Rune King

When she looked back out into the sea, she saw the boat had rowed closer. A few short minutes' rowing. She tried to still the beating of her heart. If they were caught now, it would be an easy thing for the men that she was surrounded by to fight off any attack. Even for their injuries.

She couldn't bear the thought. As few people should die as possible. She watched the men left on the ship, coming up to the top deck. She tried not to think about what they threw overboard. It was better that way, if she didn't think about it. In her heart, though, she had already realized what was thrown over their shoulders, and they weren't potato sacks.

Gunnar's outline was becoming visible. He was the one rowing. He pulled the little boat up, tied it off to the dock, and said something to the others before turning to Deirdre. "I'll be back for you, wait a little more."

The most injured among them loaded up. He wouldn't leave the most vulnerable to fend for themselves. It was the right decision, she thought. But it wasn't how she wanted to think about it. Violent and bloody-minded, she couldn't stand it. Why couldn't they stop fighting, why couldn't they stop killing? Sh

e took a deep breath of air. This was their lives.

They were soldiers. No different from English soldiers. Or at least, no different in the ways that counted.

She shivered, waiting for the boat. She kept her eyes on the street. No one coming. They would need five minutes, perhaps, going out. No more need to worry about making noise as they closed in on the ship, but the distance was still measurable, and it still provided opportunity for them to be noticed.

Ten minute round trip. Too long, too many minutes. If someone saw them, then there was a good chance he'd see six big, burly men huddled on the dock, and call for help. But for the love of God, Deirdre hoped they didn't. One or ten—these soft country folks, it didn't make a difference. Their wives would be waiting a long time for them to come back bed.

She didn't turn when she heard the merciful noise of the boat coming back up. Something else drew her attention, the one thing that she had been desperate not to happen. A shape. Someone moving through the night. The lamps that lined the street illuminated his face, which showed someone who definitely saw them.

"Raiders! Vikings!" The hysteria had spread a good bit, she thought. But at least this time, he was right. The remaining men turned on their heels, caught between the need to leave, and the ingrained desire to stop the man's screams.

Deirdre, desperate to stop the violence, turned to Gunnar as he pulled up. "Make them stop! Get them on the boat!"

He said something that made them turn back, climbing on.

The man had pulled something out of his waistband, and he was advancing on the dock. Slowly, but it was only a matter of time. Deirdre stood rooted to the spot. If she got on the boat, then she knew that meant that she was going to Denmark.

Yet… could she stay? She knew before she had to decide that she couldn't. She would be leaving behind Gunnar, leaving behind everything that had made her come back in the first place. She turned, looking to Gunnar for advice. He stood there, his hand outstretched to help her into the boat.

All of her things, though. All of her things, her home. Her place in the world. What did it mean?

She looked back over her shoulders. The man had started to speed up, seeing that they were loading onto the boat. They had only a moment, and if she was going to save them—she took his hand and got on board. The rope came off the dock, and they were away.

Two big men, clearly used to rowing, were at the oars. They took full strokes, and by the time the man reached the end of the dock they were already well on their way. Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief.

But she knew she would still have more trouble coming.

He could tell, even as the others rowed, that something was wrong. Deirdre was acting oddly. Off. She wasn't happy about something, but she hadn't told him what and he was no mind-reader. Perhaps she wasn't aware that other people lacked that particular ability, he thought. Smiled at the idea. No, she wasn't half so foolish as that.

But the idea tickled him in spite of that. They'd hung down a rope ladder to climb, and the injured had already needed helping, so when it came Deirdre's turn he couldn't help lifting her a little way out of the boat with his hands. Couldn't help the desire to touch her hips.

She climbed up, and he brought the little boat around back, where the men had dropped down a tow rope. He tied the boat off. They might need it, after all. No reason to just leave it behind. Then he dove into the water.

The weapons at his waist were heavy, pulled him down, but he had been swimming since he was knee-high. It wasn't going to hamper him much. The worse effect would come from the weight of his clothes. They would need to come off once he was on deck.

An easy reach up from the water, and he took the bottom rung of the rope ladder, pulled himself up, and then it was an easy climb back up. Eirik pointed him in the direction of where they'd taken Deirdre. The only separate bedroom they'd found in the place, he noted. Whatever that meant for how the men thought of her, or of him, he wasn't sure.

He pushed the door open to find her sitting in a well-made wooden chair. The chair alone would have been worth taking, if they could carry it. Well, now they could.

"What's wrong?"

She looked up at him and seemed to debate whether or not to tell him. That was a mistake on her part. She needed to tell him what she wanted, or he couldn't give it to her.

"I just misunderstood," she said softly.

"Did you not want to come back home with me?"

She sucked in a breath and balled up her fists. "I didn't want you to make me, Gunnar. Is this going to be your life, from now on? Going out? Killing people? For what?"

The words echoed his own thoughts. His own face twisted up in confusion. No, he hadn't planned on continuing to fight, but she was more right than she knew about what would happen back home. It would be one thing after another. At best, they had hope for a little farm by themselves, but he knew better than that.