and she craned her head back. There was the archer, there was the snake and the ladle. She counted off the constellations. The sky was unusually clear, and it gave her an amazing view of the stars.
But even that wasn't enough. She was too focused on everything else, too impatient. Something was about to happen, everyone could feel it. Their voices told her so, even if she couldn't understand their words. More than likely nobody would talk about it even if she could have understood them.
It was something that each of them would ignore until it was just too late. Or until something happened that they could react to. She could imagine them all waiting, each trying to look as if they were casual, but all of them thinking of what would almost certainly come next.
Certainly, Valdemar would have put the word out, at least to a few, of what his plan was. Even if things went exactly the way that he wanted, then Leif and Ulf wouldn't go quietly. Eirik was an odd one, unpredictable.
So some of them were waiting for something, maybe they knew what to expect, maybe they didn't. But the tension of the night would tell them that whatever it was, they would need their blades for it. And the others would pick up on their tension, and it would only make things that much worse.
Her mind drifted to the question of what would happen next. At some point, one of the three would sneak into Valdemar's tent. They'd probably find an excuse to get him out, first. That would be the smart way, but she couldn't begin to say if they would. It was safer to assume they would.
He would let it happen, because his plan needed to move forward. Then the sneaking would happen, and then the curtain would fall, and then a second and a third until the cards were all on the table.
Who would be holding the trump, at the end of it, she wondered? It was an unpredictable situation to say the least. If she had succeeded in her little play, and Valdemar was deposed, then she'd gambled the right way this time.
She cleared the thought out of her mind. There wasn't time to think about the good outcomes that might happen. She had let herself grow slack. She needed to be planning for when things went wrong. The less that she thought through the future, the more that they would go wrong for her.
She had to make up for it by thinking ahead, by making plans. There was the question, of course, of what happened if they got rid of Valdemar, but something went wrong. It wouldn't take an incredible deduction to realize that she was behind it, and it would leave her in the same position that she'd been in before.
A knife in the dark, all that they have to do is let their protection slip for an instant and she was dead. Would that bother them? Perhaps it would wound their pride, but Deirdre doubted that they would lose much sleep over it. No, she couldn't rely on any sort of charity coming from the Northmen. It was safer that way.
If that happened, then she would have to find a way out, and fast. The boys, who continued to pretend quite valiantly that they were injured, slept behind her. She might be able to use one of them to free her, now that their wounds were healing.
She could cut herself free, and in the confusion of the split camp she could be gone. It would be easy, but then she would be in the same position that she'd been in before Gunnar left. A hundred miles or more from home, and nothing to stop someone from waylaying her on the road.
Preferable to death, though. Infinitely preferable to death. She had to keep thinking. Had to keep moving through the problem in her head. Slow, methodical, patterned thinking. That was how she was going to overcome this.
She wasn't good at it. She'd never practiced, never wanted to. She had never faced a challenge like this one before, and now she was beginning to regret having never given a good deal of thought to it before, when her teacher had hounded her endlessly about it.
She pursed her lips. If Valdemar was caught off-guard, it would be a quick thing to have him die before he could alert anyone. More likely, he'd see it coming at least a moment or two before the lethal blow, long enough to give a cry and start things going in the camp.
She followed the logic to its conclusion. What if she was wrong, though? What if he wasn't caught off-guard? What if he didn't see it coming a few moments before the critical moment?
What if he saw the whole thing coming? What if he'd thought a step ahead of her, and had allowed her one out? That out was simple, just tell them about the trap. She'd be doing exactly what they wanted, exactly what he wanted, and she would think that it was clever.
It put her back into his pocket, as deep as she could go. So deep that she'd never be able to get away from the appearance that she was loyal to him. The thought was jarring, but she had to keep herself in check. There was no time for worrying about whether or not she had stepped into a trap.
Now she had to figure out what she was going to do to get out of it, if she had. Deirdre closed her eyes. No time for looking at the stars now. She turned, pressed her back against the bench seat and pulled her feet back up into the wagon.
If that were the case, he would have planned for it. She was supposed to think that she had duped him. He would act shocked and betrayed when the hammer came down on the rebellious Northmen. Then the threats would come.
But would he mean any of it? Not likely. She'd done his work for him, rounding up any and all dissidents in the camp and serving them up on a silver platter. He should be thanking her.
If that happened, then she would be alone again, and up against a much more worrying opponent. Someone who had seen through her more than once. She would be lucky if she managed to make it out. She certainly wouldn't be able to keep ignoring her role in all of it, wouldn't able to keep pretending that it wasn't her responsibility to make moves for herself.
Finally she was beginning to feel the sides, all pressing in at once. She should have started this sooner. Should have thought all of this sooner. Now she was trapped in a corner, and everything was pressing on her.
The worst situation of all to be in, if she was dealing with a smart opponent she may well be doomed no matter what she did. The only options available to her would be ones that led to her own ruin. She had to hope against hope that there was more to it than either of them realized, because without it she was already a dead woman in the worst case scenario.
It was always a worst-case scenario.
It occurred to her that she hadn't heard any movement outside for a while. The voices continued in their strained conversation, though fewer and fewer seemed to be speaking. It felt as if an eternity was passing.
Some time tonight, it had to happen. They'd planned it, the whole thing had been agreed on. If she had given Valdemar bad information, would he punish her for it? How badly? She had to assume that he would. It was the only safe thing to think.
The noise of someone moving beside the wagon was soft. She almost didn't hear it, but with the tension of the night, her ears strained for even the tiniest sound.
And then someone came around, his face twisted in a mixed scowl of frustration and concentration. Deirdre couldn't keep silent as the wave of relief swept over her.
"Gunnar."
The cart wasn't hard to find. The prisoners were kept in the front wagon, with the medical wagon tied back behind. Not much different from how he had set it up himself, he thought. Good.
He kept himself low, even as he moved past them. Nobody would be watching, here. What was the point of guarding them closely? The prisoners were all spineless, and if they tried to escape then the perimeter guards would see them easily.
But if he were found before he was ready, Gunnar knew, he would be in a good deal of trouble. He turned the corner silently, came around, ready for whatever he saw but most prepared to shake Deirdre awake.
He needed his answers, and he was going to g
et them, regardless of whether it ruined her beauty sleep. Why had she betrayed him? Why had she then left behind the signal flowers? Why was he taking wounds again, and why had he been healing before?
When he saw her, though, he wasn't prepared for the feeling that shot through him. Relief surged through as he saw her face, as he saw that she was still sitting upright. She wasn't hurt, not too badly. He felt the frustration and the hardness fading away.
He wanted nothing more than to get his answers, and then he would move on. Painless and easy, no problems. He could hardly keep the smile off his face, but he forced himself to stay silent. As he put a foot on the buckboard and swung himself up, ignoring the pain of the cut in his leg and the soreness in his body, she spoke his name.
"What's going on here," he began. Simple, direct. It was the right way to go, he thought.
"Everything's gone crazy since you left," she said, her eyes frantic as she searched for the words.
He sneered at the choice of words. Since he left, indeed. The hard edge that he had felt waning sharpened again, reminding him what exactly he had been upset about. Yes, he had left. That was the right way to put it.
Why had he left, of course? Well that was another issue, nothing to be worried about. No, why would that be an issue?
"What sort of crazy?"
"Leif, Ulf, and Eirik, they have been planning something."
"That much is obvious," he whispered, tersely. "Tell me what they're planning."
He wanted to hear it from her lips, to see if it matched with what he'd heard. If she were playing a game, trying to keep both sides questioning what was happening, then she would like just as easily to him as she had to Valdemar, and more than likely as easily as she had to his comrades.
"They're trying to ambush Valdemar. I warned him where they would be, so that he would lie in wait. Tonight. But only after I told them first, so that they would be ready with an ambush of their own."
"He won't go quietly."
"No, I didn't think he would. Could he win?"
"I don't know. Can't ever be sure of victory. Or defeat."
He tried to think hard about what the next question would be. She was leaving things out, he knew that much. He hadn't heard enough to know for certain, not enough to challenge her on it. Nothing was a lie, per se, but the omissions were enough worry.
"Gunnar, take me away."
"How did you leave the trail for me?"
"Trail?"
The look, even in the low-light, that he saw in her eyes was clearly lack of understanding. She had no idea what he was talking about.
"Someone left a trail behind you. A line of flowers. The first I saw were red. You had some like them. I remembered the color."
Her brow furrowed and she leaned back, producing a single flower. "Like this?"
"That is the one."
She leaned back again, into the cranny where she had hidden her things. Then she looked harder, he could tell.
"Someone has been stealing my things."
"Is the knife still there?"
She nodded without having to check. More questions, still fewer answers. That wasn't at all what he'd wanted to hear. He frowned. The next question was the one with the finest point on it.
"Deirdre," he said, his voice low and hard. "What happened the night I… how did you put it? 'Left'?"
He watched her face tighten, her lips purse. Then he saw her lip trembling. "I'm so sorry."
"What did you do, Deirdre?"
"I had to," she said softly, her voice wavering.
"That's not good enough, Deirdre. What did you do?"
"I can't stay here, Gunnar. I'm not like you." She took a deep breath. "If I stay here through this craziness, I'll die. I want to go home."
She broke down in tears, but he said nothing. His eyes burned holes straight through her, waiting, so the two of them sat in silence, he watching her cry. He wanted to reach out to her. He could feel the tendrils of sympathy and doubt wrapping around his heart.
He pushed them out, kept himself focused. Kept the edge that she dulled in him. He needed to remember who he was, what he was capable of. Needed to be strong, whatever her role in the future would be.
As she picked her head back up, staring out the back of the wagon at nothing and wiped her eye with the pad of her thumb, he finally spoke.
"I was going to take control again. Take Valdemar out of power, kill him if needs be. Then you would have been free to leave. I told you this. You gave me to him, why? Is my word not worth something?"
The anger burned hotter and hotter as each word spilled from his lips, as she sank deeper into herself.
"I can't go back alone. I'd, I'd die. I can't."
"So you thought I would bring you back?"
She looked at him, hurt and upset. The sound of a voice crying out in the darkness broke the moment for both of them. So it was beginning, after all. He took a deep breath and put his hand on the hilt of the sword he had stolen from the soldier. Time to go to work, then. Time to make sure that he was doing what needed to be done.
He raised himself up, as full a height as he could and readied himself. He had no shield, but in the dark, he could take a few of them by surprise. It wouldn't be hard to take a shield from a dead man, if he had to.
If he couldn't, he was good enough with a sword to make it out alive. No, he was going to be completely fine. But no matter how many men, his own words echoed in his head. Can't be sure of victory.
Anything unexpected could shift the balance, and if it happened at just the right moment then the effect was multiplied that much. He smiled grimly. Any unexpected change, indeed.
The feeling of Deirdre's hand on his stopped him, made his shoulders relax before he knew he was doing it.
"Take me away. In the chaos, we can get away. Nobody would see us." He looked at her for a long moment, thinking about it. "We could be together, just the two of us. We would be safe, back home. Back where I used to live."
"It's just a burned-out town."
"I had a hut, hidden in the forest. I came straight from there to the town. I don't think it's gone. It'll still have all of my things, everything we need to make a life for ourselves. If not—we can find something. We can rebuild. Please, Gunnar. Take me away from here. Protect me."
His hand tightened on the pommel of the English sword.
"No."
Twenty-One
The words hit Deirdre like a slap. He'd barely even spoken, just growled the word out, his voice low enough that she could only barely hear him over the noise around them.
He started to step out and she took a firmer grasp on his arm, pulling him back. What was he thinking, leaving her here? She could get killed in all this craziness. He could get killed, for all she knew!
Then where would she be? Nowhere at all, with nothing to wait for. No irons in the fire, no plans for her escape. She'd be right back at the beginning, only with all of her resources spent and nothing to show for it.
She couldn't let him go. He was the only thing that was keeping her safe.
He pulled his arm free and turned to face her. "I'm going now."
"You can't. Please. Stay here. What if someone comes?"
"You've still got the knife. You know how to use it—stick the pointy end in as deep as you can. I know, I've felt you do it right."
The twinkle in his eye at the joke faded quickly, replaced by the hardness that she'd spent so much time looking at since he'd come back. "Please, I'm begging you."
She could feel her eyes stinging again, but she wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to let herself, not again. It wasn't time for tears, it was time to be an adult and make herself heard.
"I am leaving, and you won't stop me." He repeated the words, but he didn't move to leave, even as she waited, still hoping that he would change his mind, but knowing that the odds weren't good.
"Why? You promised me that you would keep me safe."
She watched him work his jaw, chewing on whe
ther or not to answer her. Finally he turned again, rubbing his thumb against the pommel thoughtfully. Facing out. Still he didn't move.
"I built this," he said. "These men, I picked them. I chose each with a purpose, to give us the best odds of coming home alive."
"The best odds of killing, you mean."
"Yes."
"So what? Just—let's go. Please. You can do that. I know you can do it, please just take me away."
"I told you that I can't."
His jaw was tight, now. She could tell that whatever doubt he'd been struggling with before, it was gone now. But even still he waited, though she couldn't begin to say what he was waiting for.
"Because, what, your ego can't take it?"
He took a moment to respond. "Because this is mine, and because he'll destroy them all, the way he's going. I put together the forty men most likely to survive the trip. Now, Valdemar's going to do his best to smash them against the hardest targets he can find."
He turned to her and she again realized how large, how powerful he was. It was constantly present, but some moments drove it home, and now she realized exactly how easy it would be for him to kill her if he chose to.
She looked at the sword-belt on his hip. It looked as if he'd stolen it, though she couldn't say from whom. What had happened while he was away? How had he caught them so quickly, after only a few short days?
Had he killed the previous owner of that belt, or had he just stolen it? Gunnar was many things, but she knew without needing to wonder that he was not afraid of killing. He was no thief, he was a warrior, and whoever was better at fighting deserved the sword as far as he was concerned.
His hands were bruised and torn, the remnants of a hard week. She looked up into his eyes, the hard eyes. A killer's eyes that looked at her like a candle that could be snuffed out at any moment. She didn't like him looking at her like that.
Then she shook her head. What had she been telling herself for the past three days? There was no time for sentimental Deirdre. No time for worrying and fussing. She had to start using her head. Thinking—and acting—to get herself out.
