"And the men supporting him—they're not going to give up. They're going to keep fighting for him, come what may, because he's the leader. If you win, if you kill him, some will support you. Others, though, they'll keep wanting him in charge. There's no converting them."
He nodded. Nothing she'd said was in doubt. It was as basic as arithmetic.
"But what if you lose? You go out there, whether you live or die, if even one of them sees you, then he will keep believing that you were the rightful leader. Forever. He'll never stop fighting against Valdemar. They're loyal to you. That Eirik and Leif came to me right after you were left behind, shows that."
He grunted his understanding, but still he remained silent.
"You put together forty men to survive here. To kill for you, to take loot and raid—why did you not take fewer? Surely there would be a greater share per-man."
"Too few, and there's no chance. You need extra, in case something goes wrong."
"Could eighteen men make it back, alone, this deep in the English countryside?"
His look shifted to thoughtfulness, and Deirdre knew that she'd won him over even before he nodded his agreement.
Gunnar heard the sounds of fighting. They were soft, a small fight, and not too close. They would probably have started near the center, but then moved toward the edge of camp very quickly. No reason to ruin where you're going to sleep later, whoever you supported.
The sound was quiet, but he could barely hear Deirdre's words over how loud the sounds were amplified, between his ears and his head. He could feel his blood pumping hard, could feel the adrenaline, the old battle-madness that all of them had. That he'd picked them all for.
He had to go. Had to fight, had to do what he had to do. He heard Deirdre telling him not to go, heard himself arguing, but in his mind he was already there. The decision had already been made, and he was just waiting. Waiting until he could go do what he had to do.
Just from the sounds, he could nearly see it right before his eyes. Leif and Ulf were rivals, in their way, but they would be beside each other. He imagined that Ulf would have already dropped his shield and swung his sword two-handed, hard enough to splinter any shield that its owner was foolish enough to bring up.
Hard enough to shatter the skull it protected, too, if they were particularly foolish. You had to catch it on the back-swing, or avoid it. No other way. They would have known that if they had experience, and every one of them did. At least some.
He could barely make out the words, but Deirdre was telling him to think about what would happen to them if they split up. The sounds of battle receded, but he could still hear them, tickling the back of his mind. Calling out to him.
She was right, of course. She often was, and that was what made her so dangerous. She could turn anything into the truth, if she worked at it hard enough. But that meant that she was a powerful ally, as well.
He made sure to remind himself of that. A good leader needed allies, and she was begging him, pleading with him, not to go.
If he went now, then he would be splitting them up, permanently and forever, leaving both sides to die. Better to let them think that he had died, to go away now, and they would live. He would live. Deirdre would live.
He had to admit that he wanted those things. He nodded, understanding. A good leader needed allies, and she was making good sense. And it was more important to leave his men alive than it was to prove that he was in charge of them.
But that didn't mean that he could leave his friends to die, either, did it? He blinked and tried to think. Stared at Deirdre, hoping that she would speak again. That she would see through it for him, but she didn't.
"I will take you, but I can't. Not yet."
"What is that—what?"
He didn't know himself. "I have more to do. I can't let them die."
She looked completely unconvinced. But then again… Gunnar thought for a moment.
He needed allies, but he was still in charge. She was little more than a prisoner. A trusted prisoner. More than that, to him. But to the group, only a medic and a prisoner. He had to remind himself of that. So much emotion swirled around her, making it hard to remember that he had the final decision in the end.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. "Have you been listening to anything that I've been saying?"
He pulled her up into a kiss for an answer, feeling her struggle a little bit for a moment. She wanted to talk more, but this wasn't about talking. This was about what he had to do to live. It wasn't a matter of choice, not really. He had to make sure, or he couldn't live with himself.
When he released her, she brought her hand around in a wide, arcing slap that he let hit him. She was right to be angry. She wanted him to leave, wanted him to leave his men behind, and let things go however they wanted. Gunnar would probably have been upset in her place, but he wasn't in her place.
As good as her advice was, she wasn't in his, either.
He stood back up, letting her free, taking a moment to watch her stumble back into her seat. He allowed himself a moment to smile, and then he wasn't Gunnar the leader any more. He was someone else. A fighter, a killer. He put his hand on his sword.
He wouldn't need it, not if things went well. But he didn't act on the assumption that things would go well. He had to act on the assumption that things would go anything but well. He stepped down and out of the cart, ignoring Deirdre's protests behind him. If he came back from this, and managed to get her free, then she could thank him later. He took a few long, loping strides, peering around the edge of the tent.