Rune King

Gunnar let out a long breath. "We'll make camp here for the night. Get to making your tents, get a fire going."

He looked back at the men, at the group of prisoners. He did a quick head count, saw that two had found their ways to freedom. No matter, so long as the witch was with them.

In the distance, over the rolling hills he could still see a thick chimney of smoke from the town they'd left earlier that day. He smiled mirthlessly. The Gods would be pleased with them tonight, to be certain. It had been a narrow thing, with the boy acting as mad as he had. But between Eirik and him…

Valdemar was beside him when he spoke. "We are too far out," he said, loud enough for others to hear.

So it began.

"We can't risk being found before we march," Gunnar said. Now their argument was a show for the entire band, a position he'd rather not have been put in. "Or can you go into your berserk trance at the snap of my fingers? It seems it usually takes you the morning march to find yourself, to me. Perhaps you would benefit from having a little bit more distance?"

"Worry about yourself," he growled. "They're weak. We will march right through them, like we have the last three towns."

"All the more reason that we shouldn't risk being taken by surprise. No man here would like Thor to see him embarrassed like that."

"Perhaps you would be caught by surprise." Valdemar shot it out like an accusation. Gunnar could see the frustration, even anger, in the lines of his face.

"When have I ever been caught unaware, Valdemar?"

"When have you ever been rutting with English savages whores on a raid?"

Gunnar's mind flashed to the woman's ruby red hair, spread out below her after he'd put her to the ground. The way that her breasts heaved as she struggled to get at him. Futile, but so energetic nonetheless. Then his jaw tightened.

"Are you trying to question me, Valdemar?"

"Yes," he said plainly.

"Then challenge me to a duel. I won't refuse! Or are you too much of a coward?"

"You've said it yourself. There's no reason to risk injury the night before a raid, dear leader. There will be more than enough time for us to come to an understanding in the future."

He shucked the pack off his back, letting it fall at his feet. Well, his tent was marked, Gunnar thought. Most would want to choose a spot more carefully, but not Valdemar. He was too obstinate to be reasoned with; he would let it fall where he stood, and wouldn't move it for any of them.

Gunnar knew how Valdemar saw him. Weak, retreating. He would place his own tent last, and it was usually to the outside. It was easier to make sure that the stolen horses were kept, that the prisoners didn't escape. Nobody would be able to avoid putting up a tent, but that meant nobody could watch.

He would, and that was part of being a leader: recognizing when the group would have troubles, and finding a way to fix them in advance. Valdemar had never seen the value in safeguarding others, and it was why Gunnar would not simply let him have his way. A good leader needed to be able to put the needs of the group first.

He sat down on the ground with his legs crossed, his sheath pulled away from his belt and put on the soft earth. The rain from the day before had begun to sink into the soil, leaving it firmer, less muddy. Nicer.

Gunnar had to confess that he couldn't keep his eyes off of Deirdre as he watched the prisoners. There were perhaps a score of them, and he'd taken his measure of half of them before this. Now he should have been keeping an eye on the entire group, looking for the ones who might have some fight left in them. Instead he focused on h

er.

Once they were identified it would be easy to see it beaten out of them. But all he saw was the prisoner with the most fight of all. He should have made sure that he saw her attitude corrected immediately. He could have done it himself.

Instead he found himself thinking of her like a doting father. He didn't want to see her lose it. Why was he thinking of that now? Valdemar had gauged the situation wrong, but only by shades. It was no time for him to be finding time for a woman. There were more important things to be taken care of.

She stood out compared to the rest, her red hair. Her clothing, brightly colored even with the dried muck covering it. She seemed… different. More different than he had realized. He took in a deep breath and checked on the camp from his seat on the ground. They were making it well enough.

He had to force himself to stand, pace a little bit away, and only after a long moment did he turn back to face the prisoners. The whole lot of them were still there, seated on the ground.

He did a head count. Eighteen was a good number, but more would come. Some would die, or escape. He expected they would have more when the time came for them to go back. The raid was to be a large one, compared to what he had done before. Going up and down the coast was easy, but the English had gotten wise to it.

Marching inland, on the other hand, cut them off from the sea, something none of them wanted desperately. But it was the right decision to make. He hadn't needed to wait for Valdemar to make the suggestion, though he had made it.

Most looked afraid. The fourteen who had been found in the villages over the past week had already learned what happened to anyone who tried to leave. The new arrivals were the only ones with any spirit left, but… he looked through them.

None with enough to try anything, not unless it were a sure thing. None except her. As he looked across the group, she caught his eye again.