Sapphire and Steel Page 2

  “Mm,” Adrienna said. “And I hear Karschan men are excellent lovers.”

  Both women laughed, trying to banish each other’s fears. Soon, they blew out the lantern and nestled into their blankets, facing one another in the gloom. Aster could barely make out Adrienna’s face, but she saw that her eyes were wide open.

  “Go to sleep. I will protect you always, even if it must be from your own husband. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. And maybe… maybe he will be handsome as you said.”

  “And kind. Hopefully kind,” Aster added, touching Adrienna’s cheek. “Go to sleep, princess. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

  Soon, Aster heard the deepened cadence of Adrienna’s breathing. She wondered how, even troubled, the princess could fall asleep so fast and so heavily. She closed her eyes and strained her ears outside. The wind blew low and booming like whispering giants through the trees, the rustling of leaves mingling with it. Soon, a deep sleep stole upon Aster.

  She awoke suddenly, shocked into complete alertness, her heart hammering. Something was wrong. Her hand reached for the longsword she always kept by her side, but before she could move up, she felt something cold and sharp bite at her throat.

  Striving to see through the darkness, she made out a crouching silhouette above her. A man, so huge his body filled the tent, bent over her, holding a dagger beneath her chin.

  “Princess Adrienna of Veritier?” a deep voice growled.

  Aster’s heart stopped. She glanced at her side: Adrienna was fast asleep. The man had either not noticed her or not known which was which and thought to threaten her for the truth. The blade pushed deeper into her skin, prompting her for a response.

  “I am she,” she said. “My lady-in-waiting sleeps next to me.”

  She swallowed hard as the man dragged her up by her arm, pulling her close. In the darkness, she could make out bright eyes and sharp features. If he wanted Adrienna dead now, he would have killed both of them. Whoever he was, the man sought to abduct Adrienna and kill her later, or hold her for ransom… or something worse. Her voice shaking, Aster said quickly:

  “I will go with you. I beg of you, do not kill my servant and guards. They obey my father only out of fear.”

  The man uttered an incongruous chuckle. Then she was being yanked up and out of the tent. She heard Adrienna mutter and glimpsed her movement. Fear blotted Aster’s heart. She prayed to every saint and saintess that Adrienna would not speak, would not ruin her plan. But the man seemed in a hurry. He dragged her, barefoot and still in her underclothes, through the camp.

  In the weak glow of the dying fire, Aster saw dark shapes move amongst the tents, taking count: three men, five men, eight men. Perhaps a guard. She looked around, her heart knocking against her ribs: more men stood amongst the trees. They outnumbered the Princessguard by far.

  She looked back to the man who held her arm. He was tall and powerful with broad shoulders draped in furs. She could barely make out his features in the darkness, but a vivid scar crossed his face and his eyes were so pale they pierced her even through the thick pall of night. He pulled her away from the camp and into the trees, where his men gathered around him. He whispered orders sharply:

  “Lief and Bjern, take two of the guards, any two, bring them back on a separate ship. Eirik and Gunnar, you stay behind: send the servant girl and two of the guards back to the king with the message I told you. The rest of the guards… do as you see fit.”

  “No, please,” Aster felt her fear suffocate her. “They are good people, they won’t… please don’t kill them. I’ll do what you want. I’ll do whatever you want, upon my honour, please.”

  The scarred man fixed her with an unreadable expression. He was Arkaviki; she knew that beyond doubt now. He spoke the common tongue with a clipped accent, sharp and feral. His pale hair was long and scraped back into intricate braids, his eyes grey as the moon. He was a barbarian warrior of Arkaviki, perhaps a warlord or a jarl. He commanded the men with undeniable authority.

  He had no reason to show mercy, Aster knew that in her heart. For decades now, Veritier had been brutal and relentless in its attacks on Arkavik, long coveting its treasure of metal and jewels.

  “You heard the little princess,” he said with something that might have been humour or mockery. “You all know what to do. May the gods favour you, brothers.”

  The men exchanged some words and split up through the night. Aster looked back at the camp as several men marched towards it, but the leader was already dragging her away. She felt bitter tears of terror sting her eyes, a lump in her throat that sought to suffocate her.

  The man picked her up over his shoulder as though she weighed nothing. Aster had never fought an Arkavik warrior - they were rumoured to be terrifying in battle, bloodthirsty and unafraid of death.

  But as he carried her through the woodlands, she made a vow to every saint and saintess she worshipped: if she ever found out that any harm had come to her guard or Adrienna, she would tear the heart from his ribs with her own bare hands.

  Chapter II

  Svagnar the Bride Thief

  Svagnar rode through the night, his arms wrapped around his stolen bride.

  The Veritian princess was not as he had imagined. True, she matched the description given to him of a slim, pale girl with long dark hair and blue eyes, but he had somehow expected her to be more delicate. He had expected her to quake and wail and weep. She had done none of those things.

  As they rode through the cold night and the teary dawn, she remained silent and motionless, pressed into his arms. She asked no question, and he had not once felt her shake with sobs. Instead, she stared straight ahead of her, her mouth set in a firm line, her blue eyes gazing at a horizon Svagnar himself saw not.

  He knew that she must be scared. He had heard fear crack her voice when she had begged him not to kill her servant and guards. He had not expected that.

  In truth, he had expected her to be like her father. King Owayn was a bloodthirsty tyrant, careless towards any life but his own. But the princess had not been careless - in fact, she had cared deeply. She had not uttered a single cry, had not attempted to call for help even when he had dragged her out of her tent, or taken her into the woods, or hoisted her onto his horse.

  Perhaps she was used to this. She had, after all, been plucked from her homeland and her friends to be shipped off to Karscha, a valuable bride traded off for a political alliance. The girl was probably used to being a commodity in the hands of others. Had Svagnar not abhorred her father and people with a black and burning hate, he would have pitied her.

  Svagnar rode hard all day. He needed to get away from Veritier before the disappearance of the princess reached the king. His plan relied on the king knowing of his daughter's abduction, but not until Svagnar and his prize were well on their way back to Arkavik.

  His journey had been arduous, weeks spent on stormy seas to reach Veritier, and then a struggle through soggy marshlands and endless rain. Veritier was a muddy, dreary country, its dark silhouette unlike the hard, clean lines of Arkavik, with its snowy fjords and craggy mountains. Svagnar had been loath to travel this far from his country, but if he succeeded in his mission, it would all be worth it.

  Dusk fell. The already dark clouds roiled and gathered ominously over the horizon. A storm was coming soon, Svagnar could see that; he could smell the tension of it in the air. He needed to stop and make camp.

  His vikingr were riding ahead and behind him - they had all agreed to split up to ensure their survival. Most would probably ride through the night, but Svagnar had the princess to account for.

  He had dragged her from her bed and she was still in her underclothes: simple garments of pale blue wool. She was probably cold and the rain had drenched her hair, for long dark strands coiled against her pale neck. Not once had she complained - not from the cold, from hunger, from the ride. She had not even asked to relieve herself. She had kept her silence as religiously as a cloistered d
ame. Svagnar knew not what to make of it.

  Once he had reached the cover of some heavy evergreens, he stopped and slid off his mount. After he had secured the bridle around the spiked trunk of a pine, he approached the horse, looking up at the princess.

  In the grey light of dusk, her beauty struck him: she was not beautiful like a damsel, or a princess, but beautiful like a sword. Slender and pale, she carried herself straight and proud, and her blue eyes reminded him of the sapphires mined from Arkaviki mountains. She was unsmiling and sodden with rain, and he could see how the woollen fabric of her underclothes clung to her small breasts, her nipples, hard from the cold, straining against the soft fabric.

  A stirring in his loins startled Svagnar. He intended to wed this woman - he had not intended to bed her. But now a vision intruded his brain: a vision of pulling off her wet clothes and feeling her icy skin underneath his hands, of having her in his furs and pulling her close by her slim waist to warm her with the heat of his own body.

  He swiftly banished the lascivious thoughts from his mind. It had probably been too long since he had lain with a woman, that was all. Spending all day with her rump pressed against his cock had probably not helped either.

  Marrying her was only a matter of forcing King Owayn to stop his attacks on Arkaviki - nothing more. Svagnar could not allow himself to forget why he was doing this: too long now his country had bled and suffered to defend its shores against Veritier. This was the only way to save it and curtail further bloodshed: to force a political alliance between Arkaviki and Veritier through marriage. The princess was merely a token to buy peace with.

  Grabbing her waist firmly, Svagnar lifted her from the horse and set her on the floor. She stood with her arms around her body, trying to rub warmth into her doubtless shaking limbs. Her eyes searched the trees, calculating and clever. He wondered if she thought of escape; he had not bothered tying her up. He did not doubt his ability to outrun her or subdue her if he must. She was a waif compared to him, and he was a battle-hardened vikingr.

  “I’ll set up a tent and make a fire,” he said curtly. “Relieve yourself now if you must.”

  She nodded and slipped behind a tree. He immediately pulled down his packs from the back of his horse and unfolded the tent, securing it with boulders. He threw his furs inside and then set about making a fire.

  He was halfway through when the girl returned. She held a handful of sticks and branches and dumped them by the side of his fire. He glanced up at her, then gave her a nod of thanks. She was probably doing it more out of cold than helpfulness, but it would save him time.

  Soon the flames licked greedily at their kindling and the fire roared and crackled, drowning out the sound of the rain brushing across the treetops. The girl sat beside him, her hands stretched towards the fire. She neither spoke to him nor looked at him. Whether it was out of fear or hatred, Svagnar could not guess.

  He pulled dried meat from a satchel and handed her some. She took it and ate it straight away, no delicacy in her manners. She took the bread he handed her, then the flask of mead. She drank in long gulps, and Svagnar watched her pale throat move as her head stretched back. She passed the flask back when she was done and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  While he ate, she gathered her long hair and began winding it into a severe braid, tying it with a loop of string she’d worn around her wrist. Once she finished, she glanced at him and said:

  “If you’re going to kill me, this is as good a place as any to do so.”

  Svagnar choked on his mead and coughed, trying to catch his breath. What kind of morbid little creature was this princess of Veritier? Did she think him such a savage that she expected to be butchered in some huntsman’s copse?

  “I’ve not gone through the trouble of trudging across the hell-pit you call Veritier to slaughter you and leave you in a muddy ditch,” he retorted sardonically.

  She fixed him with a placid stare, her eyes blue as the blue fjords of Arkavik. He noticed that her straight, dark brows gave her a perpetual frown.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I’ve no intention of killing you yet,” he added through a mouthful of bread. “So don’t let it keep you from your sleep.”

  “I don’t sleep well when I travel,” she said. “Don’t let that keep you from yours.”

  He stopped eating and leaned forward. The look she gave him was not just placid - it was arrogant. She was threatening him. He could not believe it; that such a slip of a thing could think for a moment to threaten him was laughable.

  “I’ll try not to let my terror of you give me nightmares,” he smirked.

  “I’ll try not to sink a knife in your gut the moment your eyes are closed.”

  She was so earnest in her tone and expression that Svagnar realised that she meant what she was saying. The chit was either very foolish or very brave - doubtless, she was both.

  “Mm, we shall see. I would advise you to sleep, princess, for tomorrow we ride all day again.”

  After he had finished eating, he relieved himself amongst the trees and approached the tent. The girl still sat by the fire, fixing him with her impassive blue stare.

  “I’ve only one tent,” he said. “Unless you intend to freeze to death, I advise you get in.”

  For an instant she did nothing but stare, measuring him with her eyes. Then she stood up and, to his surprise, obeyed. She slid into the tent and he followed her. It was snug: he was already far too large for the tent when he was alone. But she was small, and when she slipped under the furs, she shuffled as close to the edge as she could.

  He kicked off his boots and tossed them aside. He was about to remove his armour but stopped. He had no knife on him, and he had felt her close enough that he knew she did not either. But he knew better than to take the risk. Still wearing his light armour, he slipped amongst the furs.

  The inside of the tent was dark, but the dim light from the fire outside cast an orange glow through the fabric of the walls. In that faint glow, he saw that the princess was shaking violently.

  “Are you still cold?” he asked against his better judgement.

  She was silent for a moment, then: “My clothes are wet.”

  “Take them off.”

  “I have no other clothes to wear,” she snapped.

  “Aye. But you’ll be warmer and your clothes can dry during the night.”

  She was quiet for the longest moment - so long he thought she might have fallen asleep. Then he heard her move, and she said: “If you touch me, I will strangle you.”

  He drawled mockingly: “Oh, I’ll do my best to control the irresistible urge to ravish you in your sleep, princess.”

  He watched as she moved underneath the blanket, the folded the pale fabric of her garments and lay it aside. A little sigh of contentment escaped her lips.

  The realisation that she was now naked sent a hot stirring straight to his cock. To his irritation, he felt himself grow hard, thinking of her long dark hair, her small breasts, her snowy skin. She was not even the kind of woman he usually pursued; Svagnar preferred buxom women with big, bountiful tits. But this one reminded him of a shieldmaiden, or a young warrior, slim and strong all at once. Resolving to find himself a curvaceous beauty as soon as they returned to Arkavik, Svagnar turned in the furs, facing away from the princess, and forced himself to ignore his throbbing cock as he fell asleep.

  Svagnar awoke suddenly, startled by the hoarse cawing of a raven. Warm movement at his side tempted him to ignore it, but something tickled his cheek, forcing him to open his eyes. Blinking, he realised that it was morning: dull, dreary light seeped into the tent. Svagnar lay in the middle of the furs on his stomach, and the princess was curled at his side.

  In the night he must have thrown his arm around her and pulled her close. He felt the soft curve of her buttocks against his thigh, and the movement of each deep breath she took made his arm rise and fall with her. Her head was tucked against his shoulder and her braid curled aga
inst his face, feathery strands of hair tickling his cheek.

  Fighting the urge to pull her close and grind himself against her soft arse, Svagnar carefully slid his arm free and sat up. He groaned in irritation, realising he had awoken as erect as he had fallen asleep. This Veritian princess must be a witch, to make him feel as though he were a young boy again.

  Sighing, he grabbed his sword where it lay at his side and extricated himself from the tent, unfolding into the cold air outside and stretching his sore, cramped limbs. By the gods, he needed to get a grip on himself. He would be travelling with her for a while so he needed to control his urges. He had no intention of ravishing the princess - she was to be his wife, but he was not a monster. And Svagnar had never been the kind of man to force a woman into his bed.

  Once he had calmed himself and splashed cold water from a nearby brook onto his face and neck, he returned to the tent to wake the princess. She had not killed him in his sleep yet; he supposed that was one mercy at least.

  When she emerged from the tent, she was wearing her clothes and yawning like a kitten, her damned braid thrown over her shoulder. She glared at him as soon as he saw her, and for a moment he wondered if she had noticed his… impediment the night before.

  “Where are you taking me, then?” she asked.

  So his cock wasn’t the thing that had bothered her. Thank the old gods for that. Svagnar threw his riding cloak at her.

  “Arkavik.”

  She reluctantly wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, holding it tight over her underclothes.

  “You’re taking me for a hostage?”

  “I’m taking you for a bride.”

  That shut her up. Her mouth dropped open, and she gaped at him, eyes wide enough to fall into.

  “The ki- my father would never approve,” she said eventually.

  “Aye, indeed. But I won’t need his approval. He’ll find out once the deed is done.”

  He busied himself breaking camp, letting the revelation of her fate sink into her. Once he was done, he stomped out the dying fire and plucked the princess up, setting her on the horse.