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But if he moved too soon, guessed wrong, then it would be easy for Valdemar to stop him. He would need to move suddenly, quickly enough to make it decisive, and he couldn't afford to gamble wrong.
A movement caught his eye, Valdemar's blade starting to arc up for a swing. The swing that he would try to use to finally knock Gunnar from his command, the attack that would end the fight. He brought his elbow in close to his body and thrust over the incoming blade, right into the gap between the shield, moving aside, and Valdemar's shoulder.
Right at the berserker's unprotected heart.
Nine
Deirdre watched the duel with all the interest of someone whose life depended on the outcome. What she hadn't expected was for Gunnar, confident as he always had been, to face the kind of opposition he did. He was supposed to be powerful, he was supposed to be the leader.
Yet, as he stepped and circled, one thing was certain. He was outmatched in nearly every way. When he dropped the shield, she looked nervously at the others. That had to be some sort of admission of defeat. So why did no one move to finish the fight, to stop them?
She took a breath and settled down, ready to watch as her last hopes of survival floated away. It was strangely calming, knowing that her entire life relied on a man who thought that losing use of his shield would save him from a faster, younger, bigger man.
At least she knew what to expect. He had a plan, and it was going to come down to whether or not his plan worked. Valdemar had seen it as well. She could see him, measuring the chances of Gunnar's trap succeeding. It was strange to see men so willingly gambling with their lives.
Compared to the prisoners they had taken, it was a difference of night-and-day.
Valdemar circled a bit more, hoping to have an instant-long opening on Gunnar's flank, but the smaller man left nothing to chance, turning slowly as he kept the distance exact. Just long enough for the point of a blade to touch if either man took a long step.
It was over in an instant. Valdemar's sword whirled around, but Gunnar was inside the arc in an instant. As if he'd predicted it. His sword thrust, straight and true, and it dug into Valdemar's chest.
Only, it didn't. Instead, Valdemar brought his own blade up in a wicked-looking arc, a loud metallic slap echoing through the halls. A sword lay in the dirt, and Gunnar dipped his head, trying to take Valdemar with his bare hands.
The fight did not last long, after that. A few hammering blows on the back of Gunnar's head, and he was down on the ground. He looked as if he were napping, but Deirdre knew well enough that if he could have kept fighting then the fight would still be on.
The onlookers shook their heads, separating. Valdemar seemed to consider his options for a moment, looking from the sword in his hand to Gunnar's body, and then he tossed it aside. He looked strangely… deflated, Deirdre thought. As if he were disappointed about something.
She wasn't about to ask him what was bothering him. She came up to him, making sure that Gunnar was unconscious. "I gave you what you wanted. Now that you're in charge, let me go. That was the deal."
Valdemar took a seat, one that let him watch Gunnar as he laid. As soon as he began to stir, Valdemar would know it. Deirdre hoped that he had no plans for Gunnar.
"The deal was that I let you go when he is dead, if I don't recall. There he is, lying in the grass. He still breathes. Even as we sit here, the cuts I gave him heal up before my eyes." He turned toward her. "You are lucky that I let you continue breathing. Each and every one of you prisoners is another mouth to feed, and of dubious value. You've proven yourself useful, but your use is not at its end."
"I don't understand."
"We could use someone like you, around here. Someone capable with medicines. There are two wounded men in the party. Men who would very much appreciate medical attention."
"And if I choose to help them, then I can go?"
"No." Valdemar turned back to the body, watching it steadily. "Of course, if you had some better idea how you might be more use to me out of the band than with it, or some reason I shouldn't cut you down to save on food costs—" He craned his head toward her, his eyes pointedly on her low-cut neckline. "Or if I were to have fonder feelings toward you—"
"There's not a chance of that."
"Why not? You did it for Gunnar, and you hardly knew him a week."
She slapped him without thinking, and the moment that she felt the sting in her palm she regretted it. He had been absolutely right about one thing. He held her in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing he couldn't do to ruin her life. Valdemar was not the sort of person that she wanted to get on the bad side of.
Then she saw the smile on his face. Victorious, the complete opposite of what she'd seen in his expression after he won the fight with Gunnar. As if he had found something in that slap that he hadn't been able to get from the duel.
"Good girl! I always heard that you English were spirited, I'm glad to finally find one of these mythical English women." He turned to her, standing from his perch. Up close, he towered over her. She was thankful when Gunnar began to stir, taking Valdemar's attention away from her, and putting it on the man lying face-down in the dirt.
"We'll continue this later," he called over his shoulder.
Then he said something to one of the men walking past, and she was taken away and tied back in place on the wagon, the eyes of every prisoner on her. What had happened? She didn't want to say, and aside from their curious staring, they thankfully didn't ask.
What was she going to do now?
They wouldn't assassinate Gunnar, she decided. It wasn't going to happen. Yet, at the same time, could Valdemar afford to have him running free? He had shown through his own actions what a man could do if he were committed to taking control of the band.
