by Faye, Amy
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 whether 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.
If he left, she was dead. She reminded herself of that. If Gunnar went out there, and things didn't go perfectly, that was the end of her hopes for ever being free again.
The thought helped her get herself under control. She set her jaw and started talking, started acting to get what she wanted.
"If you go out there now, it's the end."
He raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't look as if he'd changed his mind.
"I haven't been out there. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like half of those men are completely behind Valdemar. The other half, they're opposed."
"And?"
"And the men supporting him—they're not going to give up. They're going to keep fighting for him, come what may, because he's the leader. If you win, if you kill him, some will support you. Others, though, they'll keep wanting him in charge. There's no converting them."
He nodded. Nothing she'd said was in doubt. It was as basic as arithmetic.
"But what if you lose? You go out there, whether you live or die, if even one of them sees you, then he will keep believing that you were the rightful leader. Forever. He'll never stop fighting against Valdemar. They're loyal to you. That Eirik and Leif came to me right after you were left behind, shows that."
He grunted his understanding, but still he remained silent.
"You put together forty men to survive here. To kill for you, to take loot and raid—why did you not take fewer? Surely there would be a greater share per-man."
"Too few, and there's no chance. You need extra, in case something goes wrong."
"Could eighteen men make it back, alone, this deep in the English countryside?"
His look shifted to thoughtfulness, and Deirdre knew that she'd won him over even before he nodded his agreement.
Gunnar heard the sounds of fighting. They were soft, a small fight, and not too close. They would probably have started near the center, but then moved toward the edge of camp very quickly. No reason to ruin where you're going to sleep later, whoever you supported.
The sound was quiet, but he could barely hear Deirdre's words over how loud the sounds were amplified, between his ears and his head. He could feel his blood pumping hard, could feel the adrenaline, the old battle-madness that all of them had. That he'd picked them all for.
He had to go. Had to fight, had to do what he had to do. He heard Deirdre telling him not to go, heard himself arguing, but in his mind he was already there. The decision had already been made, and he was just waiting. Waiting until he could go do what he had to do.
Just from the sounds, he could nearly see it right before his eyes. Leif and Ulf were rivals, in their way, but they would be beside each other. He imagined that Ulf would have already dropped his shield and swung his sword two-handed, hard enough to splinter any shield that its owner was foolish enough to bring up.
Hard enough to shatter the skull it protected, too, if they were particularly foolish. You had to catch it on the back-swing, or avoid it. No other way. They would have known that if they had experience, and every one of them did. At least some.
He could barely make out the words, but Deirdre was telling him to think about what would happen to them if they split up. The sounds of battle receded, but he could still hear them, tickling the back of his mind. Calling out to him.
She was right, of course. She often was, and that was what made her so dangerous. She could turn anything into the truth, if she worked at it hard enough. But that meant that she was a powerful ally, as well.
He made sure to remind himself of that. A good leader needed allies, and she was begging him, pleading with him, not to go.
If he went now, then he would be splitting them up, permanently and forever, leaving both sides to die. Better to let them think that he had died, to go away now, and they would live. He would live. Deirdre would live.
He had to admit that he wanted those things. He nodded, understanding. A good leader needed allies, and she was making good sense. And it was more important to leave his men alive than it was to prove that he was in charge of them.
But that didn't mean that he could leave his friends to die, either, did it? He blinked and tried to think. Stared at Deirdre, hoping that she would speak again. That she would see through it for him, but she didn't.
"I will take you, but I can't. Not yet."
"What is that—what?"
He didn't know himself. "I have more to do. I can't let them die."
She looked completely unconvinced. But then again… Gunnar thought for a moment.
He needed allies, but he was still in charge. She was little more than a prisoner. A trusted prisoner. More than that, to him. But to the group, only a medic and a prisoner. He had to remind himself of that. So much emotion swirled around her, making it hard to remember that he had the final decision in the end.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. "Have you been listening to anything that I've been saying?"
He pulled her up into a kiss for an answer, feeling her struggle a little bit for a moment. She wanted to talk more, but this wasn't about talking. This was about what he had to do to live. It wasn't a matter of choice, not really. He had to make sure, or he couldn't live with himself.
When he released her, she brought her hand around in a wide, arcing slap that he let hit him. She was right to be angry. She wanted him to leave, wanted him to leave his men behind, and let things go however they wanted. Gunnar would probably have been upset in her place, but he wasn't in her place.
As good as her advice was, she wasn't in his, either.
He stood back up, letting her free, taking a moment to watch her stumble back into her seat. He allowed himself a moment to smile, and then he wasn't Gunnar the leader any more. He was someone else. A fighter, a killer. He put his hand on his sword.
He wouldn't need it, not if things went well. But he didn't act on the assumption that things would go well. He had to act on the assumption that things would go anything but well. He stepped down and out of the cart, ignoring Deirdre's protests behind him. If he came back from this, and managed to get her free, then she could thank him later. He took a few long, loping strides, peering around the edge of the tent.
The fighting hadn't died down yet, but he heard fewer sounds of metal-on-metal. With a little luck, they'd switched to trying to solve their problems with their fists. He'd be able to leave, easy and calm. But then, he wasn't lucky, was he?
The fire still burned, a half-cooked hare still spitted, starting to char on one side. He turned it as he passed. No reason to spoil good food, even in an emergency. He didn't have much need for stealth, not at this point. Who would see? Every one of them would be behind the line of tents, but as he got closer he slipped back into the shadows and kept himself to the tents.
A peek around the wall told him everything he needed to know. Valdemar was alive, and so were his friends. He took a longer moment to pull it all in. There were perhaps five men on the ground, but they all moved. That, at least, was a comfort.
Deirdre could
heal their wounds—and then he remembered that she wouldn't be there to do it, not if she had her way. He pushed the thought away, into the back of his mind. It wasn't something to worry about right now. They would be alright, Deirdre or no, but it meant that they would need to be even more certain to avoid the English ambush.
Leif was hitting a man with his shield. He went to the ground, but it wasn't more than a moment before he was back on his feet.
Ulf had given up his sword as well, after lodging it deep into one of the greenhorns' legs. Now he had one thick arm wrapped around a man's throat. One of Valdemar's lackeys, Arne, Gunnar thought. Well, he wasn't dead. He was kicking too hard.
Eirik was taking a bad hit in the eye from a big, blocky fist that belonged to Valdemar himself. That kind of blow could addle a man's brains, he thought. Then again…
Gunnar watched, his head only inches past the edge of the tent, as one by one men fell down, either too hurt or too tired to continue. That was enough. He could head back now. Whatever happened from this point on, he knew what he needed to know.
They'd live, and they'd heal from the wounds they took, for the most part.
There were bigger risks on the horizon for them.
Twenty-Two
Deirdre didn't know where to put her eyes, so she put them on everything. The soldiers she had been caring for all this time were sleeping soundly. She could usually tell when they were faking, but they seemed genuinely asleep. They looked oddly peaceful, not at all like the violence that she saw in the face of their compatriots.
Her hands were shaking. She didn't want to think about it. There was something upsetting about the entire idea that she couldn't fight—the idea that she was being overwhelmed by what was going on around her. She wanted to be gone.
She reached over and used the knife to loosen the knot around the ropes that held her, and then pulled at it until the entire thing came apart and she was free to move wherever she wanted. It didn't help, and she was surprised to find that she didn't try to leave.
