by Amy Faye
The thought shocked him for a moment, almost curing his rage. He hardened himself again. He hadn't wanted to think of her this way. Hadn't decided it consciously.
But she was his, whether she was his tool or his woman, and he wouldn't let anyone have her.
If the Gods did not understand that, then to Hel with them.
Five
The night before had been worse than she'd expected, for reasons that Deirdre didn't want to think about. She had expected something, expected the nights to transition into something different, but they never had.
She'd been brought to his tent again, and again they spoke. Again he had told her to make him normal, and she had racked her brain for a solution.
How to fix it? She closed her eyes. Her teacher hadn't taught her anything like this, but she had taught Deirdre how to think with a clear m ind about complicated problems. That was where the answer lie, no matter what it turned out to be.
But how was she supposed to use her skills when she had no access to any of her herbs, had nothing to use to find her answers?
She tried listening to the wildlife, but all it seemed to say was that the animals were afraid. They wouldn't come even within a quarter mile of the camp, for fear that they'd be killed by the invading, terrifying outsiders.
Deirdre felt more in common with them than the animals would have realized, if they were capable of communicating with humans beyond vague signs, wildly open to interpretation.
That was useless. The weather… she had never understood how to interpret it. It seemed to simply come in cycles, and what would the point in the cycle mean? Nothing, she thought. Nothing at all.
So she had left the tent again, having done nothing. She could see the frustration, even anger in the leader's face. At last, after three days, as she left he had finally asked her name. She hadn't given it, and he hadn't given his in return.
The march today was exceptionally slow, compared to the last. The last march had taken them most of what she could have moved in a day, but now with the wounded that had been brought back, were being carted with the prisoners, they were taking frequent breaks to rest the horses and make sure that the wounded were not being badly jostled.
Part of Deirdre was angry, wanted to use what little freedom she had to kick them, to make them suffer every bit of the humiliation she had suffered.
Another part, larger, had been taught a good deal about medicine. Had been taught to save life, not to injure even the bad men.
She closed her eyes and tried to push away the thought, when a cry went up in the northern language, one she could not understand. It was a voice she hadn't yet placed with a face, but she understood well enough what it meant when the wagon stopped and the men who kept guard moved away from their places behind.
She wasn't going to get another chance like this. She had spent the better part of the last night loosening her bonds until she could, with a great deal of pain, slip a hand out. With the hand removed, the second came out easily.
All it would take, as the sounds of battle picked up behind her, was the ability to deal with a little bit of pain, and hopefully without crying out. The wounded could barely move, compared to a hale and sound man, but they could still threaten her with a knife, even hold her still.
She had no desire to be stopped again, not after the debacle of what had occurred the day before. The others, they had no ambition to escape. They thought that if they stayed, there was a chance they might live, but Deirdre knew better. She'd seen them in action and knew exactly how little regard these men had for human lives.
Her thumb seemed like as not to pop all the way off as she tried to pull, to stretch the rope and her skin just enough that she could pull her arm free.
Just as she worried that it just might pop off, that her skin might tear open, the rope seemed to lose its will to fight, and slipped around the knuckle of her thumb. The added slack made pulling herself free the rest of the way near trivial.
Checking out of the covered wagon, back and front, gave almost no view of what was going on. She was left to guess that there was plenty of danger outside the room, but there was no way to be completely sure. She hated to admit it, but that was perfectly fine by her. As long as she got her freedom back—it didn't matter.
She darted her hand out and pulled a knife free of the wounded Northman's belt, deciding as the handle came free that she wouldn't waste the time putting them out of their misery. Her anger, she thought, wasn't about to override who she was, who she had been taught to be.
Instead she ducked her head under the gap in the back of the wagon, taking a lay of her surroundings as she hit the ground.
They were now further north than she'd ever gone, and the wagon cover made it difficult to see much of the road that they passed. She could make it back to the cottage with a little effort, and keeping her eyes out for the smoke from Malbeck. It would still be burning for another day or two, and once she was there it was a day's hike, but a day's hike that she knew well.
The first thing to do was to get away, though, and that was where she put her energy. She made the treeline and kept going, convinced that it was going to be enough to get away from the Northlanders.
She was wrong, but she already knew that.
Gunnar was the first to see the signs. He wished, once things had started, that he had said something sooner. After the last village, though, he was wondering if he wasn't just paranoid.
After all, it was hardly likely that there were two ambushes, one right after the other. If there were, why not just use the men from the second to make sure that the first sticks?
That was his mistake, after all. There was nothing stopping them from bringing a hammer down on the group, and that was why he was so frustrated it happened. His sword came out easily, and his shield was already at his side before he consciously realized what he was doing.
A shout went out from the other side of the bridge as ten men stepped out. An arrow flew by and hit Lars in the eye, sending him to the ground silently. Another missed its mark by too little, leaving Eirik to thank the Gods for their mercy after the battle was done.
Another English cry came up from the rear, cutting the group effectively in half on the bridge, leaving Gunnar separated from the back half of the group along with Valdemar and Ulf. They could win this fight, he thought.
All they would have to do would be to focus their attention correctly. But the archers stood on the other side of nearly ten men, and if Gunnar focused his attention there, the men behind would run right through them. A deadly pincer, relying on the green half of the band.
He took a half-second to assess the situation before running across, hoping to bowl straight through the line and get to the archers himself. His immortality carried a heavy burden, knowing that he would never die a hero's death.
But it had its advantages, and dealing with archers was one of the biggest.
He smashed his shield into two men at once, each of them helping to absorb half the blow, and yet still their knees seemed to buckle a bit under the force of his tackle. His sword slipped around the edge of his wide, round shield and found its home in an English belly, cutting a thick gory line as he pulled it free.
Letting the second man slump off his shield, he moved past, daring to take only a second to check on the rest of the band, and try to keep his sense for what was going on. They'd split fairly evenly, he saw. Valdemar was making a very fine showing, even as he was out of the battle-trance that made him so formidable.
His ax came down and knocked a man to the ground, a man who wouldn't again get back up. Then he turned and took another. Eirik's sword had found a place in someone's ribs, and another arrow had sunk into his shield. Blessed by the Gods, that one.
And then, with a start, he saw something else. Someone moving, outside of the battle. At first he thought it might be a deserter, until he saw a flash of bright blue and green.
The witch had gotten loose. It took Gunnar only a moment to change his
plans, though he realized his mistake as he ran. The point of his shield found an English throat, and his sword was sheathed in another's torso.
They were winning, but the archers—the greatest danger in the battle, already claiming three lives from what he could see alone—would have to wait. He couldn't afford to lose the red-headed maiden, not yet. Not when he still needed her.
She was a faster runner than he gave her credit for, but he was the fastest in the company, and the fire of desperation made him push his limits harder, his breaths coming in sharp, fiery gulps. He ignored the pain in his chest and shifted to let himself slip by a tree, trying to keep his eyes open for more signs of reds, blues, and greens.
He had closed the gap quite a bit, but when she turned her head and saw him she seemed to spur herself to greater speeds. He knew how to run through forest, knew how to navigate the trunks of trees, but it was her home. She could have outpaced him on any other day, but not today.
He caught her in the middle of her back, sending her tumbling to the ground in a copse between the trees. She tumbled to the ground, finally landing on her back. Her breasts pooled pleasantly, an image that Gunnar couldn't deny in spite of himself.
He rolled over her, putting his hand down on her chest, low enough to avoid choking. He could feel the pleasant softness, but he wasn't in a position to enjoy the feeling. He glowered at her. "Don't run, Witch."
"Let me go! Let me go back to my cottage," she shouted. Gunnar considered the request for a moment, but didn't move his weight from her.
"I can not. You know this."
"What if your so-called 'curse' can't be lifted? Have you thought of that?"
"You want to go," he said, pausing to hear her answer. Both of them knew it was a question, even if he hadn't spoken it as such.
"Yes, I want to go, you brute!"
"Cure me. When I take a wound that does not heal itself as I stand, you'll have your freedom."
She looked at him with those eyes, the anger inside built up to a fever pitch. Yet, he could see that she knew there was nothing she could do. With a three-hundred pace advantage on him he'd caught her easily, and even if she stabbed him with her stolen knife she would do nothing.
Both of them knew it.
So he lifted off, silently thankful that he no longer had to deal with the subtle temptation of her soft, womanly flesh. She wouldn't invite him, couldn't invite him, but it certainly did not mean that he was unaware of her. That much, he was sure of.
He tried to gulp down breath.
"I swear it, on anything you choose to name. When I stay injured, you are free to go to wherever you like." He held a hand out to her. "Have we an agreement?"
"And what about your men? How do I know that they'll keep your word?"
"They are my men. They will do as I say. You will be left alone, with enough food to keep you for a three-day journey. That should get you to the nearest town."
"I will need herbs. I can't do anything without medicines and herbs to do my magic."
"Can you get them here?"
"In the forest?" She seemed to think about it, then nodded and then took his hand and let him pull her up.
"Agreed."
"I am Gunnar," he said finally, following her as she started to walk through the forest.
"Deirdre," she called back.
Gunnar watched her bend down to examine a flower, trying not to smile. Trying not to think about the image of her on her back. Trying not to think of what it would look like if perhaps her clothes had been just a little more torn, and what she looked like underneath them.
But whether he liked it or not, the thoughts managed to niggle their way into his mind, a constant thorn in his side as he remembered that as soon as she had his solution she would be gone.
There was nothing to be done, he reminded himself. As soon as she had fulfilled her end of the bargain, she would go. There was no time for romance, as he had tried to remind himself more than once over the past days. No time at all.
The words sounded hollow in his mind. There was no time, that much was true. But that didn't change how a man felt, on the inside. It was going to be a long night.
Six
Deirdre hid the bundle of herbs as soon as she heard someone coming. She hoped that they wouldn't be taken from her; after all, they were only herbs. But that was no guarantee of anything, not even Gunnar's word was enough to make certain that she would be unmolested.
She didn't recognize the man who pulled back the wagon cover and looked inside, but he recognized her. When he spoke she remembered, with a flash, that he had been the one staring at her, getting close to her. That he'd been beaten soundly by Gunnar.
"Witch, come with me," he said softly. He seemed to have a surprising hold on English, for a Northlander. Perhaps they spoke more of it than she realized.
When she didn't move, he reached in and grabbed her, pulling her bodily out of the wagon. If she screamed, Gunnar would come running. She knew that, somehow, instinctively. Even as she couldn't explain why she believed it, every bone in her body did. She kept silent, waiting to hear what he had to say.
He pulled her a little way away before speaking, his voice hushed to avoid anyone hearing. "I want to make you a trade."
"What do you want? I'm not going to sleep with you," she added, perhaps foolishly. He could have hurt her quite seriously, if he had wanted to, and both of them knew it, but she didn't want any confusion between the two of them either.
"I want Gunnar killed."
Deirdre was somehow unsurprised to hear that. The men appeared to be rivals. But to hear him make the request right after Gunnar had made a deal with her… it couldn't have been a coincidence, could it?
"What do you want from me?"
"You are a witch. Kill him with magic. During the next raid."
"I'm not a sorceress," she said, all thought of trying to use simple words gone. "There's no way to do that."
He spit. "Then why keep you?"
"Why keep me, indeed? Let me go."
"No," he said, his voice hard. "You will stay. I want Gunnar killed."
"I don't know how. I stabbed him, the first night. He laughed."
The man threw his head back and laughed hard, slipping from the crouch to sitting back, barely able to keep himself under control. "A woman with fire. I can see what he likes about you."
"If I could kill him, then I would have done it already," she repeated. "I don't know how to help you."
"I am Valdemar, and when Gunnar is dead I will take control of this band. When you find a solution, one that ensures Gunnar's death, then you are free to go."
Somehow, the declaration sounded less like an introduction than a boast. "How can I be sure that I can trust you?"
"How can you be sure that I won't kill you now? Or take you to my tent, and teach you how much a woman is allowed to question my trustworthiness?"
"You wouldn't."
He thought about that for a moment. "There's your answer, then. You seem very sure of the one, why not sure of the other?"
"I want your word."
"I give it. When Gunnar dies, you may go."
She held her hand out, the way that Gunnar had to her, and he took it. When he took her back, though, things seemed all that much stranger. She wouldn't be able to use her herbs until she had an enclosed space, as private as possible.
All of the men in the wagon with her, they would probably lose their minds if she started doing any 'witching.' She could do it tonight, she hoped, when Gunnar called for her again, but it was hardly a guarantee.
What, then? She closed her eyes. She had to wait, that was what. There was nothing else for it, whether she liked it or not.
Two men, in the same day, had come to her and asked her, in essence, to kill the leader of this band of barbarians.
That left two very important questions for her. What would happen if she failed? If she could never find the answer, what would happen to her?
She had seen the w
ay that Gunnar looked at her, but she had seen the way that Valdemar had looked at her, as well. Could the Powerful man keep her safe from him? Would he, if he thought that she was of no use to him?
She couldn't rely on that. She had to find an answer, because not doing it was not an option. She would just as soon die, because that future was too uncertain.
The other question, the one that bothered her more, was what would happen if she succeeded.
She could take Gunnar's invincibility from him, perhaps. If she was lucky, she could have an idea, but that left the risk that he died a slow death.
If that happened, then even if he fulfilled his end of the bargain, she could still be in danger. How well could a man defend her, keep his promises, if he was on his deathbed? If he took a minor injury, then would that be counted?
Worse still, what would happen if she were completely successful and she gave him the warrior's death that he wanted? Valdemar promised her freedom, and she had little choice but to trust that he was telling her the truth about letting her go when he had power.
But that didn't mean that the Weak man couldn't get power. She caught herself thinking about the men in those terms and realized her mistake, silently correcting. She had no idea who was who, from her vision. Only that of these thirty-odd men, there were five who stood at the center of the storm to come.
And that the one who would end the bloodshed was marked by his weakness. Another, marked by his strength, another a priest, a madman, and one seeking approval.
What roles they would play, and which faces were attached to them, she couldn't have begun to say, and it was important to remember.
What use was the ability to gain insight into the secret goings-on if she wasn't able to make a difference between them? The weak man and the powerful man were going to come to blows, she saw that. She had seen Valdemar, beaten and laid low by Gunnar. She could put those two in those places.
That left three others, and a very real question of what part they had to play in the coming difficulties. She didn't look forward to finding out, but the vision was becoming clearer and clearer by the day.
