Rune King

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.

r /> 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?