Until Forever (11 page)

F
inding herself in the middle of a raging battle was cause for her to panic, but shock came first. Roseleen was held immobile by it. All she could do was stand there and stare, while her mind searched desperately for excuses—logical, acceptable excuses—to account for the medieval army that surrounded her. Immediately, she thought of drug-induced hallucinations and holographic imaging, then a simple dream—was she back to dreams?

To explain Thorn, no. But this? Definitely, and instant relief came with that notion. She thanked God that you couldn’t get hurt in dreams, because that eager-for-battle Viking of hers had jumped right into this one.

She found the details of this dream incredible though. She could actually smell the stench of blood and horse manure—there were just too many horses around for a dreamer
not
to expect that kind of stink, she
supposed. And all that sword clanging was giving her a mean headache.

Thorn, however, seemed to be having the time of his life. In fact, Blooddrinker’s Curse had not been still from the first moment this dream had commenced. It flashed in the sunlight, it sliced, it…severed.

Roseleen closed her eyes, wincing at the screams she was hearing, of man and horse alike. The blood splatters on her clothes she was going to ignore. They wouldn’t be there when she woke up. But she was definitely going to have to reclassify this dream as one of her worst nightmares. She couldn’t ever remember having such vivid, horrid details…

A horse bumped into her shoulder, pushing her closer to Thorn. When she regained her balance, she turned to see a meaty arm swinging in a downward arc, and in its hand, a bloody sword moving in the direction of her neck. She didn’t move. She wasn’t even scared. It wasn’t real, after all, and dying in her dream was almost guaranteed to wake her up, which she really wanted to do at the moment.

But death wasn’t to be hers, not yet anyway. Another sword clashed with the one that was about to strike her, knocking it aside, then sinking swiftly into her assailant’s chest. More blood splattered down on her. She’d be getting annoyed by now if this were for real. Who was she kidding? She’d be scared out of her mind if this were for real.

Thorn, of course, had saved her—from get
ting out of this dream. She decided she ought to tell him how grateful she was that he was prolonging it for her, but he didn’t wait around to listen to her. Three men-at-arms nearby were surrounding a knight who had apparently been unseated from his mount, and Thorn jumped in to even the odds for the fellow.

Roseleen sighed. She had a couple of choices at this point. She could get in the way of another deadly weapon, or she could get Thorn’s attention long enough to insist they leave. In fact, by choosing the latter, she would probably accomplish the former as well, since Thorn had already made mincemeat of the three men-at-arms, and was now fending off two mounted knights.

As dreams went, this was becoming a long one anyway. She’d just as soon they switch to something more agreeable. Actually,
anything
would be preferable, even a different nightmare. She’d had enough of watching Blooddrinker’s Curse prove just how sharp its double blades were.

So she marched the few feet to reach him—he hadn’t ventured too far from her for any of the fights he was participating in—and pushed aside another foot soldier who had been sneaking up behind Thorn, so she could grab his nonactive arm and pull him around.

It didn’t work. In ordinary circumstances, budging him was next to impossible. Now, when he was
busy
, it was definitely impossible. But he did acknowledge her attempt.

She had no idea how he guessed that it was she pulling on him, since he didn’t bother to glance behind him to see who was, but he said to her in a surprisingly calm tone, “Not now, Roseleen.”

It was probably that calmness that tipped the scales on her annoyance. For all his exertion, the man wasn’t even out of breath. And that soldier she’d pushed had regained his balance and was dividing his attention between Thorn’s back and her belly, probably trying to ascertain whether his long spear could take on both targets in one stroke.

Her anger had narrowed down her own choices. To hell with dying—at least she didn’t want to now, until after she’d made her displeasure felt. To that end, she doubled both fists and slammed them into Thorn’s back. It was infuriating to realize that he probably didn’t feel it.

So she shouted to be heard above the din, “Yes, now! I’m leaving this nightmare, with or without you. This might be your idea of fun, but it’s not mine—and your back is about to be ventilated!”

As if he’d had his eyes on the spear wielder all along, instead of on the one remaining knight he was hacking away at, Blooddrinker’s Curse came about. That foot soldier who’d made his choice, the wrong choice, slowly sank to the ground, minus his—

At that point, Roseleen said with a heaping dollop of disgust, “Oh, sure, cut off a few
heads, why don’t you? What do I care? I’ll just stand here and twiddle my thumbs until you’ve had enough of this gory stuff. But the next time you drag me into one of your dreams, how about making it a nice one, maybe with candlelight, soft music—”

His blue eyes were on her now. “And a bed?”

How quickly she blushed these days, she thought, as she felt her cheeks grow warm. “As long as it’s only a dream—”

She stopped, incredulous that she’d actually said that…to him. She might as well have sent him an engraved invitation. And he was grinning, that wickedly sensual grin of his that proclaimed his thoughts so clearly.

Fortunately, at least for the sake of her embarrassment, he still had one knight to finish off, so his attention didn’t remain on her. Unfortunately, it took him only a few seconds to dispatch that one, and even one more who came charging up to take the fallen one’s place. And then he was mounting one of the many now-riderless horses and dragging her up behind him.

His finally getting her out of there took the edge off her anger, tempering it to mere annoyance with him. That he had to stop every few moments to fend off more spears and swords that tried to prevent their leaving kept her annoyance uppermost in her mind. But when he stopped at a tree near the edge of the battle, pulled her around him into his arms,
and actually
tossed
her up to the lowest branch of the tree, she was infuriated.

“Just what do you think you’re—!”

“You will be safe there for the nonce,” he told her, then had the audacity to grin in the face of the potent glare she was giving him. “Remain inconspicuous, Roseleen, and silent. I wouldst not be pleased with you, do you draw attention to yourself.”

“Is that so?” she huffed.

But that was all she got out before he was turning his mount about, ignoring her, and trotting off. He didn’t go far, though. She could have shouted at him. He probably would have heard her too, but only because he’d be listening for just such shouting. Otherwise he wouldn’t, because the noise was just as loud here on the edges of the battle as it had been in the center of it.

She didn’t bother to make herself heard. She knew damn well he wouldn’t come back, no matter what she yelled at him. He’d found himself a war and was going to take full advantage of it.

From her new vantage point, she was able to see that there weren’t all that many combatants out there, certainly not the thousands she had first thought. Of the two groups that were barely distinguishable in their motley assortment of armor, there were maybe forty on the one side, fifty on the other. If she had used her head to begin with, she would have recalled that the average medieval clash of arms consisted of about this number, or even
fewer—unless a king was involved, which apparently wasn’t the case here.

Of course, there weren’t all that many warriors out there now who were still alive to fight. There were a few wounded loudly bemoaning their fate, but most of the bodies scattered on the ground were quite dead, or so their utter stillness and gaping wounds proclaimed.

Roseleen stared at the scene before her and shuddered. This was the fantasy stuff of macho males. Modern-day women just didn’t dream of being caught up in medieval battles. And this nightmare really was taking too long to come to its conclusion, or switch to something else.

She frowned as something else occurred to her. When had she ever before had control of her thoughts in a dream? Of course, most dreams weren’t remembered. You could have them all night long, yet only recall whichever one you were having at the time of waking, and even that was usually gone from your memory within seconds if you didn’t think about it immediately. So she supposed it was possible to have thoughts, even in-depth, coherent, logical ones, and she’d merely never had any before in the dreams she remembered.

On the other hand, Thorn was being awfully consistent for a dream. So was she, for that matter. How often did anyone ever behave in a normal, true-to-their-character manner in a dream, much less a nightmare? Not
very, at least not completely, without a few deviations.

Roseleen knew exactly what she was doing now. She was talking herself out of a nightmare and into reality, and some very alarming dread was quickly creeping up on her. Her little talk with Thorn about time traveling could have been the dream that led into this one, then again, it could have happened, and…

She wondered whether she’d feel pain or wake up if she jumped out of this tree and broke something. For half a minute, she actually stared at the ground about six feet below her, but finally gave up on that idea. There was an easier, less dangerous way to find out what would happen if she experienced pain. She bit her finger, hard, until tears came to her eyes. Dread filled the rest of her.

Oh, God, she thought, she wasn’t dreaming, was she? Thorn had actually swept them both into the distant past, just as he’d said he could. And he might have killed someone out there who would have otherwise survived this battle. He could be changing history as she knew it, even as she sat there, doing nothing to stop him.

She remembered a time-travel movie she’d once watched in which images disappeared from photographs as history was altered. So it wasn’t surprising that the panic that should have hit her earlier caught up with her now.

She started shouting Thorn’s name. If he heard her, he was too busy to pay her any attention. He wasn’t actively seeking fights. He
didn’t have to; they came readily enough to him, and mostly in pairs.

She supposed his size accounted for that. No one wanted to take him on single-handedly. Yet she wasn’t worried that he might get hurt with those uneven odds. He’d assured her he couldn’t die except by the hand of one of his so-called gods, or by that fellow Wolfstan who bore him an apparently everlasting grudge.

She gave up shouting when her throat started to feel raw. She had to calm herself. Amazingly, everything he’d told her was true. She couldn’t explain it, but it was nevertheless happening to her. They’d landed in the middle of a battle, probably because she’d foolishly said “wherever you like” to Thorn when she’d agreed to go with him. He’d been looking for one ever since she’d first summoned him. And she’d thoughtlessly given him the power to find as many battles as he liked, anywhere he liked.

She was going to have to disabuse him of that notion. If he thought she was going to tag along every time he felt like spilling a little blood in any old battle he cared to lend his sword to, he had another think coming.

Carefully, she climbed down the tree he had left her in. There were about twenty-five combatants still going at it, though with less enthusiasm than previously. Due to exhaustion, she supposed. Eight of them were mounted knights, and one of those was presently cross
ing swords with Thorn, who was also still on his borrowed mount.

Destriers they had been called in their day—this day—and they were much larger than the average horse. Big and mean, they were bred specifically for war, and were certainly not the kind of animal she’d care to get near, yet she really had no choice.

Between her and Thorn there were four bodies she had to step around and one war-horse, minus his knight, that for some reason chose to follow her after she cautiously walked around it. Having something like that behind her made her move a little faster. And then she was near enough to the warring pair to get trampled—or caught by an overswing from one of their swords.

Once more, she shouted Thorn’s name. He heard her, he couldn’t help but hear her when she was standing so close—he just didn’t take his eyes off his opponent’s blade. Nor did he spare her even a few words.

Although she knew it was smart of him to avoid any distraction that might cost him his head, Roseleen was still furious that he was ignoring her because she was terrified that he was killing men who weren’t supposed to die here in this battle, thereby preventing whole generations from being born, maybe even one of her own ancestors for all she knew.

She had to stop him at any cost, so in desperation, she turned to the only thing that had a chance of separating Thorn from the man he was fighting, long enough to get him to listen
to her. She turned to mount the war-horse that was breathing down her neck.

There was a stirrup, but it was so high off the ground, she guessed the knight who’d owned this destrier had to have been much shorter than she was. She couldn’t reach it. Making a running jump for the saddle was going to be her best bet, if she could only get the animal to stand still instead of following her again.

But before she even turned away to attempt it, she was lifted up from behind and set down across Thorn’s thighs, and one of his thick, steellike arms went around her waist to keep her there.

“What in Odin’s name do you think you are doing, woman?” he demanded sharply. “Know you how easily that beast could kill you?”

She ignored the angry glare of his eyes and retorted, “I was quite aware of that fact, thank you, but since you—never mind that. I’m ready to leave, Thorn, pronto, this second. And if you don’t get us the hell out of here,
now
, then—then I’ll take my sword back and stand by cheerfully watching while these knights make a pincushion out of you.”