When they heard the horses coming they both slammed to the ground, uncaring of the mud and wet. Zarabeth’s hands were filled with swamp mud. Her face was pressed into the wet earth. She thought of the last time she’d lain on the ground, waiting helplessly for Orm to come capture her. And he had come, and he would come again. The sword was heavy, dragging down at her side. She wasn’t helpless this time.
The horses were coming closer. There was no long grass in this boggy swamp to hide them, only short marshy reeds, and Zarabeth knew that at any moment Orm would see them.
“I won’t wait this time, damn him!” She jumped to her feet, pulling the sword free from its scabbard as she tried to keep her balance in the muddy earth.
“Zarabeth! You fool, lie down, quickly!”
“Nay! He won’t take me back again. Not this time! This time I will fight him.”
Magnus was keeping Thorgell to a steady pace. He didn’t want to kill his prized animal. The moon was bright overhead, the meadow was narrow and long. They were close, he could feel it. Suddenly he saw an apparition rise from the floor of the meadow. He felt a tremor of sheer terror choke in his throat. The vision, or whatever it was, was waving a sword like a demented thing. It was a woman—demon or flesh?
The stallion didn’t falter even though his fist tightened on the reins. He heard Eines cursing, heard Ragnar’s breath draw in sharply, heard the other men muttering.
“What is it?”
Then he recognized his wife, her flying hair, streaking down her back, thick and tangled. She was wearing a man’s tunic and a wide loose belt that hung low on her hips.
She was challenging him, sword raised above her head, legs apart, her body ready.
Zarabeth brought the sword down in front of her and held it there with both hands. She waited, her heart pounding, beyond fear. It wasn’t Orm. It was Magnus. A sob caught in her throat. She dropped the sword and began running toward him, the filthy swamp mud sucking at her feet, all the pain in her body forgotten.
“By all the gods!” Ragnar yelled, and kicked his horse’s sides. “I’ll kill it!”
“Nay, Ragnar! ’Tis my wife!” Magnus kicked Thorgell into a gallop. He rode to her, leaned down, and scooped her up with one arm. He was laughing, deep and freely, and he was holding her tightly against him and her arms were around his neck.
He pulled Thorgell to a halt. He looked at his wife, filthy, smiling, her eyes bright with relief. “You would have held me off with your sword? Right there in the middle of a swamp?”
“Aye. I was very angry, you see.”
“I see,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her. “You are also very filthy.”
“Magnus,” she said into his mouth, and tightened her hold around his neck. He grunted and pulled her across his lap. Thorgell pranced to the side, not liking her weight or the swamp smell of her.
“Ingunn is out there hiding.”
Magnus called his sister’s name. She rose and stood silently under the moonlight.
“Ragnar, take her up with you.”
“We must hurry,” Zarabeth said, panic flaring suddenly. “Orm must be conscious by now. He will be coming after us.”
“Good.”
She heard the pleasure in his voice, the anticipation. There was nothing for it. He was a man and a warrior and he wanted his enemy.
She said as calmly as an old campaigner, “There are six of you. There are only three of them. They have one woman who is a slave.”
Magnus wanted to find Orm immediately. He wanted to kill him slowly and he wanted to do it himself.
She smiled at him, her fingertips touching his mouth. “Thank you for coming after me. I would like you to catch him, Magnus. He is like a dangerous animal. He must be stopped.”
“I am worried for you.”
“I have his sword. I am a dangerous woman. Let us go.”
He kissed her again, squeezed her against him until she squeaked, and click-clicked Thorgell forward. He shouted for his men to follow.
They rode back from across the meadow, slowing down to get through the dense pine forest.