Sapphire and Steel

by Violet Froste

  As their journey progressed, he seemed to be fooling himself into believing she might truly be his wife. Not just a tool for the survival of his people, but a wife for loving, for comforting, for bedding. Believing so would be a great disservice to himself and the princess both. So Svagnar set his face into a frown, shut his heart against the young woman and rode on.

  The night was long and slashed with rain, but still they continued to ride. Gunnar used torches to light their way during the darkest part of the night, but for most of the journey, the open road had been illuminated by the watery light of a cloud-shrouded moon.

  When dawn broke, the sun drew the clouds apart like curtains and orange light filled the sky, fading before long into vivid cobalt. The wind blew low and icy, but the rain had finally stopped.

  It was only a few hours after dawn when they rode over the crest of a hill overlooking a magnificent shoreline of white sand and white stones. The sea stretched endlessly, as green as the evergreens that lined the pale dunes, the waves rising and falling like the enormous chest of a sleeping giant.

  Right across the clear line of the horizon, poised like an eagle, waited Svagrskol, the longship Svagnar had helped build with his own hands when he was a youth. It was the vessel of a jarl: fast, sleek, and grandly ornate. And it was waiting to take him home.

  Chapter V

  Aster the Bastard

  When she was a child, Aster spent her life running around the servants' quarters and the castle, either getting herself into trouble or being cuffed around the head for not completing her chores. Once she grew into adolescence, Symon, the master of orphans, sent her to work in the barracks. He had perhaps hoped that Aster would not dare disobey the knights and soldiers. She worked hard cleaning after them, running errands, fetching weapons and armour.

  She had been conscientious and dedicated in her tasks, and her efforts had paid off. After three years of service, she began training with the squires, then, eventually, with the guards - though Symon had warned her nothing would come of it.

  After the King had made her a part of the Princessguard, her life had changed. She had visited parts of the castle she had never been allowed in before, travelled to cities in Veritier she had never even heard of. She had realised how small the boundaries of her life were, how little of the world she knew.

  Still, she had always remained bound to Adrienna’s side. Where the Princess went, she followed. So aside from diplomatic visits and occasional countryside retreats, Aster’s life had been confined to the walls of Hawksmoor, just as Adrienna’s had been.

  Now, Aster realised that she had never even seen the sea before.

  It stretched beyond the pale shore, more awe-inspiring than anything she had ever seen. It stretched as far as the eye could see, then much further. The smell of it, salt and earth and the mustiness of seaweeds, floated on the brisk wind. Green waves crashed on the shore, frothing into lace over the silver sand.

  Balanced on the ever-moving surface of the sea was the barbarian’s ship. Aster had heard talk of the longships, much discussed in the barracks by the soldiers who had survived the campaigns to Arkavik. Yet no words could do this ship justice: it was an enormous structure, carved from wood as though wood was as malleable as packed earth.

  At one end of the ship rose the intricate head of a dragon, visible even from the distance they were at. At the other end of the ship curled the spiked tail, and the sides of the ship were lined with colourful disks painted with runes - shields of the jarl’s followers.

  The ship moved swiftly through the water, slicing a line through the waves in its approach towards the shore. Aster could feel Svagnar’s excitement from the tensing of his body, his muscles growing taut and straining against her.

  He had held her in his arms throughout the ride, protecting her from the cold. Aster had been secretly grateful for the heat, but she was unnerved at how hard and firm his muscular chest felt against her back, his hips pushing against her buttocks with every gallop. She was reminded, against her will, of when he had pinned her to the floor in the barn. The hardness of his manhood had been unmistakable: huge and insistent, pushing lecherously between her legs.

  Svagnar had been utterly unashamed of this - yet Aster still burned with mortification to think of her physical response, the liquid heat that had pooled between her legs, making her throb with desire.

  Aster was no innocent maiden, but there was something about Svagnar that provoked an unwanted response in her. Perhaps it was the fact that she had slept alongside him that confused her mind and senses, or the fact they had spent long hours with his crotch pressed against her. Perhaps her body was lonely.

  Over the years, Aster had indulged in short dalliances with soldiers: quick, panting moments stolen between missions or events. She had never taken a lover, considering it only an unnecessary distraction. Her duty was only to safeguard and protect Adrienna - a lover would only take her time and focus away from her duty.

  No - she was a victim of her discipline. Keeping herself focused on Adrienna had been her role as the captain of the Princessguard, and now that she had been plucked from her role, she was disoriented. She seemed to have lost her place in the world. For who was she, if she was not Adrienna’s captain, her protector?

  No longer serving that purpose, she would only fall back to her ancient role: Aster the Bastard, named for a mountain flower. Orphans in Hawksmoor were always named for things that grew of the earth, to show that they had no root to the world but the dirt whence they came. Before she had found a companion in Adrienna, she had been Aster the Kinless, Aster the Friendless. She had longed to become a knight, but with no patronage or connection to court, it had been a hollow dream.

  Now, sat in the Arkaviki barbarian’s arms, wearing Adrienna’s name and place, who was she? She was alive only by hiding her true name, her true identity. How long could she possibly keep this up? If the Veritian patrol who had attacked Svagnar’s men had rescued Adrienna, then she would return to Hawksmoor. How soon would Svagnar realise her deception then? He would kill her as soon as he found out, even if he did not hate her yet, he would kill her for lying to him, for ruining his plan. Because of her, his country would still be vulnerable to the King’s attack. Because of her, Svagnar’s plan to save his people would be ruined.

  Aster stared at the approaching longship. She was running out of time. She needed to escape before it was too late. On the boat, she would be trapped, and in Arkavik she would be in the bosom of her enemy, utterly defenceless. If she did not escape before she boarded the longship, she would never escape at all, and Svagnar would eventually unmask and execute her.

  She looked around, her eyes searching her surroundings. Her hands were tied, and she was utterly helpless. Svagnar was accompanied by two of his men, and all three of them made formidable warriors, she was not too stupid to realise that. Svagnar had pinned her effortlessly when he’d caught her in the barn, and she had sensed the immense strength coiled tightly in his enormous muscles.

  His men seemed no less dangerous: the older one whom Svagnar had called Gunnar, was grizzled and his face heavily lined, and yet he was splattered with blood that was not his. The younger man with the shorn hair they had called Eirik, was covered in brutal wounds and yet had ridden through the night without so much as a sigh of pain. These were the barbarian warriors she had heard so much about: the vikingr who feared no man, who tattooed their skin to commemorate their feats of combat and fought to earn their death on the battlefield.

  She could not take them all on. She could not take even one on. She was a skilled swordswoman, quick and nimble and calculated, but she was weaponless and bound. She could only hope to outrun them. Her feet were not bound - if she threw herself off the saddle, she might be able to dart past their enormous horses. The mounts could not follow her through the slippery dunes, and then it would be a matter of just outrunning the men alone.

  Aster stared around her: on one side, the seastrand of white sand and white stones,
leading only to water. On the other side, the dunes rising and falling, spiked with marram grass and saltwort, leading into a cluster of cedars, hackberry trees and pitch pines. Behind her was the hill they had come from, separating her from the flat moorland they had crossed.

  Aster’s eyes widened as she stared at the hill. Glimpsed movement, something flashing. Aster acted on instinct before she could even think: shoving her shoulder into Svagnar, she hurled them both off his horse. An arrow hissed by, grazing her arm as she crashed through the air after Svagnar.

  Chaos erupted. Svagnar and Aster were rolling down the hill, Svagnar’s horse galloping ahead with a nervous whinny. Arrows rained down, hitting the ground behind them with thick thwacks.

  Once they reached the bottom of the hill, Svagnar jumped to his feet, more graceful than Aster would have expected for a man his size. He dragged Aster up and yanked her behind him, wrenching his axe from his felt.

  “Archers!” Aster shouted uselessly, backing away.

  “Aye, princess, I can see that!” Svagnar’s voice rang out, tense. “Gunnar, shield!”

  Out of nowhere, Gunnar’s horse thundered past them towards the archers. Something dropped. Then Svagnar was holding a shield up, crouching and retreating towards the beach. The other man, Eirik, followed Gunnar, both galloping straight to the archers.

  If it was a Veritian patrol who gathered on top of the hill, they must not know of Svagnar’s intention to abduct Adrienna. They were firing arrows indiscriminately, aiming to kill anyone at the bottom of the hill. They must have assumed Svagnar and his men were a rogue raiding party. They would stop only when the vikingr were dead.

  This was Aster’s escape, offered to her by the saints themselves.

  Holding her arms over her head, she dove away from Svagnar’s cover and straight for the dunes. Svagnar would be too busy guarding himself against the rain of arrows that thrummed through the air and battered his shield. If she did not run now, then she would either be slain in the crossfire or taken aboard the boat and killed later.

  She ran as fast as she could, keeping low, never looking behind her. An arrow flew past her arm, grazing her for the second time, but she barely registered the pain. Her heart was pounding harder than a war-drum beating a march, and her breath hissed in her lungs. grey was still weak from her fever, but there was no other option for her survival now. She must run harder and faster than she ever had, or accept her death.

  She reached the dunes and realised the arrows were no longer flying past her. Glancing behind her, she saw that the attackers had descended from the hill, pursued by Gunnar and Eirik on horseback. Svagnar stood his ground at the bottom of the hill, crouched like a beast, his shield on one arm, his axe brandished in the other.

  Aster stood still, her heart in her mouth as she watched the scene unfold: there were at least twenty Veritian men, trained patrol soldiers in full armour, armed with spears and swords. Then, there was Svagnar Odliefsen, the barbarian of Arkavik. A dull light fell from the sky, and it seemed to fall upon him only. And in that light, he moved, and every movement was swift and deadly. Like a wolf whose every instinct was made for killing, he moved amongst the soldiers, striking precise blows that crumbled his enemies to the ground.

  Soon, Svagnar and both his men stood amidst the fallen patrol, covered with blood. Aster had not waited to watch the battle till the end. She knew any moment now Svagnar would be in pursuit. So she ran through the dunes, hoping the sand and marram grass would conceal her. But climbing through the slippery hills with bound hands was arduous, and soon she was plucked up by the back of her tunic and lifted onto a horse. She twisted, trying to pull away.

  “By the gods, girl, keep still!” her captor grumbled. It was Gunnar, this time, and she smelled the iron of blood on him.

  He rode back through the dunes, where Svagnar and Eirik waited.

  “They’re mighty slippery, these Veritian girls!” Gunnar laughed. Svagnar echoed his laughter, but Eirik interrupted them both, speaking calmly:

  “Another patrol, Svagnar.”

  Aster and the men looked up. Another patrol had appeared at the top of the hill, their archers putting themselves into formation and readying their bows and arrows. Aster turned around to Svagnar, who watched the patrol coolly. Slowly, he lifted his shield, his grip whitening on his bloodstained axe.

  “What are you doing?” Aster shouted, incredulous. “You’ll die if you stay!”

  He turned, and he faced her with a grin that illuminated his scarred face. His eyes, grey as silver and ice, were so light amongst the crimson blood that streaked his skin that he seemed possessed by some wild and ancient spirit.

  “Not today, hellhound!” he said, his accent wild and slanting every syllable he uttered. “For today, the gods favour me.”

  Looking up at Gunnar, he commanded: “Gunnar, take her to Svargskol. Take Artor too. Today, we fight for Arkavik. Eirik, are you with me?”

  The young man nodded, his face set and earnest. There was no fear in his eyes. There was no fear in any of their eyes, even as Svagnar faced the arrows and the twenty men behind them, even as Gunnar rode away, leaving Svagnar behind.

  “You’re leaving him?” Aster cried in shock. She had expected Gunnar to disobey Svagnar, to stay and fight at his side. It was what she would have done. She would not have let the man or woman she followed face their death alone. She would have died at their side.

  But Gunnar laughed and said: “The gods favour Svagnar, they always have. If they didn’t, they would not have made you so suited to him!”

  His words shocked Aster into silence. Gunnar rode across the white shore, Svagnar’s horse running alongside his. Then, they were splashing through the water, where the ship was being propped up in the shallow waves by giant blocks of wood carried by more vikingr warriors. They pulled Aster up aboard the ship and she watched as more men grabbed their shields from the side of the ship and leapt into the water, running to join Svagnar.

  But it was clear Svagnar needed no help, and soon, the Veritian patrol lay dead and the Arkaviki men were embracing. They returned across the beach, Svagnar walking in their midst, covered with blood yet beaming radiantly.

  And for the first time, Aster saw him for what he was: the jarl of Arkavik, the ruler of the country Veritier had sought for so long to bring to its knees. A king under another title, this was the feared warlord jarl about whom Aster had heard so many stories. Above Aster’s head, the single sail of his longship swelled in the wind, and upon it was the image of a wolf with wings. Aster remembered the other name she had known Svagnar by before she had known him at all: Vaengrvarg, the winged wolf of Arkavik.

  Already, the men and Svagnar were running back across the shore. Eirik and his horse were hoisted aboard and then the men were pushing the boat along the water, removing the blocks of wood as they went, Svagnar amongst them. Ropes were lowered into the water and one by one the men climbed back aboard. Gunnar himself pulled Svagnar up and they embraced, laughing. Blood ran down Svagnar’s cheek, smearing Gunnar’s armour, but Gunnar hardly seemed to notice.

  “The gods truly smile upon you, Svagnar you whoreson, that you succeeded in your mission of madness,” Gunnar said, patting Svagnar on her back. Jerking his chin towards Aster, he added: “That’s a fine bride you’ve found yourself here.”

  Aster cast him a glare, wishing her eyes could pierce him like the arrows he had so deftly avoided.

  “Aye, I wouldn’t be so sure!” Svagnar said with a smirk, raking his eyes across her. “This one spits and runs and barks like a hellhound! I had the impression that the Veritian princess would be the amiable, gracious kind of princess, but by the gods I was wrong!”

  The men roared with laughter and soon set about turning the sail, slinging their shields on the sides of the boat, seeing to the horses, fetching water and food.

  Aster leaned against the wooden railing, the wind moving her hair against her face, her eyes fixed upon the shore. She had never seen Veritier from this angle,
and as the longship slid further and further away on the emerald-green sea, she felt a pulling in her heart.

  The white shore grew more distant, and the coastline of trees and dunes grew smaller, pummelled by waves. Somewhere beyond that shoreline was Adrienna, growing ever further from Aster’s reach.

  And now, the sea itself separated them, an impassable barrier rearing itself between Aster and the woman she served. She felt her shoulders droop, her head bow. Something had been lifted from her, a sense of purpose which had given her a reason for being. Now, it seemed, her only reason was to remain alive for as long as she could, and to do so, wear the face of the woman she had sworn to protect.

  Her final chance at freedom had passed her by and vanished like snow over flames. As Aster sailed towards an uncertain future, she looked over her shoulder at the man who had uprooted her from all she knew: Svagnar Odliefsen, the jarl of Arkavik.

  She narrowed her eyes, wishing every pestilence upon him. If his warriors hadn’t surrounded him, she would have rather liked to shove him off his longship and find out how well a winged wolf might swim.

  Chapter VI

  Svagnar the Tyrant

  After he had ensured that his men were in good health and his longship well on its way back home, Svagnar strode over to his stolen bride.

  She stood near the hull, bracing herself on the sail’s rope, her eyes fixed on the misty line of the horizon. The blue of the sky was growing by degrees murkier, but the wind had pushed the clouds aside, and starlight began to replace the dull glow of the winter sun, powdering silver light across the sea.

  When he approached her, the princess cast him a dark look. Once more, Svagnar found himself struck by the vision she presented: with her long braid, her pale skin brushed blue by the sky, her earnest eyes like unknowable abysses. Even when she was drowning in his ill-fitting tunic, she still exuded an otherworldly grace, reminding Svagnar of the Elven maidens in the tales he had been told as a boy. He found that streak of wilderness within her intoxicating, as though she were an elusive forest creature and he the hunter that sought to capture it.