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As they laid him down on his bedroll, though, she could see from his face that he was putting up a mighty effort to keep his appearances up. He was suffering more than he wanted to let on, and it was probably a struggle to move every step. Every breath he took, he winced.
"You have to heal him," the dark-haired one
repeated.
Gunnar said something to him in their northern tongue, and he stepped back. Then he turned to Deirdre. "You've done what I asked of you, and now it's my turn."
A commotion outside the tent made her turn on her heel, watching as Valdemar stepped through, his shirt stripped and lines of sweat crossing the layer of dirt and dust on his skin. He looked at the four of them in turn, before finally speaking out loud.
The words weren't familiar, but she could tell from the reaction that he wasn't saying anything nice. The shaven-headed man had to hold the dark-haired one back as he nearly threw a big, powerful fist.
She turned to see Gunnar pushing himself up, wincing as he put weight on his arm. She could see the wound, now, a big red hole. The edges were puffy and already she could see the infection setting in. He grabbed a sword from the ground as he stood, and a shield.
Then he gritted his teeth and set his shoulders and walked out of the room.
"What is going on?"
The dark-haired Northman stormed out, nearly pushing Valdemar as he went past, and then the shaven-headed man answered.
"Valdemar says he has claim to command with Gunnar injured. And I'm afraid he's decided on a duel for it."
"He's hurt," she said, confused. How on earth could they fight a duel when one of the participants had a hole in his chest?
The man looked at her for a long moment, considering. Then he nodded.
She didn't wait on the shaven-headed Northlander any longer. She ran after Gunnar. He would die if he fought now. There was no way that he could win, but all for some sort of silly pride he was going to get himself murdered. What sense was there in that? She took a deep breath and tried to think.
Could she heal him? Certainly, but not in the next few minutes. The most she could do would be… what?
She racked her brain as she caught up to Gunnar, who had pulled up a makeshift chair and now sat, his eyes more focused than she had ever seen him. He looked as if he were about to go to war, not as if he had just been stabbed.
"You can't do this," she said softly.
His eyes turned to her. "I can not avoid it."
"You're hurt."
"Yes."
"You'll die if you fight, you can't do this."
"If I will die, then I will die fighting."
"At least let me tend to your wounds. Numb the pain, at least."
"Then do it," he said. His voice was hard, not anything like the man that she had grown used to over the past week.
She frantically tried to think of something she could do. She might be able to apply belladonna. It could have a numbing effect, if she used the right amount. She folded her pouch of herbs out and looked through them.
In an ideal world she would have had so much more time to do this, enough time to be safe and accurate, but she didn't have the comfort of time. She needed to have this done before he decided it was time to march to his death.
She tore the leaf, then again, and again, until she had a pinch of finely-shredded pieces, and rubbed it in the wound. Gunnar, to his credit, kept silent as she applied it, though she knew that it must have hurt.
Then he looked at her, his expression serious. "I will free you. I promise that, but I can't do that if I don't have authority. Do you understand?"
Deirdre nodded, the need to think quickly and everything going on around her creating a growing panic. She was dead, she was absolutely dead, and it was her own actions that had condemned her to the fate that she was now going to suffer.
Gunnar put his hand on her shoulder, and then walked past, his sword at the ready.
