Chapter 8
Watching Annika, Gerold’s brow creased at the sadness he saw, prompting him to ask, “Perhaps if you told me the story, it might trigger some memory.” He didn’t believe it would, for that time was a blank. He was trying to understand why this woman, the enemy, had pulled him from the field of battle. If she were talking, something might slip, some word, that would be the key to fathoming her actions.
Gerold moved closer to Annika, the blade between them. As she began speaking, he remembered her words about the blade not letting her strike him. That made no sense, still he was grateful his head had not been removed from his neck.
“My father and I were on a trading foray, and I was taking in all the sights,” Annika began, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “It was all so new and exciting. Off to the right, on a hillside, stood a large stone building, its towers reaching toward the sky.”
Annika glanced at Gerold as his hand moved toward her blade. “Please don’t, I don’t want you hurt.”
“What?”
“If you touch the blade, it may burn you—or worse. It allows no one but me to touch it.”
“Really?” Gerold asked. “I was not—”
“Just be careful not to touch it.”
“I will,” Gerold agreed, but he began to wonder what the truth was. That she believed what she said, he did not doubt, but was it the truth? He really hadn’t realized he’d almost touched it. With a shrug, Gerold smiled, saying, “Please, continue.”
Nodding, Annika continued, her eyes remaining on Gerold.
“It was at the docks, shortly after we’d arrived,” Annika continued. “A small boy was receiving the lash from a cruel man. I felt it was wrong and grabbed at the man’s arm. He turned on me...”
As she spoke, Gerold had flashes of an image here and there. He saw a young boy plow into a man. How angry that man was as he hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his chest! The man lay still while that same boy looked at the young boy and girl. He saw fear in their eyes. Turning back, the boy saw the man lunge up, his face filled with anger and hate. He was charging toward the three, whip raised to strike, only to be halted by a large arm.
“That’s all,” Annika sighed. “Now, we need to see about getting somewhere safe.” Annika hoped her sharing would help Gerold remember. If not, well, she’d not think on that. Already she knew there would be problems with her own people as result of what she’d done. Plus, how could she explain Gerold’s own people trying to kill him, and would he believe her? Somehow, she thought he would not.
“There is no need to move. I’m fine,” was Gerold’s reply. “You can go back to your own people.”
Both were watching the battle scene through the mist, each seeing something different. Gerold, struggling to make sense of his surroundings, his companion, this strange place. He wondered if he were dreaming, but the pain he felt told him he wasn’t.
Annika stood, watching for Peder, hoping he was safe, but she could see no sign of him. Would he, at least, understand why she had to do what she did? Sighing over what could have been, Annika answered Gerold, “No, I won’t leave you. The blow to the head is more severe than you realize.” As she spoke, her eyes grew wide watching Gerold stand, then fall. She knelt, her hand moving to wipe the fresh blood from Gerold’s neck.
Cradling his head, Annika caressed Gerold’s neck and shoulders, gently massaging the injury. He tried to move away from the gentle fingers, only to relax, his gaze slipping from the battle to the woman who held him captive.
As Annika rocked him from side to side, Gerold wondered if the movement was a subconscious return to the movement of the ships she spoke about. That thought pulled him. “What kind of spell are you weaving, witch?”
Gerold rolled away from her reach, and when he felt he was far enough away, he took the best defensive stance he could. His eyes focused on Annika, the winter sun shining down, highlighting her golden red hair, the startled look, the wetness of her green eyes. He heard her sigh, saw the drop of shoulders. Then she slumped, knees giving way.
“What is this? What trick…” His words silenced as he saw the blade coming out of the mist toward Annika’s unprotected back. Calling on the strength he was unaware of, Gerold grabbed the blade that had lain between them. His upward movement was just in time to parry the deathblow.
“What fresh hell is this?” He asked as the unseen assailant appeared. It was one of her own men, but that did not stop the man from preparing to strike again.
“No!” Gerold roared, moving forward to engage the man, striking and punishing him back toward the mist from which he had emerged. Gerold leaned on the blade, perspiration beading his forehead and upper lip. He didn’t understand his actions, but realized he would do it again if the situation should recur.
He turned to see Annika, still slumped against the ground. Moving toward her, he gently raised her face, his hands cradling her, much as she had when she kissed him. Whatever was happening, Gerold knew this woman was sincere. Forgotten were his questions, his suspicions. All that mattered was Annika. Smiling, Gerold bent to kiss those lips, the sad eyes, and run his hands though her hair.
“You held the blade,” Annika said, wonder in her voice, as she returned Gerold’s kiss. Her heart sang, for whatever reason Gerold had for kissing her, she would accept it as a gift.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” echoed from the mist’s edge. “Kill the traitors.”