by Faye, Amy
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.
Deir
dre 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.
She wanted to sleep. Wanted to slump over and just relax. As her breathing slowed, everything that had happened caught up with her. She marshaled her self-control and forced herself to stay upright. Gunnar reached down and plucked up the knife, rubbing the blood off on a dead Englishman's shirt, and then fitted it into a scabbard at his waist.
Finally Deirdre found her voice as he stood back up. "I want to go home now."
She sounded weak almost pathetic. She hated that she felt this way, but couldn't stop herself. She didn't have the energy for anything more. Her jaw trembled, her knees shook with the effort of standing.
Gunnar nodded silently. His eyes still scanned, in sporadic bouts, and Deirdre turned her head to look, nearly stumbling. Across the field, men were winning. Then she noticed the archers. They waited at a distance, arrows ready but not drawn.
In the time it would take to cross the span, it would be easy for them to draw and fire. Indeed, she could see the big body of a man who had already tried it.
"Come," Gunnar said, a guiding hand on her arm. Then they were off and moving. Deirdre's legs struggled to keep up with the pace that he set, but as she pushed herself she found herself steadying. The purpose helped to re-light the fire.
Gunnar stopped to deal a blow to an English soldier, caught up in fighting another Northman, and somehow, Deirdre thought, things were about to go very wrong.
The day had already been long, and the fighting had gone on longer than he had hoped. In the stolen moments between threats he tried to catch his breath, but they were far from out of trouble. He turned the sword in his hand, tried to loosen his already-sore muscles, and Gunnar started moving.
He told her it was time to leave, and it was the right decision. Any longer, and those archers were going to become a problem. Someone would need to deal with them, and he wasn't volunteering for it. He'd already made enough mistakes, he wasn't about to risk her life again for nothing.
He kept his head moving, kept scanning. Which way would see them through with the least fighting? Which of the raiding party would let them slip through without trying to stop them? Gunnar caught a low-chopping sword on his blade, and hit. Once, twice, and the cut didn't miss its mark.
He hadn't felt like this in years. Like a well-oiled machine, made for fighting. Around him, Gunnar could see the same happening in the others, as well. As the fight continued, as their muscles tired, they seemed only to be better at fighting. The way past Ulf and Leif would see them free to the west. The English had a tight knot of men, but the two of them cut a swath of death through on their own.
He turned to head toward them, turning his sword to its deadly purpose. One after another. Mechanical, trained, and easy. He barely had to think about it. Even still, the more that he cut down the more seemed to appear, every one of them committed to making sure that neither of them were able to leave.
He jerked his blade free of another English corpse, his head swiveling to keep an eye out. Magnus called out to someone for help, but the call came from too far. At the same time, an Englishman with a shiny brass signet called out orders from atop a horse, at a safe distance.
The fight seemed as if it were going in their favor, but the way that things were going there was no way to win it. The realization was there, and he couldn't figure a way that it was wrong, but he couldn't make himself care, either. If he hadn't made the promise, he had to admit, he would never leave here.
But he had to, and he couldn't afford anything else. The look of recognition on Ulf's face was followed by an instant of surprise. An Englishman took the chance to marshal an attack, but Ulf knocked it away before separating the man's head from his body. Trained, quick, and getting quicker by the minute.
A voice from far away cried out, and Gunnar ignored it, like he ignored all of them. He had a job to do. It took him a minute to realize that it was his name being called. He turned, not stopping his retreat, barely pausing in the fight with the ambushing soldiers.
Valdemar stood, a half-dozen or more English bodies almost in a heap at his feet. His shoulders heaved with the effort of breathing under the weight of his heavy ax.
"Gunnar! Come back here and fight me!"
Gunnar turned back, jerked his hand free, and turned to the next one.
"Coward!"
He ran the point through the man's gut until it showed on the other side, and then pried it free again. He had something to do. Had a job to perform. Deirdre didn't belong on a battlefield. It was too dangerous. They were all dead men, after all, if they stayed. He couldn't let Deirdre face that fate. Not after he'd sworn to protect her.
He cut his way free. The word rang in his head. Coward. He had a duty to perform. This was a priority. Nobody would doubt his courage, nor his valor, simply because he protected a defenseless woman. Never trained in fighting, lighter than the pack he carried on his back.
No, he had to go. He looked out. He'd made the edge of the fight, finally. It was a short run through the forest, and then they'd be on the other side of the ditch and free and clear. Who would follow them, with the battle still raging?
They were free. The word rang out in his head. Coward.
This was all he'd ever wanted. To strive and slay, and at the end, to be able to tell his stories forever in the feast-halls at Valhalla. And now he ran away, because—because what? Because he needed to nanny a woman grown?
His hand went to the blade at his waist without thinking. He pulled the scabbard free entirely, and held it out to Deirdre.
"Go."
Her eyebrows furrowed. She looked pretty, Gunnar thought. "You're coming with me."
"If we go together, they might follow. I can give you time to escape."
"If you're with me, then you can protect me."
He felt frustration flaring up, fought to stifle it. "When I'm certain no one will follow, then I will join you. I'll be right behind. Go, hide. I will find you."
She didn't like it, he could see it in her eyes. But she did what she was told. She took the knife, and then, as fast as her unsteady legs could carry her, she ran. Gunnar gripped the sword, turning it in his hand. Feeling it's weight.
He was no coward.
Twenty-Six
She didn't want to stop. Didn't want to think at all about what was happening, other than to keep moving. She was away. Gunnar would follow. She had to believe him. If not, then she… Deirdre struggled to figure what she would do. She would have to figure something out.
But for the first time in months, she was completely free. She enjoyed the feeling of the wind in her hair, enjoyed knowing that no matter what happened, no one would stop her. She let out a long breath and kept moving. She needed to keep moving, no matter what happened.
Her bare feet ached and stung with each step as brambles and pricks jabbed her, but she kept moving. Her legs steadied themselves as she moved, as she got more and more used to the idea.
The feeling of freedom was strange, and it mixed in with other feelings that she didn't want to have to confront right now. What had she done in that camp? She'd killed a man, and not a Viking. Not a man who she had any reason to hate. He'd called her 'whore' and threatened to kill her, so she'd killed him first.
Was that what she was now? Someone who killed without a second thought? The thought made her double over and
vomit.
Keep moving, she told herself. Don't think about it.
She looked back in the direction she'd come, still trying to move as fast as she could, and stumbled over a tree root. There was nothing the way she'd come. If she remembered, she was heading… east? Should be toward the sea.
But the realization didn't help much. How was she going to get back home from the sea? It was far enough away from Malbeck, and from her little cottage, that she had never seen it. She just knew the general heading.
What was happening? Had Gunnar gotten away? Had they won? A thousand questions burned in her head. None of them seemed to have any ready answers coming to her, so she just let herself wonder. No need to panic when there was plenty of time for that to come.
Now she needed to find a place to rest. One side of a large oak tree had receded, and made a comfortable-looking hidey-hole. She sat down and wasn't as surprised as she should have been that her eyes immediately felt heavy. She had better self-control than that. She could manage to stay awake, to wait for Gunnar.
He was going to come, she knew. He'd promised, and it was that simple. He was just taking his time about it, which was frustrating. She tried to play through things in her mind. He really had come to save her.
It was romantic, and gave her a feeling beyond the overwhelming fatigue. A little warmth right deep inside. She fought to keep her eyes open. But he'd better come soon. If he took too long he wouldn't be able to find her. She'd be asleep in this little hollow of an oak tree, and he'd walk right by without realizing.
The thought helped her keep her eyes open. She needed to be awake. When he came, it wouldn't be long now, she needed to let him know where she was. That was her job. She had to stay safe and make sure he found her, when the time came. Then she could sleep, and he'd be there to make sure she was safe.
She clutched the knife that he'd given back to her like a swaddling blanket. A blanket would have been nice, she thought to herself. The weather was still too cold for staying outside without heavier clothing.
