“Come, my bride-to-be. You’ve swapped a Karschan husband you’ve never met for an Arkaviki husband you’ve just met. How different can the two be?”
She did not respond - and he did not expect her to. What could she say? Wasn’t that the fate of a princess? To be used for the political advantages of others?
Leaving her to her thoughts, he untied the bridle of his horse from the pine trunk and climbed on, sitting behind the princess. He felt his crotch settle against her rump and sighed deeply to himself. This would be a hard day’s ride. In more ways than one.
Chapter III
Aster the Runaway
As they rode through the misty morning, Aster stared straight ahead of her, trying her hardest to suppress the turmoil of thoughts that raged within her.
So the Arkaviki barbarian sought to marry Adrienna to force King Owayn into peace. It was a good plan. The king had only wished Adrienna to marry the Karschan prince hoping that Karscha would lend its armies and coffers to his campaigns and help him claim Arkavik for himself. By stopping that marriage, the Arkaviki would stop a brutal invasion. And if Owayn thought his daughter might rule that kingdom, it might be enough for him.
Aster’s thoughts turned to the barbarian. He was a vikingr; she saw it in his clothing, his thick furs, the brutal strength in his bulging muscles, and the pale blue tattoos that swirled in intricate patterns over the skin of his arms and neck. He wore his pale gold hair in tangled braids, shaved at the back, and his beard was long and wild. The scar that crossed his face was vicious - whoever had wounded him must have gotten very close to killing him. But he wore no crown or sign of his rank. Whether he was a warrior or a ruler, Aster could not guess.
If he sought to make peace, then Adrienna should marry the jarl of Arkavik. And yet the idea that a ruler would cross the sea, trudge through Veritier with a band of men and fetch her back himself, alone in the wilderness, made no sense. If that was the case, then Arkaviki leaders differed from Veritian rulers; King Owayn would never travel without his retinue and the greatest pomp and decorum possible.
The more she thought about it, the more Aster realised marriage to a jarl would not be a terrible fate for Adrienna. It would be much the same as marrying the prince of Karscha; the vikingr abductor was right in saying so.
Aster frowned. How did the Arkaviki know of Adrienna's marriage to the prince of Karscha? It had been a closely kept secret, and only those high in Owayn's trust would have known of it. Did the king have a traitor in his court? Amongst his Kingsguard? It was something Aster would need to discover.
Trading a political alliance for a political alliance of another kind would not be so terrible. But the Arkaviki had many reasons to hate the Veritian, and it was not the marriage that Aster worried about… but what would come after.
The barbarian had told Aster he would not ravish her in the night, and he had kept true to his word. But once the marriage was made, would he not require his wife to go to their marital bed? Would he not expect her to breed heirs? Or worse, would he kill her once she stopped being valuable to him?
Aster could not take the risk of revealing she wasn’t Adrienna yet. She needed to escape: to find Adrienna, maybe even to warn the king. If the barbarian found out she was not the princess, he would kill her. And if he thought Adrienna was only a lady-in-waiting, she might already be dead. The thought paralysed Aster with fear. No, Adrienna was not dead. Aster could feel it deep in the strings of her heart. Adrienna was still alive… for now.
As they rode throughout the day, Aster wondered at the barbarian's stamina. He rarely stopped for rest and worked his horse so hard Aster feared it might drop dead beneath them. In the evening, he set up the tent single-handedly and made another fire. Just like the first night, he fed Aster, who ate gratefully. Then, he went to relieve himself amongst trees the same way he had done the previous night and told her to get in the tent.
Aster curled up in the furs and waited for him to settle himself beside her. She was thankful for his cloak, which had kept her clothes dry. Sleeping naked next to the barbarian had felt confusingly intimate, and she feared that her mind had confused him for a lover instead of an enemy because she had fallen into a luxuriously peaceful sleep. Of all the nights she should sleep well, her body had done so at the side of her abductor There was no fathoming it.
Aster had no intention of sleeping at all this time. She had carefully observed the barbarian on their journey so far: he rode hard and slept heavily, he trusted his ability to catch her enough that he did not bother tying her up, and relied on the cold and constant storm to dissuade her from escaping during the night. But Aster had also observed that he slept with his axe by his side, the same way she had slept with her longsword when she was travelling with Adrienna. And he kept his satchel of provisions tucked away into a pouch on his horse.
When the rhythm of his breath slowed and softened, Aster forced herself to wait a little longer. She needed to make sure he was profoundly asleep before she crept out. She was still barefoot and wished she could steal his boots, but they were far too large for her. Instead, she slowly began inching towards him. Once she was close enough to touch him, she stopped. He still didn’t move. His chest rose and fell like the movement of a great ocean. Aster reached for the axe and plucked it quickly from his side, then lay still once more.
He did not move.
Aster slid out from underneath the furs, careful not to let any cold air replace her. She rolled to her knees and inched out of the tent, dragging the barbarian’s cloak with her. Once she crouched outside she waited, terrified that she might hear him move. But he didn’t. The wind was fierce and loud, and would thankfully disguise the sound of her footsteps.
Throwing on the cloak, Aster padded over to the horse and found the satchel of supplies. Slinging it across her body, she wrapped the cloak over it, so the supplies would be safe from the rain. Then, she gently reached for the bridle, but jumped back when the horse stomped down hard, shaking its mane. In the darkness, it seemed to fix her with an implacable stare, and when she reached for its bridle once more, it reared with a threatening noise.
Aster stared at the tent, her heart frozen. The wind was loud, but the horse had been just as loud. She could not risk being found now, not when she was so close to her escape. Still barefoot and clutching her stolen axe, Aster darted out amongst the trees, leaving the horse behind.
She broke into a moderate run, focusing on keeping her pace steady rather than fast. She needed to get as far away from the tent as possible and find a road. She could not risk running out into the open - the forest would hide her better, and her tracks would easily vanish in the vegetation.
The ground was slippery and sludgy from the rain and stones, brambles and fallen branches dug into the soles of her feet. Soon she was limping from the pain. She was bleeding and the mud stung against her open cuts, but still she did not allow herself to slow down. It was so dark that she could barely see where she was going, the moonlight so faint that its ghostly glow was easily blocked by the thick velvety leaves of the evergreens. The sharp spikes around the trunks of the pine trees scraped against Aster’s arms and legs every time she ran too close to them.
A few hours later she stopped, allowing herself to catch her breath and rest briefly. Using the blade of the axe, she hacked at the bottom of the cloak, pulling strips of the thick fabric free. Once she had a few strips, she used them to bind her feet. Exertion had kept her warm, but the icy sludge of the forest floor had numbed her toes to insensibility.
After she had bandaged her feet and her heartbeat had slowed enough that she could breathe without pain, Aster resumed her light run through the trees. It was only when the darkness slowly lightened to watery azure that she stopped once more, peering up through the trees. Dawn was near. Soon, the barbarian would awaken - if he hadn’t already done so. She might have been running all night, but he had a horse.
So Aster carried on running, keeping up her pace throughout most of the day, s
topping to rest only briefly and when she felt she couldn’t carry on. Later in the morning the rumble of thunder shook the air and lightning split the sky. Rain began to fall ferociously, the raindrops so fast and heavy that they whipped through the trees. Aster cursed under her breath. Within the next few minutes, she was soaked to the skin.
She stopped, breathless and shaking with cold. She could not estimate the time - the clouds and trees blotted out the sky. It seemed close to being nighttime, but Aster knew that couldn’t be the case. She was exhausted, her feet throbbing in agony. The rain blinded her as she ran, but she knew she must keep going. She had come too far to turn back.
Using every ounce of willpower she could gather, Aster forced herself to get back up and carry on running. She was shuddering from the cold, her teeth chattering violently. If she ran fast enough, then she would at least feel a little warmer.
She carried on until she saw the trees grow sparser. Finally, she emerged at the edges of the forest: expanses of muddy moorland stretched ahead; the rain falling so thickly that it seemed like a grey mist, obscuring the air. Aster was already drenched anyway. She would need to cross the moorland until she found a road or an inn. She guessed they must be close to the western coastline of Veritier, based on the landscape of purple heather and towering evergreens. She was far closer to the sea that separated Veritier from Arkavik than she was to the capital and Hawksmoor, King Owayn's castle.
Aster ran as far as she could, slipping over wet grass, sinking into deep pools of mud. She stopped before she had even realised that all strength had escaped her. She keeled forward into the mud and lay there, gasping for air. Her chest burned, and yet her body felt as though it had turned to ice. She rolled herself over, facing the sky. The rain beat down, hard enough to hurt. Draping the cloak over her, Aster fell into a sleep that was more oblivion than anything else.
When she came to, the rain had stopped but she was still soaked and shuddering violently. Sitting up, she looked around at the open fields around her: no sign of the barbarian. She needed to keep going.
Aster continued for two days and two nights. On the third day, passing an abandoned barn, she stopped. She had eaten most of the provisions she had stolen, but she was weak and shaking uncontrollably. The cuts in her feet felt like walking on blades with every step she took. She knew she must stop or else die like a dog in the dirt.
Crawling through a hole where the wood of the barn had rotted and caved in, she found a pile of hay in the shadows. She was still too wet from recent rain to feel any warmth, but at least she was not being buffeted by the wind or the pitiless rain. Her chest burnt, every breath laboured and painful. She closed her eyes to stop the mad spinning of her head. Then sudden darkness engulfed her.
She woke up sluggishly to the sound of a voice: “You foolish girl, what have you done?”
For a moment, she thought Symon, the master of orphans, stood over her. She was twelve again, lying on one of the narrow cots in the servants' quarters, her broken arm curled uselessly against her chest, sundering her with pain. Symon was looking at her disapprovingly: “You foolish girl, you’ll never be a knight. All you’ll succeed in is killing yourself.”
“You know nothing of what I can do,” she mumbled back, struggling to open her eyes.
“Oh aye, I can see that,” the gruff voice responded.
Her head was being picked up and her eyelids pulled up by warm fingers. To her surprise, it was not Symon who scowled down at her, but the face of the barbarian, his eyes grey as dust and ice, his scar marring every beautiful feature on his face. He was glowering down at her in much the same way Symon would have.
Gently, he lay her head back down and touched her forehead.
“You’ve a fever,” he muttered. “You might die, you infernal creature.”
“Mm,” Aster moaned. “Mm… no. On a sword.”
“What?”
She felt herself being pulled up by her arms. Each layer of sopping fabric was slowly peeled from her, and then she was naked and shaking brutally. She felt herself being lifted in the air and lain down into a nest of soft, warm fur. A sigh of relief hissed from her chest.
“A witch told me,” she mumbled into the warmth and the darkness. “I will die on a sword.”
She heard more than saw the barbarian busy himself around her. Soon, she heard the clicking of firestones, the crackling of a fire taking to kindling, then the low roar of flames. Warmth bathed her deliciously, melting the cold away from her flesh. Her bones felt as though they were already on fire.
Aster hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep until she woke up a while later. She blinked up to see wooden beams strewn with cobwebs, flickering firelight and the barbarian’s horse in a stall, nickering softly. She tried to sit up, but her bones felt as though they had been placed into a blacksmith’s forge, red-hot and aching.
“Don’t move,” she heard a voice mutter, the Arkaviki accent clipping each syllable.
She looked up blearily. The barbarian knelt at her feet, wrapping bandages around them. Aster realised that her soles no longer felt in pain. She sat up with a groan of pain and leaned down, trying to reach one of her bandaged feet. Exasperated, the barbarian said:
“Lie down, you restless hellhound. I’ve tended to your injuries with a poultice, but you must let them heal.”
He pushed her gently back, his hand on her chest. She was no longer naked, but wrapped in a tunic that was far too large for her. It smelled of male sweat, musky and wild, and something earthy and bright, like a herb. The barbarian must have put her into one of his tunics. She realised suddenly that he had never told her his name.
“What’s your name?”
“If you hadn’t run away, I might have told you. I am Svagnar Odliefsen.”
Lying back, she met his grey gaze. He seemed both angry and concerned.
“I will run away again,” she muttered defiantly.
“Will you, by the gods?”
There was something strange in his eyes as he gazed at her. Something Aster could not understand, something which made her fever burn hotter. For a wild moment, she thought perhaps it was desire that lurked in his gaze.
It reminded her of how Byram, a knight of the Kingsguard, had pinned her to the ground whilst they sparred in the barracks one day. He had pressed his hips to hers and his mouth had moved against her cheek. He has asked her to be his. She had told him she could not, that her life belonged to Adrienna and that she would die defending her. Things had never been the same between them since that time, but he always gave her the same look when they passed each other in Hawksmoor: longing and anger all mingled.
She closed her eyes. The barbarian was not like Byram. Byram had been a knight of the realm, handsome and noble, dark of hair and eyes, his demeanour earnest and cool. Svagnar Odliefsen, the barbarian of Arkavik, was battle-scarred and blunt, a towering mass of imposing muscle, with his pale mane of hair and ice-chip eyes. It was not longing she saw in those eyes, but the greed of the gain he sought by stealing her away.
Through her fever-addled brain, Aster suddenly remembered that if he found out she was not Adrienna, he would kill her where she lay. She turned her face away from him, but his hand stayed her, holding her cheek gently as he fixed her with a long stare.
“Don’t run away tonight,” he murmured. “You’ve a fever, hellhound, and you might die. Run away tomorrow, if you must. Tonight, you need warmth and rest.”
Her head was pounding, her throat so tight and sore it hurt to swallow. In truth, she knew she could not run for a while. Her bones were too feeble, her feet numb with pain. Perhaps he was right, and she had a fever. But it was not a fever that would kill her, Aster knew that as sure as she knew the earth beneath her feet and the sky above her head. She would die on a sword, the way the witch had predicted. She would die for Adrienna.
“Let me sleep, then,” she muttered.
She heard a chuckle followed by the rustling of fabric. Then a tiny gasp escaped her lips when she
felt the weight of his body lie alongside hers.
“Hush, hellhound,” he growled. “You need this.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He was right. It felt deliciously warm to be in his arms. Cushioned against the thick muscles of his chest and arms, she felt better than warm - she felt safe. Aster closed her eyes and nestled into Svagnar’s arms.
She was weak and feverish. She needed sleep. And on the morrow, once she was back to her trusted, sturdy self, she would run away again. Perhaps kill him for good measure. Then, she would return to Adrienna’s side, the only place in the world where she truly belonged.
Chapter IV
Svagnar the Unfulfilled
Svagnar stared at the princess as she slept, an uneasiness sitting heavy on his chest. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, and her breath rattled in her chest. A sheen of sweat glistened over her brow, and she frowned even in her sleep.
It was a fearsome fever she was in the grip of, there was no mistaking it. The girl had gotten herself in quite a state. The soles of her feet had been cut in too many places to count, and she had not so much as twitched when he had cleaned the wounds and picked the thorns and splinters out of the skin. She had barely even reacted until he had finished bandaging her up. Did she not even realise how injured she was when he had found her? She must not have rested or slept much during her time fleeing through the storm - that must have been how she got such a head-start on him.
Dark fury raged through Svagnar, more turned on himself than upon her. It had been his mistake to think she would not run away. He had assumed that she would resign herself to her fate. Why? Because she was the daughter of a king? Because he thought she would have no desire for her own freedom?
He had painted a picture of her in his mind: the Princess of Veritier, proud like her father, selfish and vain. A delicate damsel, a pawn in grander schemes without a will of her own. But he had been wrong - he saw that now. He had underestimated the daughter in a way he would never have dared underestimate the father. She had an indomitable will, this one - an instinct for fighting and survival.
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