Gunnar cursed the cloud that prevented him from seeing for whom the warning had been intended. His decision to travel at night, to slip unseen by local raiders, if the rumors about them were true, was working against him. Now it was he and his men who couldn’t see, and they had the added disadvantage of not knowing the terrain.
Lightning flashed overhead, giving a split second of vision before submersing them once again in blackness. Another flash. Then another. The unpredictable bursts bathed the countryside in an otherworldly light, creating unnerving mysterious shadows without providing enough time to discern what was real. Nerves stretched taut, Gunnar awaited the next flash, half expecting it to reveal a hard charging assailant closing in on him. He pulled Maid’s Dream from its sheath.
The suspense was excruciating. If an attack was coming, Gunnar wished they would just bring it. Here, they were in an open spot in the road, easily defended. His men lived to fight, and could readily handle most adversaries, of that he was confident. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to get close to them would soon find that out—and, in doing so, would have lost their advantage of knowing the terrain. Up close, fighting hand-to-hand, they would fight on equal terms, and unless their numbers were so substantial that they could overrun his group, Gunnar was sure of the outcome.
Unless they had archers. If that were the case, this open position, so ideal to take on a foe armed with sword or battle-axe, would provide little protection. Gunnar’s gut tightened at the thought of being showered with clouds of winged death from a faceless opponent, before realizing such a form of attack was unlikely. The rumors at the port had been that the slaves were being stolen. A blanket attack by archers in the darkness could not differentiate between captor and captive; it would kill Northman and Irish slave alike. Still, he found himself listening for the distinctive whir of feather fletching in flight, in time to raise his shield. He hated archers.
He glanced at Rorick who had moved up beside him. His tall, young second’s sword was drawn, and his eyes were wary, but a hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. Gunnar shook his head. Rorick would get his fill of blood soon enough in the rich East, and learn he did not need to seek it out in unnecessary places.
Gunnar returned his full focus to their surroundings, waiting for the cloud to pass. The wind picked up, and he felt several drops of rain, though the most ominous clouds still held off. Ever so slowly, the smaller cloud moved on, and moonlight turned the impenetrable darkness to near day. He could see the form of a woman on the mired road ahead of them, now. She did not appear to be aware of them—must not have heard the slave’s warning for the wind. She stood, slightly stooped over with her back to them, holding up her horse’s left front leg, while she inspected its hoof. The animal was a common farm steed, thick-legged and coarse, and the woman’s hooded cloak was one of simple wool.
The men looked to him for orders, but Gunnar shook his head for them to wait. Had this been an ambush, he would have expected it to be set up in the dark woods ahead. Still, his gut told him something wasn’t right. You didn’t just come across young women alone on the road at night.
“Run, lass!” One of the prisoners screeched his warning again. This time his men were ready, and the man was quickly silenced with a club to the jaw.
The woman released the horse’s foot, straightening as she turned to face them. At first she appeared to be relieved at the prospect of aid, and even took a half step toward them. But as her eyes took in the group of armed men, their round Norse shields unmistakable, then the smaller group of men huddled and chained together between them, she faltered, then stopped. Her body stiffened with alarm. She spun away, yanking on the horse’s reins in a frantic attempt to flee down the road ahead of them.
The horse trailed gamely behind her, but was limping severely on his left front leg; Gunnar knew the animal would not make it far. One of his men chuckled. Another whistled. Then all looked to him for the order to proceed. Gunnar held up his hand, silently signaling them again to hold their position while he scoured the surroundings once more for signs of anything out of the ordinary. After one last hard long look at the empty countryside around them, Gunnar sheathed his sword and retook the lead. The group advanced slowly.
The darkest clouds had still yet to reach them, but the rain fell harder now, and the wind whipped with occasional stronger gusts. Though his men maintained only a slow march, they were steadily gaining on the woman. Every few strides she darted a glance over her shoulder. Each time she saw they were closer, she would tug on the horse’s reins with renewed terror. Mud now caked the bottom of her skirt and her shoes, and the extra bulk and weight began to slow her even more. Gunnar was surprised she hadn’t abandoned the injured animal by now, but people did foolish things when they panicked. He had seen it so many times before.
The road disappeared into a section of dark forest ahead, and for a moment she was lost from view. After another signal to his men to remain vigilant, they followed her. Gunnar’s keenly trained senses took in everything as they entered the trees, his eyes quickly adjusting to the decreased light. Leaves from the taller trees rippled overhead and smaller saplings bent and swayed beside them. Nothing else moved. All animal life, other than them and
