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She closed her eyes and tried to push away the thought, when a cry went up in the northern language, one she could not understand. It was a voice she hadn't yet placed with a face, but she understood well enough what it meant when the wagon stopped and the men who kept guard moved away from their places behind.
She wasn't going to get another chance like this. She had spent the better part of the last night loosening her bonds until she could, with a great deal of pain, slip a hand out. With the hand removed, the second came out easily.
All it would take, as the sounds of battle picked up behind her, was the ability to deal with a little bit of pain, and hopefully without crying out. The wounded could barely move, compared to a hale and sound man, but they could still threaten her with a knife, even hold her still.
She had no desire to be stopped again, not after the debacle of what had occurred the day before. The others, they had no ambition to escape. They thought that if they stayed, there was a chance they might live, but Deirdre knew better. She'd seen them in action and knew exactly how little regard these men had for human lives.
Her thumb seemed like as not to pop all the way off as she tried to pull, to stretch the rope and her skin just enough that she could pull her arm free.
Just as she worried that it just might pop off, that her skin might tear open, the rope seemed to lose its will to fight, and slipped around the knuckle of her thumb. The added slack made pulling herself free the rest of the way near trivial.
Checking out of the covered wagon, back and front, gave almost no view of what was going on. She was left to guess that there was plenty of danger outside the room, but there was no way to be completely sure. She hated to admit it, but that was perfectly fine by her. As long as she got her freedom back—it didn't matter.
She darted her hand out and pulled a knife free of the wounded Northman's belt, deciding as the handle came free that she wouldn't waste the time putting them out of their misery. Her anger, she thought, wasn't about to override who she was, who she had been taught to be.
Instead she ducked her head under the gap in the back of the wagon, taking a lay of her surroundings as she hit the ground.
They were now further north than she'd ever gone, and the wagon cover made it difficult to see much of the road that they passed. She could make it back to the cottage with a little effort, and keeping her eyes out for the smoke from Malbeck. It would still be burning for another day or two, and once she was there it was a day's hike, but a day's hike that she knew well.
The first thing to do was to get away, though, and that was where she put her energy. She made the treeline and kept going, convinced that it was going to be enough to get away from the Northlanders.
She was wrong, but she already knew that.
Gunnar was the first to see the signs. He wished, once things had started, that he had said something sooner. After the last village, though, he was wondering if he wasn't just paranoid.
After all, it was hardly likely that there were two ambushes, one right after the other. If there were, why not just use the men from the second to make sure that the first sticks?
That was his mistake, after all. There was nothing stopping them from bringing a hammer down on the group, and that was why he was so frustrated it happened. His sword came out easily, and his shield was already at his side before he consciously realized what he was doing.
A shout went out from the other side of the bridge as ten men stepped out. An arrow flew by and hit Lars in the eye, sending him to the ground silently. Another missed its mark by too little, leaving Eirik to thank the Gods for their mercy after the battle was done.
Another English cry came up from the rear, cutting the group effectively in half on the bridge, leaving Gunnar separated from the back half of the group along with Valdemar and Ulf. They could win this fight, he thought.
All they would have to do would be to focus their attention correctly. But the archers stood on the other side of nearly ten men, and if Gunnar focused his attention there, the men behind would run right through them. A deadly pincer, relying on the green half of the band.
He took a half-second to assess the situation before running across, hoping to bowl straight through the line and get to the archers himself. His immortality carried a heavy burden, knowing that he would never die a hero's death.
But it had its advantages, and dealing with archers was
one of the biggest.
He smashed his shield into two men at once, each of them helping to absorb half the blow, and yet still their knees seemed to buckle a bit under the force of his tackle. His sword slipped around the edge of his wide, round shield and found its home in an English belly, cutting a thick gory line as he pulled it free.
Letting the second man slump off his shield, he moved past, daring to take only a second to check on the rest of the band, and try to keep his sense for what was going on. They'd split fairly evenly, he saw. Valdemar was making a very fine showing, even as he was out of the battle-trance that made him so formidable.
His ax came down and knocked a man to the ground, a man who wouldn't again get back up. Then he turned and took another. Eirik's sword had found a place in someone's ribs, and another arrow had sunk into his shield. Blessed by the Gods, that one.
And then, with a start, he saw something else. Someone moving, outside of the battle. At first he thought it might be a deserter, until he saw a flash of bright blue and green.
The witch had gotten loose. It took Gunnar only a moment to change his plans, though he realized his mistake as he ran. The point of his shield found an English throat, and his sword was sheathed in another's torso.
They were winning, but the archers—the greatest danger in the battle, already claiming three lives from what he could see alone—would have to wait. He couldn't afford to lose the red-headed maiden, not yet. Not when he still needed her.
She was a faster runner than he gave her credit for, but he was the fastest in the company, and the fire of desperation made him push his limits harder, his breaths coming in sharp, fiery gulps. He ignored the pain in his chest and shifted to let himself slip by a tree, trying to keep his eyes open for more signs of reds, blues, and greens.
He had closed the gap quite a bit, but when she turned her head and saw him she seemed to spur herself to greater speeds. He knew how to run through forest, knew how to navigate the trunks of trees, but it was her home. She could have outpaced him on any other day, but not today.
He caught her in the middle of her back, sending her tumbling to the ground in a copse between the trees. She tumbled to the ground, finally landing on her back. Her breasts pooled pleasantly, an image that Gunnar couldn't deny in spite of himself.
