Rune King

And what if he lost? That would be worse. One duel, Valdemar might let him live, might think that he could be cowed into submission. He might have mercy on the man who had led him into the position he was in now.

But not a second time, not when he realized that Gunnar was going to be a thorn in his side forever. Could she stomach the idea of letting Gunnar get himself killed? No, none of the options that she had at her disposal would work. Not one bit.

She let out a breath and gave it some more thought. What, then? The arguments came easily. He should bide his time, choose a better one. The night before a raid, no—but the morning before, that could work. And besides, you don't want to split the camp right before a day of fighting, do you?

He seemed to believe her, thankfully.

But then she had tried to stab him, to make the image work. How deep would be safe? How quickly could he recover? She had no way of knowing, never had a good idea and now it seemed to be accelerating.

It could slow back down, it could get faster—she had no way of saying. But she knew that it was dangerous to test it. She could kill him, if she pierced his heart. Or would that kill him? She had no way to be sure, but she certainly didn't want to take the risk.

If she didn't stab deep enough, he might heal from it long before anyone came to check on them, and make the whole thing a waste of time.

The dangers were too numerous, and the thought of hurting him, it all added up wrong. She couldn't afford the risk, that much was sure. She dropped the knife and sat back.

What was wrong with her? Deirdre had always been smarter than this. She thought things through, and she did what she had to do. It was all well and good that chickens were sweet little animals, but when she had to eat, she had to eat. Sweet animals be damned.

But somehow things were different now. When she had made the decision it felt as if a weight were lifted off her chest, and she sat back down, the knife laying there between them. She sucked in a breath and watched out the back.

If this was what it was like to care about someone, she didn't want it. She wanted back her stability, wanted to be able to think clearly. This, this inability to concentrate, and inability to do what she needed to do, it had to go.

After a long time, well after Gunnar had hidden the knife back behind her, the sun started to set on another day and the caravan slowed to a halt. Gunnar laid down, pretending to be asleep. He was as poor an actor as he had suggested. He looked less like a passed-out, injured man than he looked like an actor pretending to play a corpse.

So when a dark-haired Northman's head peeked inside to check on them, he took only a brief look before he turned to Deirdre with a bored look.

"Is he alright?"

She looked from the northerner to Gunnar and back, unsure how to respond. "He's still—"

The Northman stepped up into the wagon and took the opposite bench. "Don't lie. He's fine, aren't you?"

He nudged Gunnar's body with his foot, and Gunnar groaned too loudly and tried to roll away, but Deirdre could see that the illusion was broken. Everyone present knew exactly what was going on, there wouldn't be any fooling anyone.

"He can tell you're faking, Gunnar, just get up."

"Well," he answered gruffly. "I told you, I'm not very good at it."

Deirdre didn't respond, because the dark-haired man was already speaking, saying something in their language that she couldn't make out. She could hear Gunnar's name at least once, and Valdemar's, but beyond that she could only guess.

Then he turned to Deirdre. "Valdemar wants to see you. An update on how things are going with these three."

From the way that he had reacted to seeing Gunnar unharmed, and the look she'd seen on his face when the duel had been fought, she took a guess. "Should I mention Gunnar's condition?"

He raised his eyebrows and thought about it for a moment. "It would be bad if he realized you were lying. But worse things could happen. And besides, you never know. He might not be as fine as you think."

He smiled a dark smile, and she could see his hand on his knife. Her eyes darted from the knife to Gunnar, deciding what he meant. Would he seriously try to hurt him, or was this another plot to keep up appearances? His voice broke her reverie.

"You should go, she-witch. Valdemar is not the most patient man in our camp. He will appreciate if you go quickly." He bent down and loosened the loop that tied her rope to the bench support. "And don't get any ideas about running. Too many people would see you, you wouldn't get far."

But, she was surprised to find, she didn't have any ideas about that at all. She had ideas about something else entirely.

The field of flowers that the camp had decided to plant themselves in made a good distraction. No questions to bother with, no thoughts of what was going on when he wasn't around. No thoughts that he couldn't protect her if he couldn't see her. None of that.

All Gunnar had to do was look out at the field of flowers and see the bright yellows and blues and reds that all mixed into the green of the grass and plants around them.

He wasn't surprised that Leif had stayed here. He wasn't as talkative as Eirik, but he had always been prone to making his presence known when he wanted to know something, or wanted someone else to know it.

Yet he waited a long time for Gunnar to turn and regard him. There must have been something wrong, because he was never this quiet. Never this patient. Finally Gunnar decided he'd waited long enough.