Rune King

And as far as the camp was concerned, she was his. He didn't want to admit it but if he were to let Valdemar continue then he would just be showing everyone that he was too weak, too afraid to fight back. Well, he wasn't afraid, and he wasn't weak. If it was a fight that Valdemar wanted, a fight he would get.

His foot came up and he put a boot into the side of the berserker's face, sending him sprawling to the grass. He was barely down an instant before he rolled and was on his feet, his hand darting toward his waist, where he kept his knife.

When he saw that Gunnar hadn't pulled out a weapon his body relaxed, just a little bit. There would be no need for an immediate response. If it were just a punch, he could take one of those.

That was where he made his mistake, Gunnar thought. He ducked his head and darted in, using his shoulder the same as he had earlier that day. With both of them tired, he didn't get the effect he'd had earlier, but Valdemar stepped back. The leader's hips dropped, and he pushed up with his legs, lifting Valdemar until he tumbled head-over-heels to the ground.

Gunnar stepped back, looking down on the berserker as he started to stand. Gunnar's foot came up, pressed into his shoulder and sent him back to the grass. It didn't escape his notice that a crowd had formed, nearly every man who could walk having started to circle the central clearing of the tents.

This was all about the show, now. There was nothing he could do to escape it any more, whether he wanted to or not.

"You think you can face me? You couldn't best me with your ax against my bare hands, what makes you think that you could win?"

Valdemar's eyes burned with anger. This wasn't going to be the end of it, whether the others took the lesson or not. Not by a long shot was this the end.

Gunnar looked over at the woman, the fire of anger managing the dampen whatever he felt for her, then looked at the

circle of men that surrounded the pair of them.

"The witch is under my protection, and I will not see a one of you trying to go around that. Am I understood? Can you all hear me? Anyone who wants to know her, that man has to go through me first. And I'm not going to give you an easy fight."

Eirik was opposite him, he could see. He stood, impassive and seeming not to judge. The Gods could be cruel, and they had no problem with what might happen between a man and a woman on a raid.

Eirik spoke oft as not with the Gods' own voice, but Gunnar knew one other thing. The Gods respected strength and respected a man who could protect what was his. Eirik might think what he wanted, and the Gods could allow whatever they wanted to allow.

Gunnar did not speak with their voice and did not pay them any special mind. If he declared that she was protected, then no one—not Valdemar, not Eirik, not Ulf or Leif, would challenge him.

Not because he had command, or because they were not permitted to stand up to him. Because if they tried to, and it was very possible that they might, he would see them sent along to Valhalla before he let them touch her.

The thought shocked him for a moment, almost curing his rage. He hardened himself again. He hadn't wanted to think of her this way. Hadn't decided it consciously.

But she was his, whether she was his tool or his woman, and he wouldn't let anyone have her.

If the Gods did not understand that, then to Hel with them.

Five

The night before had been worse than she'd expected, for reasons that Deirdre didn't want to think about. She had expected something, expected the nights to transition into something different, but they never had.

She'd been brought to his tent again, and again they spoke. Again he had told her to make him normal, and she had racked her brain for a solution.

How to fix it? She closed her eyes. Her teacher hadn't taught her anything like this, but she had taught Deirdre how to think with a clear m ind about complicated problems. That was where the answer lie, no matter what it turned out to be.

But how was she supposed to use her skills when she had no access to any of her herbs, had nothing to use to find her answers?

She tried listening to the wildlife, but all it seemed to say was that the animals were afraid. They wouldn't come even within a quarter mile of the camp, for fear that they'd be killed by the invading, terrifying outsiders.

Deirdre felt more in common with them than the animals would have realized, if they were capable of communicating with humans beyond vague signs, wildly open to interpretation.

That was useless. The weather… she had never understood how to interpret it. It seemed to simply come in cycles, and what would the point in the cycle mean? Nothing, she thought. Nothing at all.

So she had left the tent again, having done nothing. She could see the frustration, even anger in the leader's face. At last, after three days, as she left he had finally asked her name. She hadn't given it, and he hadn't given his in return.

The march today was exceptionally slow, compared to the last. The last march had taken them most of what she could have moved in a day, but now with the wounded that had been brought back, were being carted with the prisoners, they were taking frequent breaks to rest the horses and make sure that the wounded were not being badly jostled.

Part of Deirdre was angry, wanted to use what little freedom she had to kick them, to make them suffer every bit of the humiliation she had suffered.

Another part, larger, had been taught a good deal about medicine. Had been taught to save life, not to injure even the bad men.