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But to his surprise they weren't being pressed in tighter. The English pushed, and the Danes were pushing back. The fighting was intense, and close, but the English bodies continued to pile up. The Vikings, on the other hand, continued to suffer only minor wounds. A cut to the face, a slash into the ribs. Nothing lethal.
With adrenaline as high as it was, with the threat of death looming, it felt as if they could continue this forever. An hour, a day, a week if they had to. Until each and every English soldier had fallen or run. Gunnar didn't realize he was smiling until his mouth ached with the feeling, adding to the list of aches that seemed to go on forever.
At the same time they seemed not to matter. He could ignore them. Could ignore the way that his hip pulled wrong when he twisted to turn a backhanded cut. Could ignore the pain in his side when he turned his torso to let an English blade fly harmlessly by.
Colors were brighter. The green of the grass, the blue-gray of the sky. The wet redness on the blades of his men, spraying up onto his skin. The feeling was as strange and foreign as it could be. As if for the first time he was truly alive. As if this was what life was supposed to be.
He grit his teeth and swung his blade hard, catching an English in the skull-cap and scrambli
ng his brains. It felt as if his reflexes would carry him through even if he were to take a wound that killed him.
Then, somehow, things got worse. A horn blew. It took Gunnar a moment to realize what was happening. The ground felt as if it were shaking, and a low rumble came from the south. From behind. He turned out of the way of an incoming cut and allowed himself a moment to look back.
He couldn't count them in the single glance before his attention pulled back to the man in front of him. But there wasn't much question of what was happening. A dozen men or more on horseback. They had heavy lances and swords, and they looked ready to use them. The English took little time in pulling back.
There were two Danes to every horseman, but Gunnar knew better than to think of the odds that way. The horses could ride them down and have the English gone before any of them had a chance to retaliate. Their only hope would be to catch them on the way in, and with the war lances they carried, they had the advantage in reach.
The Danes kept themselves in the tight knot they'd already formed. If they needed to disperse, it wouldn't take more than a moment for each of them to go running, but until that happened they were better together than spread thin—especially against so many.
Gunnar scanned around and made an informal count. He stopped when he hit a hundred men still standing. One of the horsemen called out to them.
"Throw down your arms, and no harm will come to you."
He could hear the comment being passed around and translated, and he listened to the answers they gave. There seemed to be some debate as to whether or not they could survive.
Gunnar had no need to debate it. He knew the answer. It burned, but he stepped forward, holding his sword aloft to show he had it…
And then he threw it on the ground in front of him. Their time would come, but if they made the wrong move, then those horsemen would ride them down without a second thought.
He was surprised to see Valdemar join him. Before long, a pile of weapons lay on the ground, and Gunnar was trying to hold back the shame he'd brought down on himself.
Twenty-Seven
There had to be a good reason that Gunnar hadn't found her. No doubt at all. She pushed herself up out of the dirt and the pain that racked her shoulders was immediate and severe. She shouldn't have slept slumped over like she had and now her body ached badly where muscles had bunched up through the night.
Deirdre took a moment to center herself. There was a lot wrong right now, but she needed to keep moving. Needed to find a way to keep going home. If Gunnar was going to find her at all, he'd know where she went. She had been asking for it since practically day one, after all.
She pushed away the doubt that swelled up in her chest. The fear that whatever she did, she might never see him again. That her only safe way home was gone and lost forever. She didn't have time to think that way.
Her feet still ached from the day before, and she could feel how sensitive parts of them were, where they'd been rubbed raw without any support. She would have liked shoes, but they'd been lost weeks ago.
The forest's noises around her, though, were an odd sort of comfort. Even if she wasn't home, and wasn't particularly close to home she had to admit, the sounds were familiar. It reminded her of what it was like to be human, what it was like to be back in that little cottage, raising melons and growing herbs.
The problem, though, was that she was quickly realizing the limits of her feet, and of her ability to walk. It was easy to pretend that she could get home, to say the words that she wanted to go back to her home, but saying and doing were two very different things. She tried to hold back the swell of self-doubt.
She held it back better than she held back the tears from her eyes as she realized the enormity of the task ahead of her. She couldn't do it without someone or something helping her. She could find work, if she had to, perhaps buy her way onto a cab. Any sort of work would do. She would even be satisfied with a few days' rest to let her feet heal, and a pair of sturdy shoes.
But she couldn't keep going through the forest like this. She took a deep breath and kept moving. She would find signs of life somewhere. Civilization. Then she would go in. She didn't do it often, but she wasn't some country bumpkin who was afraid of towns or cities. She wasn't.
She heard the sound of a river before she saw it. It was a welcome sound, if for no other reason than that she could cool her feet for a bit before she kept going. But towns meant water. They needed it near enough to walk, to get the wash.
Or they could have a well, she reminded herself, but the point was moot. Somewhere along this, if she kept going and kept her bearings right, she'd find… something.
The water was as cold as ice, but after a long moment Deirdre was able to push past it. Her feet needed something. The day itself was warmer than it had been, so she didn't find herself shivering, but as she soaked her feet she was getting colder.
A quick look up and down showed something on the other side of the river. It was too far away to be sure what, but it was some sort of building. Deirdre pulled her feet out of the water, pale with the cold, and started to walk unsteadily. Her feet were a little numb and it made it hard to keep a solid footing. At least they didn't hurt any more.
As she came closer she saw the wheel. A mill. That meant a town as sure as can be. There was a bridge, and a little foot-path. Nothing like a road, but it would get her where she needed to be. And, as she recalled, they'd crossed at least one river on the way out. This might just put her on the right side and save her having to retrace their steps exactly.
