Sapphire and Steel

by Violet Froste

  The women of Veritier were truly not as meek as Svagnar had believed. But then, it was not the first time he had underestimated them. He grinned: “You must love her fiercely to make her happiness a matter of state.”

  “I love her more than words can tell,” Adrienna said. “And I believe perhaps you might too.”

  He accompanied her to the entrance of the tent, and she turned to say: “You should go tell her all is well. Knowing Aster, she will be tormenting herself with worries and finding someone to fight.”

  Svagnar smile faded and he admitted: “She is badly hurt. I must go find her in my mountain encampment and bring her back to Fjersfell, our home. Will you stay for a while?”

  “I thank you kindly. I would love to celebrate your victory.”

  They exited the tent. Outside, Gunnar was conversing with Byram, their hands clapped on each other’s forearms, both bearing broad smiles. Gunnar turned to Svagnar and said: “How like you to find yourself a warrior bride, Svagnar. Captain of the Princessguard, hm? It’s a wonder she hasn’t already killed you in sleep!”

  “I’m sure she must have tried her best, Gunnar,” Svagnar grinned.

  Walking to Byram, he embraced the young knight wordlessly. When Svagnar pulled away, there was a warm smile on the knight’s serious face.

  “Without you, Arkavik might have fallen,” Svagnar said. “I thank you, Byram, my brother.”

  “Don’t thank me, jarl. I did only what was right,” Byram said, bowing his head.

  “You’re too noble. I would die before I failed to reward you for your help, friend of Arkavik. What does your heart desire? Sapphires? Arkaviki blades? Land? Name your wish.”

  Byram hesitated.

  “I once served in a Kingsguard, but it seems I no longer have a king. If there is a place for a Veritian knight in your court, Jarl Svagnar, it would be the only reward I could accept.”

  “There will always be a place for you in my court, Byram. Fjersfell will be your home as long as you wish it to be.”

  Svagnar turned to Gunnar: “Gunnar, take Sir Byram and Queen Adrienna back to Fjersfell. We will soon talk, and feast, and dance. But for now, I’ve a brave and reckless wife I must see to.”

  Taking his leave, Svagnar found Artor and climbed onto the saddle. In the distance, the Veritian fleet was slowly receding. Soon, it would become nothing more than the painful memory of a bloody history. But now a warm triumph burned through him, a relief that weakened him like a fever. The gods and goddesses had heard his prayers. Somewhere in their halls, Jarl Isolf would look down upon Arkavik and finally rest easy to know it was saved.

  Svagnar would sacrifice at the altar of every god to thank them. But first… first, he needed to find his wife. He had a terrible urge to kiss the breath from her lungs.

  He rode hard up the path into the mountains; the camp wasn’t far. When he reached it, he saw that the vikingr had already brought most of the camp down; the tents rolled up and packed on horse-carts. Nothing remained of the fires but glowering ambers. The pyre of dead mercenaries was ready to be burnt before they left.

  Only one tent still stood, and it was his - the tent where he had left his injured wife. A dreadful commotion was emerging from it, a din of yells and curses. Sliding off Artor, Svagnar sprung into a run, all but throwing himself into the tent.

  Inside, a ludicrous scene was unfolding. Lanterns were tossed aside, the furnishings pushed or shoved into the corners of the tent. Aster, her back to Svagnar, stood teetering in the centre of the mess. She wore one of his leather cuirasses over her blood-drenched gown, and in one hand she held an axe. He could see that she was in pain, for her bandaged arms trembled violently, but she clutched the axe as though she might die if she let it go.

  Three of the vikingr circled her, their expressions torn between amusement and worry, their shields half up. Standing in front of her, both palms up, was Eirik, who was speaking calmly.

  “Just give me the axe - your arms need to heal.”

  “I will give it to you if you let me through!” she said reasonably, her breath short from exertion. “All I need is a horse, Eirik.”

  “You cannot go to Svagnar, jarl,” one warrior said placatingly. “You are injured. We were asked to bring you back to the castle. Svagnar will return soon.”

  “Svagnar does not-” Eirik’s face brightened as he looked up to see Svagnar gaping in the tent's entrance. “Here, I told you he would be back.”

  Aster spun around. A fearsome frown knit her brows and her face was slick with sweat. Her lips were ashen from pain and from the blood she had lost. Svagnar hoped that seeing him would banish the frown on her face, but he was wrong. If anything, her frown now turned to a glare as she narrowed her eyes.

  “You infernal hellhound, what are you doing?” Svagnar asked, striding over to her.

  She dropped her arm, blatantly too exhausted to keep the axe up.

  “Why, I’m coming to save your life, barbarian.”

  Svagnar drew nearer to her, approaching her as he might a feral wood creature. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Eirik had nodded at the men, and all of them were quietly retreating from the tent. Doubtless, they were glad it was now his problem to bring this troublesome hellkite back to the castle.

  “With your arms barely hanging on and not even enough strength to fight a rabbit?” Svagnar asked softly.

  He slid his hands tenderly down her quivering arms, his fingers pulling the axe from her grip. She let it go reluctantly, and he laid it aside.

  “That would make me about as strong as you, then,” she said, her chin thrust up insolently as he gently drew the cuirass off her. Once more, she reluctantly let him, and he laid the leather garment over the axe.

  Slowly, tenderly, he took her into his arms, careful not to press into the wound in her side.

  “You, my wife, are now the only thing that protects this country from war.”

  Her eyes widened with sudden concern.

  “The queen of Karscha,” he explained with a slight smile, “has assured me that should any harm come to you, I should expect the entire force of Karsha to obliterate me. And now I find you injured and wielding a sword, against Eirik of all people?”

  “I thought - I feared Owayn would be treacherous,” she said, dropping her head.

  “Indeed,” Svagnar kissed her cold brow, the tip of her nose, her flushed cheeks. “But did you not trust that I could defeat him? Since I am uninjured and armed and have been a warrior for as long as I could walk?”

  “I trusted you, of course, Svagnar, only…”

  “Only you mistook yourself for the captain of Svagnarsguard? What would Gunnar say, to find himself so callously replaced?”

  He brushed the hair that coiled on her clammy forehead. She was cold as ice, a dull flush in her cheeks. For the second time since he had known her, she was sinking into the depth of a burning fever.

  “No, I would never dream of replacing Gunnar,” she said conciliatorily. “He does a fine enough job to be sure.”

  Svagnar burst out laughing: “Aye, he does, does he not? He would be proud to draw from you such glowing praise.”

  She sighed and finally admitted in a small voice: “I worried about you.”

  “And I worry about you. And about Arkavik now. For if anything happens to you, your sister will burn my country to the ground.”

  Holding her delicately against him, he laid her down on the bed of furs, settling at her side. She relaxed immediately against him, her arms going limp, her head rolling to nestle beneath his chin.

  “Adrienna’s not my sister,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, Svagnar, but I am no princess.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need a princess anymore. I have a soldier for a wife and a Karschan ally. King Owayn will not move against Arkavik again. That war is over.”

  “How? Adrienna is… Adrienna cannot marry you.”

  “No. But she has claimed you for her sister no matter what your true lineage is. And she has assu
red both myself and Owayn that as long as you are my wife, Karscha will always defend Arkavik. It did not impress Owayn… but it was enough to make him leave.”

  Aster laughed weakly. Aster. It was strange to think of her in this new way, with this new name. Not as a princess, but as merely Aster. Named for a mountain flower, a girl with nothing to her name but her valour and loyalty. Aster, the jarl of Arkavik. Aster, the wife of Svagnar.

  It had a good ring to it.

  Svagnar leaned down to kiss her, for already he had spent too many hours without kissing her. But she stopped him, turning her head so he would kiss her cheek instead. He drew back with a frown, and she whispered: “You do not have to kiss me just to keep Arkavik safe, Svagnar.”

  Svagnar frowned. What nonsense was she speaking now?

  She swallowed hard and explained: “I know I deceived you, and that I married you bearing another’s name. But…”

  She hesitated, and in the space between her words he said: “You might have born another’s name when we married, but who wears my ring now?”

  Her hand flew to her chest, where the leather string disappeared inside her bodice.

  “It is I, I know. But I do not want you to feel as though you are shackled to this marriage only to keep Arkavik safe.”

  He shut her up with his lips, kissing her deep and slow, savouring the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her tongue. His kisses were delving and unhurried - for there was no rush, no despair left in him. He would have a lifetime of kissing her, and he would take his time to enjoy it.

  “I want to be shackled to this marriage,” he murmured against her mouth. He drew her lower lip between his, suckling on the silky flesh. “I want to be shackled to you, hellhound. For if I am not shackled to you, I fear you might make love to me and hit me over the head with an axe again.”

  She looked away from him, a smile curling the sides of her well-kissed lips.

  “I can be quite a dangerous wife to have,” she admitted.

  “Aye, keeping you shackled to me might be the only way to keep us both safe.”

  “Mm… even in bed?” she asked, a wicked glint in her sapphire eyes.

  “Oh, especially in bed.”

  He captured her mouth in another ardent kiss and she kissed him back, her hot tongue seeking his hungrily, her wounded arms moving to curl themselves around his head, pulling him closer.

  He felt himself harden at the image she had conjured: her, shackled to his bed, writhing in pleasure, and him fucking her with deep, punishing strokes. He cursed the way she always seemed to arouse him when she was near, with her frowns and gestures and her words.

  Pulling back, he said hoarsely: “You wily sorceress. You seductive siren. You don’t know what you do to me. Stop this, you need to rest.”

  She reached up to kiss him again, sighing sweetly: "Do you not want me, Svagnar?”

  He swallowed hard and held her face in his hands. Meeting her lusty gaze with a determined glare, he said: “I do want you. I want you all the damn time, hellhound. I want you naked and on my cock every minute of the day. But you are injured, and you need rest. And I’ve already been accused of being a tyrant enough by my Jarlsguard.”

  “Well…” she smirked. “You are a tyrant. Quite a sweet tyrant at times.”

  “The jarl of Arkavik, a sweet tyrant,” he said. “It has quite a ring to it.”

  “Svagnar Steel-Heart, the jarl who would not bed his wife,” she said, yawning. “Yes, I can imagine it.”

  “Aster Sapphire-Eyes, the lascivious seductress of Arkavik,” he rejoined.

  She laughed, then, and the sound was sweeter to Svagnar than any music, sweeter than any other sound he had ever heard. She seldom laughed, this wife of his - but he would remedy that. Aster Odliefsen would laugh often. She would laugh and be kissed and admired and adored.

  She already had his heart, after all. She would have everything else besides.

  Chapter XIX

  Aster Odliefsen

  To her chagrin, Aster took three weeks to recover after they returned to Fjersfell. Her cuts were agonising, and she had a fever that weakened her, and the wound at her side tormented her day and night. But Svagnar sent for a healer, and once the kindly old man had brewed her some sleeping potions, she felt much better. Sleeping for long stretches of time, she awoke only to eat and drink, or when Svagnar changed her bandages.

  He insisted on caring for her himself: feeding her and bringing water to her lips, wiping the sweat from her body with a warm cloth, unwrapping her used bandages with slow, cautious movements. It was he who packed the poultices over her wounds and checked how they were healing. It was he who bandaged her up afterwards, holding her limbs as though they were made of glass. It was he who often stayed by her side until she fell asleep, kissing her forehead, talking to her or telling her tales of heroes and mages.

  Adrienna, too, came to visit her when she was recuperating. The new queen of Karscha brought fruits and little cakes and spiced wine with her and opened the windows to let in the icy winter air.

  Once she had poured the fragrant wine into glasses she sat by Aster’s side and said tremulously: “I wanted to thank you, Aster. For what you did. For everything.”

  Aster felt a lump in her throat that was not from the pain.

  “Don’t thank me, Adrienna. I only did my duty.”

  “No, you think it duty, but… your duty was to only to protect me. Your duty was never to sacrifice everything for me. I wanted you to know this.”

  Aster blinked back the stinging of tears in her eyes and said: “Serving you gave me a purpose when I had none. You gave me a place at your side when I had no place at all. You gave me a friend and kin when I never dreamt of having any.”

  Adrienna took her hand and smiled.

  “And look at you now. A wife, a friend, a sister, a queen. I know none in this world more deserving of happiness than you. Are you happy, Aster?”

  “Well, being a wife is not the dreadful fate I expected it to be.”

  “No, indeed!” Adrienna laughed, her cheeks colouring. “I find myself pleasantly surprised by marriage, too.”

  “Is that so?” Aster turned to better face Adrienna, wincing at the pain that gripped the muscles of her guts. “Are you happy too, then?”

  “Yes. Incandescently so. The prince of Karscha… he is very different from Veritian men. I think you would like him, Aster.”

  “Then you should return to Arkavik with him someday. Strengthen our political alliance.”

  “I shall,” Adrienna grinned. “And you and Svagnar should come visit Karscha. Though I’ve a feeling you won’t be travelling much after you’ve recovered. I think your husband is quite eager to have you well again.”

  “Yes, indeed. I’m sure he will be delighted to be able to hunt with me once more,” Aster said with a mischievous grin.

  “To hunt and to fight you. Not with a weapon… with his cock.”

  Aster burst out into a peel of shocked laughter, pain lancing through her. The princess had grown bolder since she had last seen her. Now that she was married and a queen, she was rather audacious. She looked different too, with her short hair falling on her shoulders and her elegant Karschan garb. She looked somehow older, more confident… happier. It warmed Aster’s heart, and she realised that when Adrienna returned to Karscha, she would miss her sorely.

  But there was no time for sorrow. Once Aster had recovered enough to walk and move without too much torment, Svagnar arranged for a great feast to celebrate the end of the war. After the feast, Adrienna would return home with her small fleet, so Svagnar had wanted to make sure Aster could attend.

  That night Aster wore blue, for Svagnar had told her it was the colour he liked most on her. She wore her hair loose, for braiding it was too painful, and Ylva had placed a crown of mountain flowers around her head. Aster disliked wearing any jewellery aside from the ring on her makeshift necklace and she refused to wear a crown. So Ylva had made her a wreath of wildflowers to we
ar as a compromise.

  Aster was in an excellent mood, and she ate well and drank more than she ought to, and danced. She danced most with Adrienna and Ylva. As she had predicted, the two young women struck an instant friendship. Above all, they delighted in sharing stories about Aster. Ylva also seemed much intrigued by Byram, who had settled well into his new life at Arkavik.

  Leaving them to their chatter, Aster danced with Gunnar, who seemed much impressed by her past as a guard captain. She danced with Eirik, begging him forgiveness for threatening him with an axe. Though perhaps Eirik had not been so terribly afraid when she had, for he laughed when she apologised. She danced with Kylan, who sported brand new scars and tattoos - though Svagnar was quick to drag her from the arms of the intrepid young warrior.

  She danced with Svagnar, whose hands seemed unable to stop caressing her.

  “You look beautiful tonight, my wife.”

  “It’s because I’m not covered in blood and sweat, for once.”

  “Covered in blood and sweat is how I love you best,” he said, grinning through his scar.

  “You love me best in nothing else but blood and sweat,” she teased.

  “I love you most in nothing else but moonlight and kisses.”

  And that night, after their guests had finally gone to sleep - or fallen unconscious into a pool of mead in the case of Kylan and Gunnar - Svagnar took Aster to their room. He held her hand through the dark corridors, hurrying her on, kissing her in every dark alcove, too impatient to wait for privacy. No sooner had he closed the door behind them that she was in his arms, his mouth on hers, his kiss ardent and penetrating.

  “Take your clothes off, Svagnar,” she said against his mouth.

  “As you command, Jarl Aster.”

  He all but tore the clothes from his body, kicking his boots aside, his tunic and his trousers tossed across the room. Once he was magnificently naked, she stood back to admire him: his body bulging with muscles, his tattoos coiling across his shoulders, his newly-cropped hair like pale gold spikes over his head. Her eyes travelled the height of him, the hugeness of him, his powerful limbs, his scars. He was ferociously hard, his member huge and heavy between his legs, and his eyes were hungry and grey and piercing as they watched her watching him.