He met her moan with a hoarse growl, his mouth sliding from her lips to her neck, his hands seeking her small, high breasts. His kissed and licked her neck as he squeezed her breasts in his palms, his fingers seeking the small, stiff peaks of her nipples, pinching them until she cried out beseechingly: “Oh, Svagnar… please…”
She had not realised how much she hungered for his touch, how much she needed to be grasped and licked and devoured by him. And now that she was in his grip, she could think of nothing else than to be taken by him, to become irremediably, gloriously his. She undulated her hips against his, seeking more contact, craving the heat and hardness of his member, craving his mouth on every part of her.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured against her throat.
His mouth returned to hers, sucking on her lower lip as his hand slid down her waist, over her belly, seeking the edge of her chemise to slip beneath it. His fingers found her thigh, grabbing the tender flesh there, and slid upwards, drawing tantalisingly close to the wet, pulsing heat between her legs.
A knock on the door resounded, snapping Aster to reality. She sat up, and Svagnar glared at the door, roaring: “By the gods, who is it?”
A tiny pause, then: “It is Ylva. I only wish to bid Aster goodnight.”
Aster stared up at Svagnar, her eyes wide, her cheeks burning. She suddenly felt unbelievably lewd and debauched, lying with her stiff nipples pushing against her chemise, her legs splayed, her mouth bruised with his kisses. He, in turn, looked feral, his eyes dark, his chest heaving, his hard cock tenting his trousers.
“May I come in?” Ylva called from the other side of the door.
Aster pushed Svagnar off her, sprung up from the bed and ran across the room, grabbing a pale nightgown and throwing it on. Running back to Svagnar, she took his arm, leading him to the door. He followed reluctantly, and before she could open the door, he caught her wrist and pulled her to him.
“Next time I have you in a bed, hellhound,” he said, low and husky and bold. “I won’t stop until you’re screaming my name. I swear this in front of the gods.”
She squealed in shock, her eyes wide, her breasts heaving as she caught her breath sharply. With a wicked smile, he released her, opened the door, and stormed off down the corridor, casting his sister a glare furious enough to obliterate the sun.
Chapter XII
Svagnar the Oathtaker
Svagnar spent the night after the feast in sleepless torment. No matter how tired he was, he lay upon his bed, his body burning even after he’d kicked his furs to the floor.
He lay naked, cloaked only in the blue moonlight that fell from his windows and the tattoos that curled on his skin. His mind was feverish with thoughts of the princess. Thoughts of her mouth, of her smell, of her breasts in his hands, of her legs parting for him. He had gone to her room intending to confront her, to find out the truth of her sadness, to delve into her secrets. Instead, he had left with his mind full of her moans, and his cock as hard as marble.
She must be a witch, or a siren, or a demi-goddess, to fog his mind so utterly with lust. He had never known such devouring desire for a woman before. When he had pinned her to the bed he had longed so desperately to thrust himself inside her that he still ached to think of it now.
But his desire for her was more insidious, more unnerving than mere lust. He did not merely want to possess her, to fuck her and be done with it. He wanted more - so much more. He wanted to taste her and wallow in her sweetness; he wanted to lick the nectar between her legs and hear the music of her moans. He wanted to make her come on his tongue and on his cock and watch her body twist and arch with ecstasy. And he wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to discover her thoughts, her secrets. He wanted to sleep with her in his arms and fuck her slowly in the mornings.
He did not just want her for his wife, or for fucking. He wanted her for his lover, for his companion, for his mate.
The realisation of this was illuminating and devastating. How the gods must mock Svagnar, who had stolen a bride and had his heart stolen in return. And with the threat of her father’s armies now looming so close on the horizon, matters of the heart were the last thing he needed to think about.
Yet Svagnar could not help but let himself be lured by hope. Back in her bedchamber, the princess had kissed him as hotly as he had kissed her. She had spread those long, creamy thighs of hers and gasped his name. These had not been the actions of a reluctant bride compelled to marry a tyrant; they had been the actions of a woman lost in lust.
Svagnar’s hope was a fragile thing, for he was troubled still. Something haunted the princess, something within his reach that he could not yet grasp. She did not seem to loathe him; she did not seem to resent the marriage he was forcing her into. And yet some terrible melancholy shadowed her face, hopelessness weighing heavy upon her whenever she thought nobody watched her. And no matter how much he sought to find the source of her sadness, Svagnar could not reach it, for the princess kept the secret of it carefully hidden.
Svagnar sighed, rolling away from the moonlight in his empty bed. His worry had dissipated his lust and soon he fell into a dull and restless sleep.
He woke up to crisp sunlight and fresh-fallen snow. Although he longed for nothing more than to return to the princess’s bedchamber and finish what he had started on the night of the feast, Svagnar did not see her for the next two days. Fjersfell was in a chaos of furious activity, for there were many preparations underway.
Svagnar left Mikkel in charge of the wedding arrangements and the housing of his guests. He, in turn, would lead the preparations of the defences. He commanded walls to be fortified, new reinforcements for the shores and the docks, shields and swords to be readied.
He sent longships out to keep watch at sea, and scouts to the fjords, to light beacons should they spot any enemy ships in the distance. He took over the training of his best vikingr, and he put his Jarlsguard in charge of training the other warriors Finally, he spoke to the jarls of Kjarven and Erleskal, who were readying themselves to return to their respective lands.
Erlend, the arl of Kjarven, was an imposing old man, battle-scarred, shrewd and observant. As a young man, Svagnar had helped him in raiding campaigns, and their staunch friendship had withstood the test of time. Soren, the young jarl of Erleskal, was stalwart and dauntless, following in the footsteps of his father, who had been a great and respected jarl in his time.
Svagnar explained his precarious situation to them. They had often sent him reinforcements when he most sorely needed it, confident in their knowledge that Svagnar would do the same should they ever need it.
“The moment will soon come when my plan is tested,” he confided in them. “If I succeed, Arkavik will know lasting peace. But if I should fail, my friends, bloodshed will once more steep my shores. Will you come to my aid should I need it?”
“My father always honoured the alliance between our nations,” the young Jarl Soren said, grabbing Svagnar’s forearm. “In the north, we stand together. You need only send word, and Erleskal will be with you.”
“And Kjarven, too,” Jarl Erlend said solemnly. “Though you rule Arkavik now, Svagnar, I will not forget that you once fought at my side. My vikingr will be yours should you need them.”
Svagnar nodded and said: “I pray to the gods that neither of you will ever need to honour these vows. Go in peace, my friends. And I hope the next time we meet, it will be under better circumstances.”
He accompanied both men to the stables, and bid them farewell as they left, watching them disappear thoughtfully. He wondered whether they believed in their hearts that his plan would work. Lately, he wasn’t so sure himself.
The day before the wedding ceremony, he decided it was time to see his bride. He had spent most of the morning and afternoon sparring with his warriors, listening to reports from his blacksmiths, and inspecting defences along the shore. Dusk already gathered in the horizon, casting a blanket of shadows over the sea. Cold air unfurled from the
mountains, encasing grass blades and windows with brittle layers of frost.
Striding back into Fjersfell from the town forges, he marched straight towards the princess’s bedchambers. Soon, she would be taken for the cleansing ceremonies to the mountain springs, but he hoped to see her beforehand, to comfort her. She must be nervous, on the eve of her marriage to the man who had stolen her from her land. He wondered if she felt the same odd thrill he felt when he thought of being bound to her in front of the gods.
Before he could even exit the large entrance hall, his path was blocked by Gunnar, who had been leaning against a pillar waiting for him. His other guards soon emerged. All nine of them, including Bjern and Lief, who were sporting twin grins on their bearded faces.
“By the gods! I’d begun to think you had both taken Veritian wives and settled there to raise armfuls of children!” Svagnar exclaimed, laughing as he slammed both of them into a hard embrace. “What did you do, swim back?”
“Almost, Svagnar!” boomed Bjern, the biggest of his guards, with a golden beard halfway down his chest. “Our longship was attacked and sunk, and it now rests at the bottom of the Veritian sea.”
“Those Veritians defend their shores and borders like lions, Svagnar,” Lief added, grinning. “We were beset by patrol after patrol, and only returned by bribing a merchant with everything we had… and some of what you have, too.”
“My coffers are always open to you, my brothers,” said Svagnar. “Welcome home.”
“We lost the two guards you asked us to bring back, Svagnar,” Lief said with a slight frown. “They were fearsome fighters, those two we took. Their captain trained them mighty well.”
“Aye, doubtless their captain is no drunkard like yours,” Svagnar laughed, jerking his chin at Gunnar, who shrugged unapologetically.
“Enough talk, now!” Eirik exclaimed, grabbing Svagnar by the shoulders. “Our jarl is about to become a husband. It is time we retrieve Himinbitr.”
Svagnar’s smile faded. He had forgotten about the ancient traditions that came with a jarl’s wedding. Himinbitr was a sword he knew well. It was buried in Jarl Isolf’s ceremonial grave, with his armour and shield.
Isolf had ruled Arkavik for many decades, a noble and worthy jarl. He had overseen the building of many of the cities that now populated the country’s shores, and worked to defend Arkavik from Veritier’s attacks long before Svagnar.
Svagnar had learned everything he knew from Isolf. His own father had perished in the same battle that had taken both Isolf’s sons. After that, the jarl had taken Svagnar and his mother into Fjersfell, caring for them as though they were his own family. He had made Svagnar into a vikingr, had taught him how to be a man, how to be a ruler. And when he had been slain in a terrible massacre, the people of Fjersfell had chosen Svagnar to take his place.
Svagnar owed everything he owned and everything he was to Isolf. The thought of retrieving the fallen jarl’s sword made him both proud and nervous.
But his guards were leading him on, into the mountains where the jarl’s graves stood. It was almost fully night, and they carried torches with them. When they reached the mountains, they held the torches up, illuminating the structure that jutted from the slope of the mountain. It was thickly covered with snow. Svagnar raked his axe over the rock, shovelling off the snow until he could see the runes inscribed on the slab.
Slinging his axe back into his belt, he kneeled into the snow, grabbing the rock slab with his fingers and pulling. It was heavy and had been in place for over a decade. Grunting from exertion, Svagnar pulled, his guard encouraging him on, their voices deep and grave and echoing through the mountains.
When the rock finally came loose, Svagnar pulled it down, leaping out of the way. The Jarlsguard’s torches threw faint, faltering light inside the tomb, revealing Isolf’s armour, laid out to imitate the shape of his body. His shield lay across the ornate cuirass and below it was Himinbitr - the Sky-Biter.
His heart hammering, Svagnar closed his hand on the handle. It was so cold his fingers ached, but he gripped it tightly, the way he had held Isolf’s hand as he lay dying on the battlefield. Svagnar sometimes still dreamt of the moment when Isolf’s eyes had suddenly become vacant and glassy. He had almost felt the old man’s soul leave his body, taking with it a part of Svagnar. Now that he held the sword, he felt as though that part had returned, as though something missing had been returned to him.
Svagnar turned and faced his guards, holding the sword in both hands as though ready for combat. Gunnar smiled, nodding.
“Hail, Jarl Svagnar Vaengrvarg, the winged wolf of Arkavik,” Eirik spoke, his voice low and reverent.
“Hail, Svagnar Odliefsen,” Gunnar said. “Son, warrior, vikingr, jarl, and soon, husband.”
Svagnar bowed his head. Before his plan to placate King Owayn, he had never much thought of marriage. He had never met a woman he could imagine as his wife, the mother of his sons. Thoughts of war had kept him too occupied to think of his own life, his own future and legacy. And yet now he could think of nothing else but his bride - of binding his body, soul and name to hers.
Kylan and Bjern resealed Isolf’s tomb, and the men lead Svagnar on through the mountains. They trudged through towering pines and snowy slopes until they reached the hot springs that pooled amongst the back rocks. The water reflected the silver moon and stars like mirrors, steam rising in the moonlight.
Further on in the mountain, Svagnar could see more lights flickering amongst the trees. Nearby was the princess, with Ylva, the shieldmaidens and the elderly women of Fjersfell. His bride, like him, had been brought to the springs for cleansing before their wedding. Svagnar imagined the slender princess in the warm water, dressed in nothing but the moonlit steam, and his chest tightened.
But Gunnar and the other guards were already undressing with great verve, throwing their garments upon the rocks and jumping noisily into the water. They called up to Svagnar, shouting entreaties and curses alike. He tossed his furs aside and peeled off the leather pieces of his armour, followed by his tunic and trousers.
Once he stood in nothing but his loincloth, he followed his men into the springs, enduring their jeering and whistles. The hot water lapped against his scar-etched skin, the heat of it sinking deep into his muscles. He groaned, relaxing against the rocks, closing his eyes and imagining the princess, wet and naked and tantalisingly close.
The cleansing ceremony lasted long into the night, for the Jarlsguard was in a merry mood and had brought flasks of spirits with them. When Svagnar finally returned to his chamber, stumbling into its furnishings, he fell into bed still in his clothes, too exhausted to let worries or lewd thoughts keep him from sleep.
The next day, Mikkel himself came to wake him up and bring him his clothes for the marriage ceremony. Svagnar normally wore simple garments in grey, black or brown, for these were practical, severe colours befitting the jarl of a land beset by war.
But on this day, Mikkel brought him a pale tunic and dark blue trousers. Instead of the supple brown leather armour Svagnar normally favoured, he wore black leather vambraces and greaves, accented with silver plates in the shape of wings. His cuirass was carved with runes, and the furs Mikkel lay on his shoulders were heavy and white. Finally, Mikkel placed a plain silver circlet upon his head. Svagnar never wore his crown, but on his own wedding day, he supposed he could make an exception.
After he had finished, Mikkel stood holding both his shoulders and smiling fondly:
“A handsome lad you are, Jarl Svagnar.” He frowned. “Let us hope your scar does not frighten your bride.”
Svagnar laughed and said frankly: “I doubt it, Mikkel. Nothing frightens that woman.”
“No, I think not. She did not seem frightened yesterday when the shieldmaidens were showing her how to wield an axe.”
“By the gods! Do the shieldmaidens wish me killed in my own marriage bed? That Veritian hellhound is already dangerous enough without the ability to wield an axe!”
Mikkel laughed, and both men exited Svagnar’s room. Svagnar cast a final look at the vast chamber: he would not return to it. Now, he would occupy another room in the castle; a larger room, fit for being shared by two people. His marriage bedchamber.
In the courtyard outside Fjersfell, his Jarlsguard awaited him, dressed in their best armour. In Kylan’s hand was Artor’s reins, for Svagar’s favourite stallion would be the one to carry him to the seashore where the ceremony would take place. Beside him Eirik stood, beaming, holding Himinbitr, now encased in a new leather sheath. Svagnar took the sheath and buckled it around his waist, pressed Eirik’s forehead to his in thanks, and mounted Artor.
Soon, they were descending the long winding path of the city to the seaside. The people of Fjersfell were all out in the streets, throwing flowers and herbs in his path, shouting or chanting blessings from the gods and goddesses.
When they arrived at the beach, it was filled with music and people. Dressed in their finest garments were his Arkaviki, his warriors, courtiers and guests who had stayed since the feast. They stood amongst burning braziers, and when Svagnar reached the beach, they cheered loud enough to make the sky roar with the sound of their voices.
Svagnar smiled, his eyes searching for his bride. In a traditional Arkaviki wedding, she would have been standing amongst her family, her father at her side. The princess would have nobody there for her. But that was not the case; for when he finally saw her near an arch of bones and flowers, she stood between Ylva and Gunnar.
She wore a long, pale gown, the bodice embellished with subtle embroidery; the skirts flowing in the sea-wind. Her long, dark brown hair was in loose tresses around her shoulders, glossy as silk in the white sunlight. Upon her head was a crown of wild Arkaviki flowers: purple moss campion and white mountain avens. She looked tall and slender and pale as a naked blade. She took his breath away with her beauty, her grace, her poise.
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