Rune King

He must have been waiting for a reaction to continue, because as soon as she leaned forward from her perch, her brows furrowed in confusion, he continued.

"I want to go to heaven, with my brothers. I must fall in battle. You are magic."

The words came slowly, but Deirdre was only half-listening. She knew nothing about what he was saying. This was so far beyond her capabilities. She was nothing more than a hill witch. She had learned from her teacher before her, little things.

Herbs to help control her mind. How to read the signs that the earth left for her. How to read weather patterns. This was so much more than anything she had ever seen, or even heard of.

He took a step toward her, letting his shirt fall to cover his hard, nearly-unmarked body. "You are magic, and you will make me a man."

She looked up at him, the way that he looked at her no different than it had been before. Uncomfortably close, a reminder that pulled her out of her reverie, reminding her again that she was a woman in a man's bedroom.

He seemed to be saying that he had taken her because she was a witch. That was what his words said.

His eyes said that he didn't see her as a witch. He saw her as a woman, and whether he would take advantage of it or not, there was no denying what he saw.

"I don't know how to fix it. I don't know anything about—"

He put her hand on his stomach, letting her feel the skin where she had cut, feel the smoothness of it. She couldn't help but feel the hard muscle beneath, a shiver going up her spine. She didn't want to think the thoughts that ran through her head.

She didn't want to think about the fact that they were much closer to his than he might have realized.

"You are magic. Find a way."

The march was another half-hour at double pace, but for Gunnar the march never began until the last thirty paces, when the fury of battle finally started to overtake the cold knowledge of what would come. When they broke out of the loose ranks and picked up the pace.

Gunnar tried to keep himself in check. Nearing thirty, he was not as young as some of the boys, and he needed to remind himself of that. But as Valdemar started to pass him, and the fever of battle started to rise, he couldn't help speeding up to match, ducking his shoulder b

ehind a shield. He'd topple the first man he came to with the sheer weight behind the tackle.

That one would live, for a moment, until someone decided to take the kill or he decided to get off his back and rejoin the fight. Whatever man stood behind him would not be so lucky, as Gunnar's practiced arm let the shield slip off to the side and revealed the sharp blade behind it.

Valdemar had no shield. Never carried one, which Gunnar had to respect from a man who had not been blessed with Gunnar's peculiar talents. The battle madness had already overcome him as they started to hit cobblestone pavement, his great ax swinging back to take off head of the first man to dare stand before him.

Gunnar pulled his blade free, glancing to the side as they passed by a house, making sure that no ambush lay in wait. He caught the blow of a sword on his shield, turning it aside with the round redoubt, and brought his own sword down on the man's arm, separating it cleanly at the elbow, finishing by putting his shoulder into him and sending him to the ground.

Something was wrong here. They'd come to a larger village than the last. There had been at least two dozen homes, from what he could see, perhaps more. There must have been more than this, but as he looked around he saw that there were scarce few to be found.

The sound of an English shout made him turn to face it, just in time to catch an English arrow with his shield, and another with his shoulder. Valdemar would not be so lucky, he realized.

Gunnar took a long step, turning his back once more on the archers, who hid somewhere in one of the buildings. He would have time to respond, but not while his men were vulnerable.

The heavy ax came down, splitting a man nearly in half, and Gunnar claimed another with the point of his sword, a boy who had never seen the blow coming. As Valdemar turned to take the last of the three men surrounding him, Gunnar heard a second shout go up, and turned again, the tiniest flash of movement sending his hand out in a futile effort to catch it.

Instead the arrow hit his blade, hard enough to send it, twisting and tumbling out of his hand, and another caught him through the thigh. Though it stung badly, it was not enough to take him down. He needed to deal with this, though. More than one body lay in the stone floor, pin-cushioned like he was, but they were not continuing to fight like he could.

He could see where the arrows had come from. The door was barricaded. They would have more than enough time for their arrows to find marks as he tried to dig his way through—Gunnar cursed their good tactics, and started to charge with his shield once more. If you cannot go around, he thought. The easiest way…

He left his feet and groaned out as his hip hit the window pane, felt the glass cutting through his skin as it failed to shatter cleanly on his shield. But when he tumbled down, it was to a wooden floor, and not to the muck of the small garden outside.

Another arrow struck him, sending him back to the floor as he tried to stand. The eldest of the five men had a sword in his hand, and he raised it as another arrow hit home. They were not taking chances, Gunnar thought, and they were right not to.

Through the haze of pain and with his body pinned to the floor he swung wildly for the old man's leg, feeling the blade sink into flesh. The man screamed out his pain and fell to the ground. Gunnar took the advantage, using the man's weight to help him turn over and straddle his chest.

He wrapped his hands around the man's throat and put his weight down, feeling him struggle. Gunnar's knee came up to pin his sword arm and he watched the light go out of the Englishman's eyes. A pity, he had been clever. Cleverer than most of the English. They were known, and now the English would be prepared, more and more at each town. The danger would increase as they continued.

As the man stopped fighting Gunnar pulled the sword from the man's hands, pressing himself up even as the arrows thudded into his body with the force of an angry bull. He turned, one sword cleaving through the wooden bow of an archer that stood close by, the second finding a place in his chest. The others died as quickly, until Gunnar finally laid back against the wall, chest heaving with exertion.

The wounds hurt badly, and with the arrows still in him he could feel them pulling back open every time he moved. He was tired, and he hurt. He should have died a dozen times over. It was a blessing that he was able to survive, but it was important to remember that if he hadn't been here, hadn't been who he was, then it was not impossible that they had all died.