Rune King

Where was Gunnar now that she needed him? He was supposed to protect her. This wasn't supposed to happen.

She could see the Englishman's eyes move up and down her body, lingering for a moment on where her dress now hung open lewdly.

"Got no sympathy for a Viking whore," he said, and spit. "But I'll make it quick."

Deirdre saw him hesitating, turning the knife over in his hand, but she knew that he wouldn't hesitate forever. She felt the wagon dipping just as his hand started to move, and she moved herself. Leapt into the Englishman's chest,

knocking his stab wide, and then she used both hands to push the knife in as deep as she could.

Then the flaps separated again, and she pulled her little knife free of his ribs, slick with blood to deal with them as well.

Gunnar's lungs already burned with the exertion, his legs moving as fast as they could carry him. Each stride felt as if he might not be able to move his feet fast enough to catch him before he tumbled to the ground. Yet, like clockwork, they fell in place just as he needed them to. That was how it had to be.

He could see the English descending on the Danes, and could see that there were fewer than he had seen the night before. Perhaps, seeing him, they'd anticipated a move to skirt around, and spread their forces.

It might have been enough to save them, but he didn't have time to worry about it. He saw the cart driver slump down, in spite of the distance. Could see clearly that he was dead. No use in worrying about him.

He had promised her safety. She'd been right to be upset with him when he thought that he could keep his promise. Now he had no such illusions. There was no way for him to keep her safe if he weren't there. He pushed himself harder. No time to worry about that any more, he had to get there.

He tried to will his legs to move faster, but they had nothing left to give. He caught an Englishman, coming up behind as Gunnar's men fanned out to deal with the attack. They should've kept moving. With this few, they would have made it through, easily.

His shoulder dug into the man's back, and he turned, too late to stop Gunnar's charge but in time to watch the big man spearing him to the ground. Gunnar was up in an instant, his hand moving to the sword that he'd stolen.

He didn't have time to fight. He had more than two hundred paces to the wagon. No time to get caught up, but he couldn't protect Deirdre if he arrived swarmed by English soldiers. He'd already had to learn that lesson. It didn't need to be taught a second time.

The blade slipped into the Englishman easily, and Gunnar pulled it back free without stopping to admire his work. He was tired. Too tired to keep going at the pace he had been taking, but the danger was too great to do anything else.

He took the hilt between his two hands and caught an approaching English soldier in the throat, but he wasn't quick enough to catch the second. He took his long blade in one metal-gloved hand, halfway up the blade, and made a short, jabbing stab.

It was all Gunnar could do to smack the blade away. His wounds still weren't healing, and he couldn't begin to afford the risk. Whatever had kept him going all these years, something had changed when he needed it the most.

As he turned the blade aside he brought the sword-hand crashing down on the man's head, thumping him with the big, round pommel. The moment that it took him to regain his bearings was all it took for Gunnar to start his blade moving.

The parry was ready, but not fast enough. Gunnar's boot caught his knee and sent the Englishman to the ground. His sword cut a deep notch in the man's shoulder, and when Gunnar pulled the blade away he fell face-first into the grass.

Gunnar started to move once more, keeping himself moving as quickly as he could while taking a complete stock of the battlefield. The opportunity to dash in as fast as he could, if there had ever been one, was lost.

He wanted a shield. It would have been easier, and safer. The strange weight imbalance, carrying a blade in one hand with the other free, was disorienting.

Archers dotted the trees, but they didn't fire. That was a small blessing—if by some miracle the English were routed, then the archers would pick off the remaining Vikings without trouble.

Between himself and the cart, two Englishmen fought one of the younger fighters Gunnar had brought with him. He'd been inexperienced, but he had a knack for fighting that might have developed into something, if he didn't turn away a blade just in time for the second one's sword to ram through him.

The other wasted no time in turning, seeing the wagon, and moving over toward it. He was a priority, Gunnar thought, but then there were the two boys in there. They might be able to keep her alive. Might be able to win a fight. Even injured, Gunnar hadn't brought anyone he didn't trust in a fight.

The second turned and immediately saw Gunnar. The man let out a yell and readied his sword, bringing it around in a wide arc like a club. Gunnar considered running past for a moment. He wouldn't have made it, he decided. If he tried to run past, it would give the man plenty of time to pick his moment, and then what use would he be to Deirdre?

No, he would need to deal with the man. The blade swept in a mean arc toward his shield-arm, and it took every ounce of discipline Gunnar had to ignore the instinct to raise his arm to block.

At the last instant he took a step back and leaned away, hoping the blade would swing past, but the soldier saw it before he was too late and caught the swing. Gunnar thrust, and the parry came around. Quick and easy.

Gunnar took a breath and tried to still himself for a moment. The parry had gone wide. If he was quick, he could pin the man's arm down, and then deal with him shortly. He tucked his shoulder down and caught the man's arm above the elbow, blocking him as he tried to turn the sword for a back-handed swing.

Both of them went down into the grass and Gunnar used his free hand to pound once, twice, three times into the Englishman's face, until he felt something break. He didn't have time to deal with this.

Deirdre was in danger. He was back on his feet again and running. Leapt up to the buckboard and ducked under—the Englishman inside stumbled back, a knife stuck in his abdomen. He seemed confused for a moment as the light left his eyes. Deirdre took that instant to turn the knife on Gunnar.

Twenty-Five