by Faye, Amy
There was no reason to assume it was anything dangerous, particularly if they were heading away from Valdemar's group. If he were lucky, it was a farmer. Maybe he would be old, and his son asleep in the back of the cart. That would be an easy mark, he could get away cleanly with their things. But he didn't lean on that assumption.
He had to assume that they were soldiers, or else when he guessed wrong he was a dead man—or at least he was arrested.
Two horses, he decided as he listened to them ride past. No more. He tried to listen harder, tried to hear the sound of footsteps. He wasn't sure if he heard them or not over the sound of the horses, the wooden creaking of a cart that they pulled, probably between them.
As they passed him and went down the road he dared a glance back. A coach. There were a couple of men, standing from handholds on the back, but they wouldn't be much to stop him.
He started to move, his bruised legs protesting at the effort, but he ignored them. Stuck close to the edge of the road, where he could keep ducked into the ditch and avoid their eyes until the last moment. The horses weren't moving particularly quickly, which is what allowed him to catch them. That, combined with his efforts to remain concealed.
With a dive he caught one of the footmen and pulled him free of the coach, throwing him to the ground and taking his position. The other shouted and made a grab for a weapon. At the same time, a whip-crack hurried the horses until it was nearly all that Gunnar or the footman could do to stay hanging on.
He settled his weight down low, hanging from the hand-hold and crouching. There was more to win here than a simple fight, now. He watched the road disappearing. In barely a minute, he'd lost ten minutes walk. He had to recoup that loss as best he could.
How to get around, though? He considered for only a moment, then had to duck around the side of the coach as he saw a small crossbow coming up in the guard's hands. That would have been bad.
His foot found a hold and he fussed with a door until it came open. Inside were two, perhaps a man and his daughter. Or wife, or lover, Gunnar couldn't have said. The man was wearing too-fine clothing and had a gut, and he looked as if he were regretting the trip now.
The woman was dressed the same, and for a moment he regretted having come in. Where on earth could he go from here? A window to the seat, though, answered the question. Gunnar took one thick, powerful arm through the window, wrapped it around the driver's waist, and pulled hard until he was lodged, folded over, in the window that he would never have been able to get through.
Then he pushed the door back open and swung himself up. The driver still struggled to pull himself free, looking up and realizing his mistake just in time to see Gunnar's fist come down on his cheekbone. Then his body went limp and Gunnar pulled him free from the window and dumped him to the ground.
How on earth did he stop the horses, though? That question had seemed so secondary, but now he had no idea. He pulled on the reins, slowing them and sending the team of horses into a wide loop through the open plains. He pulled again, trying to keep the reins straight, and finally they slowed to a canter, and then a stop.
That left one more to deal with, though, and as the horses slowed to a halt Gunnar could feel the cart lightening in the rear as the footman stepped off. He peered around the edge just long enough to see the blade coming free of it scabbard.
The thought of Deirdre's face was an unwelcome distraction from what he had to do. She could have healed any wounds he took. And perhaps she could have soothed him, once that was taken care of, as well. He shook the thoughts out of his head.
He had to fight, now. That was the most important thing. He clambered up over the top of the coach, carefully stepping down into the very same foothold that the man had just stepped down from. Then he peered around the side.
He'd have to take this carefully, because wounds seemed to like him now, and bare-handed against a sword were not odds that he was hopeful about.
But that didn't mean he could afford to give up now.
Seventeen
She didn't need to get out of the wagon to know what was happening. The feeling around the camp was palpable, bad enough that the boys on the floor had taken to pretending to be more injured than they were.
The days had passed quickly, and checking their wounds had quickly revealed that they were coming along better than she had hoped. They might be alright and moving again in a week, and they could probably have been sitting up.
It didn't take more than a couple of people talking too close to the wagon, close enough that they could hear, that they started to act as if they were in unbelievable, unbearable pain again. That had been enough to tell her that whatever the Northmen had said, it wasn't something that she wanted to get involved in.
But things were so much worse than that, after all, because she was in the middle of them. Valdemar hadn't called her again, and she was thankful for that. If those three came back, then she could claim, completely honestly, that she hadn't seen anything at all. They couldn't be upset, couldn't blame her. After all, she hadn't done anything wrong!
But that wasn't going to cut it, and she knew it. Whether they accepted that excuse or not, she realized, she wasn't happy with it herself. She wasn't happy with the idea that she was being relegated to the back, hoping for mercy from two sides who didn't trust her.
So when a messenger came calling for her, the same boy who had brought her back to the cart the first time, she could feel the weight lifting off her shoulders. It was better than anything she could have hoped for, because at least now things were moving again. She could figure out what was going on.
He had set up his table and his chairs again. He must have gotten them out quickly, perhaps the second or third thing that was done in the camp. The tents weren't all erected yet, but Valdemar looked completely settled.
He was facing away from the entrance as she came in, but he didn't waste a moment in turning to regard her, gesturing toward the seat before her. She took the seat and tried to look around, to get as much detail as possible from her surroundings.
Would they raid tomorrow? It seemed as if they didn't set up quite so completely when they were just going to move on in the morning, but this was completely arrayed out.
What sort of information was she supposed to get from this, that would please Leif and Eirik? The third, Ulf, scared her the most of all. Silent most of the time, but even larger than Gunnar. He looked every bit the large, powerful Northman that had served as a boogeyman from her childhood. And every bit as terrifying.
She blinked when she heard him speak, finally. She hadn't been listening. "What?"
"The injured. How are my men doing?"
She tried to decide how she should answer. They clearly wanted to pretend to be out for the count, out until things settled down in camp. That could be days, or it could be weeks. The tension could keep building until they left her on her tiny rock, and went back to wherever they came from.
But if she lied, what were the odds that he would know? She tried to decide, but… it was too great a risk.
"They're healing," she said softly. "I would say—"
A voice from outside called in, speaking their foreign tongue. Valdemar called back, and she turned to see a barrel-chested man that she didn't especially recognize. They spoke for a moment, then the second man left and she turned back to Valdemar.
"I would say a week, perhaps, before they can walk. More before they're fully healed."
The guess was conservative, but it was as accurate as she could make it, she thought. So why was she so afraid of retribution? Was she a miracle-worker, capable of healing the sick with a touch of her hands?
Well—aside from the one. She had to fight to keep the smile off her face, but then the memory of what she'd done came back and chased the humor away. That ship had already sailed, for her. Now she had to deal with the fallout, come what may.
Valdemar thought about that for a long time. "I hear that you had a visit from some of my men
."
What was that supposed to mean? She decided not to answer, nor to ask him what he meant. He would tell her, or he wouldn't.
"It would be a terrible pity if they were thinking that they might be able to stage some sort of rebellion. A man might get hurt, thinking ideas like that. I would hate to think that you got involved with the wrong side. You've made so many good decisions in the past."
She shuddered at the thought. She'd done anything but, and the more time that passed the more sure she was. The edge was leading the knife, now, and if anything there would be much, much more bloodshed.
How could she say that, though? She couldn't, that much was obvious. So she kept the thought to herself.
"Did you have any other questions for me?"
"Just one," he answered. "What will you tell your friends, when they come back to talk to you again?"
Whatever they want to hear, she thought, but she didn't say it aloud. "Nothing."
"Good," Valdemar said, carefully putting his knife on the table and loosening his coat just a bit, to let out the heat. "You be sure you do that."
He called out and the boy came back in, and Deirdre was guided back to the medical wagon. She wasn't safe here. That much was abundantly clear, but how could she get around it? She closed her eyes and tried to think clearly.
She had only so many tools at her disposal, and so many of them were gone. She'd had someone she could lean on for protection. He hadn't been reliable, so she took a gamble. Gambled that with him out of the camp, he would see things from a different perspective, and he'd come back seeing things the way she saw them.
But she was becoming increasingly convinced by the day that she'd gambled wrong. Things were only becoming more dangerous here, and out there, who knows what he was thinking about her, except that it was almost certainly not good.
Deirdre looked at her supplies. They were running low, but she could at least make them last for these two, at least another few days. If she made them stretch, then she could get them to the point where their wounds were more-or-less closed up.
But then there were the herbs that she couldn't use. The ones that had nothing at all to do with the healing she had been doing. They were important to her work, but not to her patients.
She needed answers. That much was clear. If she was ever going to use what little remained of her focusing scents, she needed it now.
Getting a spark was the hardest part, but she pulled out the knife that she'd hidden, and used a bit of flint, and with some effort she managed to get them burning. Then she hid the knife again, careful as she could, and she waved the bundle around the wagon, taking deep breaths.
The smell was horrible. It always had been, and now was no different, but it was one that she was used to. That very smell was an important one in her work, because it was what helped her to see more, to feel more, to do more.
Then, silently, she watched the sky. Felt the air on her skin, and let herself drift away. Of all the divining, she hated weather-watching the most. It moved slowly, and she had trouble finding specific interpretations.
With the sky clear, and the air cold, what was the difference from one day to the next? It didn't matter that she couldn't figure it out, though. She had to try, or else she was useless, and flying blind.
She looked up again, letting herself look. She saw Gunnar. She was sure it was him, practically saw his face writ large.
What was that? How was she supposed to interpret it? She was probably adding too much of herself. Deirdre took another deep breath, inhaling the powerful smell, and then looked up again.
He was still there, perhaps even clearer than before. That was the only clue she was going to get, it seemed, which might as well have not been a clue at all.
Then she gasped out loud and cursed herself for a fool that she hadn't thought of it sooner.
Gunnar's legs gripped the horse's flanks and he kept his body low. Why so many so-loved these infernal beasts, he would never know. But then, he was going much faster, even as the horse moved nowhere near its fastest. He had no idea what the animal's abilities were, and particularly no desire to test them.
What good would a dead horse do him, after all? No good at all. So he kept his body pressed low in against the horse's neck and struck a quick trot. It might have been two days more, or longer, before.
Now he would have to rest the horse, so he couldn't go through the night, but the distance he would make up with the animal's unfailing speed more than made up the difference. He would have to time his rejoining.
At night, they would have guards, but he knew as well as anyone how to get around them. But if he arrived during the day, there would be precious little time to make plans or discuss. No amount of cunning was going to get him through the camp in the middle of broad daylight without being seen.
And as soon as he was seen, he would be in for a fight. He mentally checked that he felt the weight of the sword belt tugging on his hip. Yes, he'd remembered it. Good. The sword itself was unfamiliar and strange, but it would make all the difference in a fight.
A flash of red caught his eye. Halfway up a tree. He pulled back on the bit and got the horse to stop. It stood there, mostly-calm, as he walked the twenty-odd feet back. That was interesting, he thought.
He had been following the tracks, but it slowed him down. A bright-red flower was tied 'round a tree branch.
He remembered seeing Deirdre pull them when he'd gone through the forest with her, the day of the first ambush. Now here it was around a tree branch, it didn't leave much to the imagination.
He got back on the horse, mindful now to look for a second. Nobody would have left a flower tied like that for no reason, nor would they have tied only one. It was a sign, and if he didn't miss his mark…
The second confirmed it, and the third confirmed it again. These flowers seemed to follow the trail very exactly, spaced every mile give or take. Perhaps once every half-hour's march, he guessed. Interesting.
The only person who would have had a supply of them, though, was Deirdre. If she'd wanted him left for dead, why would she signal like this? How would she get free long enough to do it? Often enough?
None of it made sense, but he tried to push the thought out of his mind. He didn't have time to worry about that. He was on the move now. Too many questions, and Deirdre the only one with the answers.
That meant moving quickly. He kept going, only checking the soft dirt every so often, to confirm. Another flower. And then another. The flowers were changing, now, as she started to run low on stock of the red ones.
How far behind was he? Would he know in advance, if he just followed the trail?
He thought for a moment as the horse continued, then cut right. He could still see the flowers from four hundred paces, but it might give him enough separation when it counted to get around them in this thicket, and if they returned to open rolling hills, then he would be able to keep the high ground.
There was plenty to worry about, he thought. What if he were caught, what if Deirdre got hurt? What if there was another ambush, and they weren't prepared for it this time like they had been the last?
What was Deirdre doing, and why would she leave signals for him after her betrayal? How would she have known he was following behind?
Eighteen
It was a warm morning, one of the first of the year, but Deirdre didn't notice that. She had far too much else on her mind. When the three came back around as the sun rose, waking her with a hand on her ankle, she sat up with a jolt.
Already, threats from both sides had started to echo in her mind. If she told them anything, would Valdemar know? Was one of them working with him? If not, then how had he known?
She tried to keep her face impassive, waited for them to speak. Even still, the thoughts raced through her mind. If she didn't tell them whatever they wanted to know, then they were committed to making her life hell. She'd been told so in not remotely uncertain terms, and she believed it.
For
a long time both sides watched the other, neither speaking. What were they waiting for? What was Deirdre supposed to do? If she'd known what they wanted then she would have given it to them. But she didn't know, and that made her situation that much more painful, prolonged the silence that much more.
"How was your meeting?"
The question almost sounded sarcastic, in the way that it was so… almost pleasant.
"I didn't tell him anything," she blurted. She didn't know what else they would want to know, but that was the first thing that she knew could get her into a lot of trouble. So it fell out, almost before she even knew what was going on.
"If you had, we wouldn't be here. Isn't that right?" Leif's voice was low and hard, and she shuddered at the sound of it. He left out the fact that he would have taken more than one person with him, but somehow Deirdre didn't miss it.
"I suppose not," she agreed, not sure how to react. When would they finally ask their questions? How long would this go on for?
She blinked back the thoughts and with a deep breath, drew herself back up to her full height and when she opened her eyes again she had control of herself.
"What was he doing when you went in?"
She tried to remember. His back had been to the entrance, and he had been doing… something, with his hands. She tried to think harder, to remember what had been on the table, to remember what he had been doing.
But there was nothing. She hadn't looked. She'd been too busy trying to take in the entire surrounding. She shook her head.
"I don't know. He was facing away, and I couldn't see what was in his hands."
Eirik nodded as if he were confirming the story, in spite of the fact that he couldn't have known.
"And what did he ask you?"
"He asked me about you. Not your names specifically, but he knew that someone had been to talk to me and that they were asking for me to spy."
"What did he tell you to say?"
"Nothing. He didn't tell me anything, but…" her voice cracked under the pressure. "He'll kill me, I swear he was going to kill me."