Rune King

The Dark-haired one next. "Leif," he said, then he gestured toward the third. "Ulf."

The giant of a man nodded, but said nothing. She wondered for a moment if he spoke English at all, and when he said something in their Northern tongue she considered it all-but confirmed.

"You have to make your decision. We'll be back tonight, after dark, to hear what you've decided. Gods be good if you choose wrong again."

Gunnar woke up without realizing he'd fallen asleep. The exhaustion had just overtaken him as he ran, so he stopped to sit against a tree, and then he'd opened his eyes again and the sun was already up.

He could hear birds chirping, and the light stung, but only for a moment. Then it was time to go again. Always following the tracks. They had gotten better at hiding their trail as time passed, after their night of running, but now he had the scent, so to speak. Being closer meant being able to move faster, to run longer, to push harder.

But it also meant that he needed to be more careful, now. There was always the risk, ever-present, that he would show some sign of following, and they'd see him coming. Worse, he might be spotted by Englishmen following behind. He might be able to appeal to the band, even to Valdemar, but it would be a difficult thing to convince the English soldiers to just let him go by.

No, the odds of that happening weren't great. So he was limited in his movements by the constant knowledge that he could be attacked at any time. He shrugged it off. No reason to be bothered by it, it was just something else he had to factor in.

He kept his shoulders low, swiveled his head left and right, making sure that he was running light on his feet. Every crack of a twig, every noise of the lightly-wooded path that he followed them down seemed to be a possible assault.

He knew the pace that the men would be going. They couldn't continue at double-time forever, not with the packs on their backs and the carts to keep in order. Not while they tried to march in line, not while they tried to avoid leaving signs of their passage.

He, on the other hand, barely had enough supplies to hunt a pig. It meant that he'd gone a bit lean even over the two days that he'd been following, but it also meant that he could move faster and easier, with more flexibility in his route.

In other words, catching them was just a matter of time.

A noise made him stop, still. A crack, then another. One after the other, and another, long after he'd stopped. Something else was ahead of him, no more than a few hundred yards, and headed this way. It took only a moment to duck into a ditch, and then he waited.

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.