by Amy Faye
He was injured, and unlike most of his wounds it continued to hurt after hours upon hours. If this was what most men felt when they took injuries, they could keep it. He didn't want it.
What were his strengths? He was quick, and he was experienced. He could take dangerous wounds, as it seemed Deirdre's miracle cure must have only worked as he chewed the bitter herbs.
Then again, Valdemar had always been like a hungry wolf, going further and further in his quest for power. He'd never had control before, and now that he had it, where could he go from there? He would be complacent, and that was where Gunnar could find his advantage.
He was the one who was hungry, now. Victory would make Valdemar soft. Had already made him soft, Gunnar noted, or he wouldn't have woken back up in his tent. He'd have woken in Hel or Valhalla, but he wouldn't have stayed here on earth.
No, he needed Gunnar, for something, though he wasn't sure what. That was Gunnar's other strength, he decided. No matter what happened, he had something Valdemar needed. Something that he wouldn't let Gunnar die so he could have.
If he needed Gunnar, then he had all the time in the world. He could afford to pick his battles, to pick his moment. There would be time to heal, and then he could challenge again for control, right when the moment was right.
Turn for turn, it would hardly be improper to challenge Valdemar when he was hurt. Everyone had seen Gunnar accept a challenge wounded, it would be sheer cowardice to refuse to reciprocate.
The opportunity would come. More than one. If he waited long enough, they would return to Denmark, and it wouldn't matter. He'd be able to organize another raid, and then it wouldn't matter what Valdemar did.
Time was on Gunnar's side, he reminded himself. Time was absolutely on his side, so there was no reason to panic. As long as he waited, the opportunities would come to him. Until then, he needed to rest, to make himself useful, and to let Valdemar think that he wouldn't be any threat.
Valdemar would think that he had complete control, and that Gunnar posed no threat. Gunnar wanted to let him think that, wanted him to lull himself into a false sense of security. The more that he relaxed, the more that Gunnar could take his time. The more that opportunities would present themselves.
The flap of his tent stirred, and Valdemar stepped inside. He had cleaned himself, changed out of his clothes. He looked put together, almost. Changed clothes, and a changed man. Things couldn't have been going more according to plan.
"Well fought," Gunnar said from his seat in the dirt.
"I wish it had been under better circumstances, my friend." The expression on Valdemar's face wasn't what Gunnar had expected. He had expected pride, or happiness. Perhaps even mockery. The last thing that he had expected was disappointment.
"You won it fair. Command is yours."
Soothe his ego. Make him think that he had nothing to fear.
"And that's how I intend to keep it," he said softly. "Ragnar, Erik, come in here."
Ten
Deirdre barely registered what was happening as the boy started walking her back to the prisoners' wagon. She had been so close, little more than a few minutes away from being able to walk out a free woman. If Gunnar had only said the words to her, made the promise, she knew that one of the others present would have enforced it.
The way that they looked at him, she was incredulous that they hadn't just stepped in and prevented Valdemar from taking power the way that he had. Something about being strong, powerful men had stopped them, no doubt.
Damn them for that.
She was given more slack than before, presumably at the instruction of Valdemar. No doubt she was supposed to start making herself useful as a healer-woman. It was something she was good at, so at least she had that in her favor.
But on the other hand, the more that she healed these men, the more who would die by their hands. It put her in the uncomfortable situation of needing to decide, how far was she willing to go in the pursuit of the ideals that she'd learned?
She had to accept the reality now, if she was going to change it. That was the first thing that she'd learned, the only thing that really stuck with her through her training in reading entrails and tea leaves and the weather.
The future isn't written in stone—but you had to accept what the prevailing wind was before you could divert it. Otherwise you were just lying to yourself.
Deirdre wasn't going to be let free. That much was clear from the outset, they had no intention of ever letting her go. Either they would kill her, or they would keep using her to heal their wounded, but she had little hope of being let go under Valdemar's rule.
Saying the words to herself, even in her head, sent a shock of electricity up her spine. Words, thoughts, they all had power. Not necessarily the magical power that some seemed to attribute to her. Not the power of sorceresses and warlocks that they told about in the stories.
But certainly, they had the power to change men's minds, to poison their hearts. To incite terror and love at odds. To push them to think things that would never have occurred to them, ideas they would have pushed away… if not for the right words, at the right time.
She looked at the younger man, checking his body for wounds. He hadn't opened his eyes more than a few moments at a time for the entire time that he had been in the cart. If nobody intervened, she suspected that he didn't have long in this world.
The thought was strangely numb, and mixed in with the rest of her thoughts as if they were all one and the same. The realization that his death might be so near… yet, she didn't care either way. If she could save him, then she would, but if she couldn't, what would it change?
Would it make her free? Would it grant her some glory in the eyes of their barbaric Gods? Would the church suddenly welcome her with open arms?
The only wound she could see was in his leg, a deep gouge. The entire thing was red and puffy, and though he appeared to be asleep, when she touched it lightly, the boy writhed and groaned in pain.
An infection that bad could kill him, regardless of what she did for him. If she was going to do anything—the best time would have been days ago. The second best was immediately.
"Alcohol," she called out of the wagon, and she was surprised when someone poked his head in an instant later, quizzical. "Get me some alcohol, now. Go!"
He ducked back out and only a moment later, a bottle of something clear in his hand. She pulled the cork, and smelled—the strong medicinal smell came straight through. That was the right stuff.
She poured a generous amount, halfway enjoying the writhing agony that it seemed to send the boy into. She shook the thought out of her head. She had to think, and she couldn't afford to act like a shrew. She had to be smart, now, not emotional.
If she wanted to get away, how was she even going to do it? They were surrounded by two-score men, at least five of them standing guard around the camp at any time from what she could see.
The rest of them were looking around nervously, constantly at attention for something coming. It was easy for Deirdre to forget that they were soldiers in enemy territory. Clearly, for them, it wasn't nearly so easy, and it showed in the way that they made every effort to protect themselves from attack.
Sneaking past them would be impossible, and so would fighting. No, she'd have to try again to work her way into the group's good graces and earn her way out of here. Now that it was Valdemar instead of Gunnar, she was starting over.
Only, he seemed to be much more interested in her utility moving forward, and that meant that she needed him to be extra-fond of her. How on earth she was going to do that, she couldn't have begun to guess.
After all, she hadn't even been close to her teacher. The townsfolk had shunned her before she'd even begun living with the witch, and then they hadn't even spoken to her.
It was pure luck that Gunnar had taken a shine to her, according to him because of her "magic." She wasn't going to get that chance again, but she could at least make herself useful.
Once the wound was cleaned out with the alcohol… she looked closer. It wasn't to the point of going to rot, yet, thankfully for him. She spread the bundle of herbs out in front of her. There weren't nearly enough to tend to the entire band with what she had, but she could at least work on this one boy.
The tools she would have ordinarily used were a hundred miles away, tucked into their individual shelves in her hidden little cottage. She would have to make do without them, or else trust in the Gods to heal the man where she hadn't even bothered to try. Deirdre knew better than that.
She took a deep breath, then set about trying to crush the herbs against the wooden base of the wagon, using the half-full alcohol bottle as a grinding stone, until she had a finely-shredded and mangled pile of herbs.
Then she tore a bit of his shirt away, packed the herbs into the wound, and tied it shut. Without a needle and thread to close the wound herself, it would have to do.
As she continued working, though, it became clearer and clearer that she was horrendously ill-equipped to do any of this. She might be able to convince someone to find tools during a raid, but who on earth would listen to her long enough, or humor her?
Perhaps Valdemar, if he really recognized the value of medicine, but how would he know what to get even if she told him? He would get the wrong things, no doubt.
The idea of running away and escaping by herself was looking better and better, but there wasn't any chance of that happening.
Not for the first time she cursed herself not having been born a man. She would have been able to fight, would have been able to escape if she was captured. Sure, there was a good chance she would have been killed to start.
But strength, speed, stealth—she had none, and they were exactly what she would need if she wanted to rely on anything more than chance to survive. Three things she needed, and she had none of them. None of the men in the wagon had them, either, and they lacked the courage to use them if they had it.
She turned to face a sudden commotion outside the wagon, and then someone she didn't recognize peeked in, then held the flap open for two others, carrying Gunnar's mostly-limp body. They laid him down on the floor with the other injured.
Unlike the other two, though, Deirdre didn't fail to notice that they also tied a thick rope around his arms, same as all the others, and loop it back through the frame.
He was injured, that much was certain, and she could guess that they might want him healed, but he was as much a prisoner here as she was, now.
The first thing that Gunnar realized was the scalding pain in his side. Clearly the numbing effects of Deirdre's ministrations earlier had faded and left him quite able to feel, thank you very much.
Trying to open his eyes was its own adventure. They flickered open, and then the bright light hit him and he let his eyes close again. A woman's voice—Deirdre's—spoke softly.
"Welcome back."
He tried to open his eyes again, blinking back the blinding light until his eyes adjusted. There was a beam of light falling straight across his face. When he turned he could see her there, kneeling over him. She had a bottle in her hand, most of the way empty.
Gunnar recognized it as some potato alcohol that they had stolen during the raids. Someone must have parted with it, or Deirdre was a better thief than he had given her credit for. It was a blessing that he kept little in his tent, or she might have been off with anything she'd laid her hands on.
Then again, he hadn't let her spend much time without his eyes on her, though he knew that she wanted her privacy. He'd wanted to give it to her, as well, but that wasn't how it had worked out. Something about her drew his eyes, drew his attention. Even now.
He looked back toward the sky, letting the lights fall on his eyes now, closing them again. She pressed something into his side, something that stung badly. Another pour of alcohol burned, taking away any hope of going back to his rest.
He was so tired. Why couldn't he just be allowed to sleep? Couldn't they leave him be?
It took a long moment before he realized that he wasn't laying in his bedroll, wasn't on the ground. He wasn't in his tent.
He looked around again, paying more attention to his surroundings. He was in the wagon that they'd stolen, the one where they were keeping the prisoners and the wounded. He tried to move, to sit himself up, and then felt his arms straining against bonds he hadn't realized that he wore.
Just great, he thought. He'd just been thinking that if he wanted to take command back, he would need to be able to play nice. So much for that. Apparently, Valdemar had been more prepared for vengeance than Gunnar had given him credit for, after all.
He sat up anyway, pulling himself upright without grabbing onto the side. It sent a ripping pain through his chest again, and Deirdre cursed at him and pushed him back down. Her hands were soft, yet they moved with a steadiness that he had rarely seen in anyone.
As if she were completely confident in her actions. She pressed on his wound again with the palm of her hand and re-tied something around him, tightening almost to the point of discomfort.
"It's good to see you," he said softly.
"I'm glad you're having a good time."
"You're angry." His voice was dull and soft, and he struggled to find even the simplest of words.
Deirdre looked at him for a moment, and their eyes met. She almost looked as if she felt sorry for him. That was a first—he'd inspired different feelings in almost everyone he'd ever met. Fear, anger, pride, confidence. Never, at least not so far as he knew, had he seen anyone feel pity for him.
What had he done wrong? If he'd tried to free her, she would have just been recaptured again. If he didn't have command, he couldn't exactly set her free. He told her so, as best he could, and her face hardened, but she didn't respond right away.
If they were going to be stuck together, then he couldn't afford to have her angry with him. He could hardly sit up without blinding pain, could barely move an inch. She was an important ally… and at the same time, she was so much more than that.
A woman. His woman, he thought, and then pushed the thought away. No, she wasn't his. If she didn't want him, then he wouldn't force the issue, and she clearly didn't want him.
But that didn't change the fact that he would need her if he was going to recover, if he was going to reclaim what he'd lost. She was clearly a capable healer, and a gifted witch. More than that, she could move, and seemed to be the only one of the prisoners they had taken with any guts.
He should apologize to her, he thought. If he hadn't taken her, if he hadn't found her in that hidden chamber, then she would have been free and clear. She would never have had to deal with being his—or anyone else's—prisoner.
But when he opened his mouth, the words wouldn't come. He couldn't feel bad about having her near him, no matter what he wanted to say.
"I know it's bad," he said, instead.
She didn't respond. Whether it was because she had nothing to add, or because she was angry, he couldn't say. She'd put up a front of a medicine woman, and she would play professional until he finally gave up.
Finally, Gunnar let out a breath he hadn't realized that he'd been holding, wincing at the discomfort that it caused him.
"I can't set you free. Not any more." He looked at her, but she didn't look back at him. She made herself busy sorting through the herbs that she had picked with him the day before. "I can't promise that you'll be freed, because I don't have that power, but I can promise you something else. I can promise you that no matter what happens, you'll live through it."
"And how can you promise that? Look at you. You can hardly move." The words stung, and more than that, the way that she said them. As if she were just stating the facts, without emotion. The way that she hid her anger.
"If anything comes for you, I'll let myself be hurt before I let them do anything to you."
"Pretty words," she said, finally looking at him seriously. "But you still haven't answered me. What are you going to do
when you can't even move?"
"I will move when I need to," he answered.
Keeping from hurting himself in the stillness that followed the claim proved too much, and a twitch sent a shock of pain up his spine. She was right—he couldn't protect her if he wasn't healed. The first time that he had gotten what he wanted, he immediately regretted it.
"You see! You barely twist to get your body comfortable, and it is too much. If someone wanted to do me harm, there would be nothing you could do."
Gunnar looked her in the eyes, a mixture of pity and frustration playing out on them. He grit his teeth and pulled himself upright. The pain came—and then went. There were more important things than pain, and he had to show her that.
Of all the things he'd learned, in the years since he had learned that he could survive the most grievous wounds, that was the most important lesson. There was more to life than being able to avoid pain.
And right now, though he couldn't begin to say why it mattered, it was the most important thing in the world to teach Deirdre that lesson, too.
Eleven
If Gunnar was a liar, he at least told the lies she wanted to hear. Deirdre had to give him credit for that much, at least. She relaxed back into her seat, watching him deliriously lie on the floor of the wagon, pressed in with the other two wounded.
He wasn't the sort of charitable person who was going to save someone for no reason, and he certainly wasn't reliable enough to believe everything he said. But that didn't mean that he wasn't serious, either.
She didn't have any illusions about his intentions, either. He saw her as a ticket back to his position of power. She saw him the same way, she conceded, but it wasn't exactly the same. She had no reason to be here, except for him. Expecting the man who'd taken her to get her free again wasn't too unreasonable—was it?