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It took her a moment before she could bring herself to drop the knife. He'd played with her so many times, seeing him there now brought up a confusing jumble of feelings. Finally Deirdre slumped to the bench, surrounded by the bodies of the men who had just died in the cart, breaths coming in sharp bouts.
Gunnar was worried about her, she could see that. Whatever she felt, he seemed to feel responsible for her. She took some pride in that.
No matter how she breathed, it seemed she couldn't get enough air. Her head was getting light. She realized dimly that she was hyperventilating, but she couldn't stop. She must be in shock, but the realization did little to calm her.
No, she was experiencing unbridled, uncontrolled panic, and there was little at all that she could do about it but wait and hope that it would go away. The feeling settled into her stomach and stayed there, holding out any potential for rational thought. Any hope of figuring out what to do next.
She could hear something outside and she could see Gunnar turn, out of the corner of her eye, and step off the back of the cart. For a moment she thought that she saw his blade, painted red with blood, but she couldn't be certain.
The clanging of steel, though—that seemed to bring out her attention. Her head peeked out. She had a small space of safety surrounding her, perhaps thirty feet from the back. She clutched the dagger and stepped out onto the back step.
The grass under her feet was a comfort, starkly contrasting the scenes of chaos and death around her. The Northmen worked mainly in pairs, and she was surprised to see that few Vikings lay on the ground, beside perhaps a dozen English.
She tried to pick out the faces she recognized, but couldn't. Except Gunnar, who was beside the cart, trying to untangle his blade from an Englishman's arm, where he'd caught it and now held it firm.
Deirdre called out to him as the Englishman's other arm came 'round in a wide arc, aiming for the Northman's scalp with a sword. Gunnar's head dropped, letting the English attack sail harmlessly by, and then abandoned his own sword to grab the Englishman's sword arm.
Gunnar pulled him to the ground and twisted, and then with a pop that made Deirdre's stomach do a flip, the Englishman's sword-arm stopped moving. Gunnar took his time taking one of the swords, and when he was finished the soldier wasn't fighting any more.
Deirdre waited for him to
turn and regard her. He only took a moment to look at her before he started to move to intercept another English soldier.
She stayed at a safe distance, turning and watching and trying to make sure that she wasn't about to be taken. Hoping that she didn't draw too much attention, and that if she did that the English would think her no special threat. She was unarmed, after all, and a woman.
"I want to go home," she said. Gunnar didn't respond, just continued fighting. He hit a man in the face and left his lip a bloody mess. Turned aside a strike and seemingly in the same motion chopped into the man's shoulder. The violence and gore, she found, had disturbingly little effect on her.
He turned, and for a moment Deirdre thought that he would respond to her, but as his eyes swept past she realized that he was scanning the battlefield. She turned to see what he looked at, and saw nothing. What he was looking for, she couldn't have begun to guess.
Still he didn't respond. She followed him a few paces and he stepped up behind an Englishman who had been turned around in a fight with Eirik, and thrust his blade through-and-through. The men turned and mechanically, as if rehearsed many times over, they cut him apart. Then a third.
Deirdre spun around, watching from every angle. She had to leave. This was craziness. If they stayed much longer, then Valdemar would realize what was happening, and he would make sure that she couldn't leave. He needed her. There were too many injured now to be completely without medical help.
But that didn't mean that she was prepared to be the one to give it. She had to leave, and if that meant that some injured men would be hurt, her heart went out to them but it didn't change anything.
She nearly screamed when she felt a hand on her shoulder, pulled away and flailed with the knife she hadn't remembered keeping. Her hands hurt, gripping it so tight—she let it fall when she saw it was Gunnar. Too tired to keep holding it.
She wanted to sleep. Wanted to slump over and just relax. As her breathing slowed, everything that had happened caught up with her. She marshaled her self-control and forced herself to stay upright. Gunnar reached down and plucked up the knife, rubbing the blood off on a dead Englishman's shirt, and then fitted it into a scabbard at his waist.
Finally Deirdre found her voice as he stood back up. "I want to go home now."
She sounded weak almost pathetic. She hated that she felt this way, but couldn't stop herself. She didn't have the energy for anything more. Her jaw trembled, her knees shook with the effort of standing.
Gunnar nodded silently. His eyes still scanned, in sporadic bouts, and Deirdre turned her head to look, nearly stumbling. Across the field, men were winning. Then she noticed the archers. They waited at a distance, arrows ready but not drawn.
In the time it would take to cross the span, it would be easy for them to draw and fire. Indeed, she could see the big body of a man who had already tried it.
"Come," Gunnar said, a guiding hand on her arm. Then they were off and moving. Deirdre's legs struggled to keep up with the pace that he set, but as she pushed herself she found herself steadying. The purpose helped to re-light the fire.
Gunnar stopped to deal a blow to an English soldier, caught up in fighting another Northman, and somehow, Deirdre thought, things were about to go very wrong.
The day had already been long, and the fighting had gone on longer than he had hoped. In the stolen moments between threats he tried to catch his breath, but they were far from out of trouble. He turned the sword in his hand, tried to loosen his already-sore muscles, and Gunnar started moving.
He told her it was time to leave, and it was the right decision. Any longer, and those archers were going to become a problem. Someone would need to deal with them, and he wasn't volunteering for it. He'd already made enough mistakes, he wasn't about to risk her life again for nothing.
He kept his head moving, kept scanning. Which way would see them through with the least fighting? Which of the raiding party would let them slip through without trying to stop them? Gunnar caught a low-chopping sword on his blade, and hit. Once, twice, and the cut didn't miss its mark.
He hadn't felt like this in years. Like a well-oiled machine, made for fighting. Around him, Gunnar could see the same happening in the others, as well. As the fight continued, as their muscles tired, they seemed only to be better at fighting. The way past Ulf and Leif would see them free to the west. The English had a tight knot of men, but the two of them cut a swath of death through on their own.
