Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1)

by Rachel Robins

  “You were out drinking with them,” Brynarr interrupted. “And whoring with them?”

  Frida bristled indignantly. “Do I really seem like that kind of woman?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

  Brynarr stalked forwards and grabbed her by her hair, leaning in close to her. “Don't you dare take that tone with me,” he said.

  Frida snorted, hoping that bravado would keep her safe, help him realize how ridiculous he was being. “What am I, a child?” she asked. She pushed at his chest. “You're not my keeper, Brynarr. I don't need to tell you where I'm going or what I'm up to.”

  Brynarr shook her a little, looking almost as though he might hit her, and she suddenly realized how very serious this situation was. He didn't realize how ridiculous he was being. As far as he was concerned, he seemed to think he was acting entirely rationally. She wondered how much he had had to drink. She wondered if drink had anything to do with it.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes, wondering if remorse might be the better tactic. Sure enough, his grip loosened on her hair—just slightly, but it was a good sign. “Really, Brynarr, I'm sorry. But there's no one I want to sleep with except for you. I definitely wasn't whoring with them—we just had some drinks and talked about our training regimen. We just talked strategy.”

  Brynarr didn't look fully convinced, but finally, he released her, pushing her away with disgust on his face. “You can sleep on the floor tonight,” he told her. “I don't want you near me.”

  Frida felt tears prick her eyes—and not just because she had been looking forward to finally, finally sleeping in a bed again. “Please, Brynarr, you don't mean that,” she pleaded, putting a hand on his chest.

  But he pulled away, pointing towards their saddlebags and bedrolls. “Go,” he told her.

  And so she curled up alone in her bedroll, in the corner of the room, listening to Brynarr's soft snores. She swallowed hard, remembering again all those questions that she had never asked Brynarr. She didn't really know what type of man he was—although she now realized how deeply his jealousy ran. She would need to be better. She would need to make sure he realized that he was the center of her world at the moment. It was just that she wanted this army to excel. It was just that Perig's counsel was so enlightening.

  But Brynarr wouldn't understand that. She started to wonder why he was really involved in this whole thing, but that was another question that she knew she would never actually ask him.

  Perhaps because of her disquieted thoughts, though, she had the same dream that she had been having for months now, the dream about the war that had got this whole thing started for her.

  The dream started by panning over a field. She could see that it was blackened, and she initially assumed that everything had been burnt, absolutely razed to the ground. But when she looked closer, she realized that she could see movement on the ground. There were people there, clad in black capes and armor, with black hair and skin. And they were streaming out of seemingly every surface of the ground, emerging from the nooks and crannies between blackened rocks.

  It was a scene unlike any that she'd ever seen before. The warriors were far more fierce-looking than the warriors of their army could ever have hoped to be, and she had no doubt that with their sinewy movements and beast-like behavior, they would be a fearsome force to reckon with.

  They didn't seem quite human, and she wondered if these were the magicians from the Borderlands who had begun warring in the south.

  Sure enough, the air suddenly erupted with a volley of magic, red sparks flashing over all of them, illuminating them in a ghastly way. The vision swung around wildly until she could see who they were fighting—and there, in the very front of the line was Perig, looking pale and grim. Still, he led the charge, his sword held high in the air, and the men followed him, even though they looked just as terrified.

  But she knew, she just knew that they were no match for the monsters that they were up against. She wanted to call out to them, to call them back, to tell them to wait until…

  Until what? They wouldn't be able to win the war unless they were able to harness the magic themselves—or find some way to keep the sorcerers from using their magic.

  Find some way to keep the sorcerers from using their magic…

  Frida woke with a start, staring around the dark room, momentarily unable to figure out where she was. And even once she figured out that she was in an inn on their trek to the south, it took her another minute to figure out why she was sleeping on the floor rather than in bed with Brynarr.

  She bit her lower lip and then crept from her bedroll, making her way over to the bed and hesitantly reaching out a hand towards Brynarr's shoulder.

  He yanked away from her touch and sat quickly, his eyes glinting in the dark. “What?” he snapped.

  Frida bit her lower lip but pressed on. “We need to keep the sorcerers from using their magic,” she said. “It's as simple as that. There must be some sort of a way to do it, right? I mean, they were able to ward me and–”

  Brynarr reached out and caught her hands. “You're freezing,” he said, sounding surprised.

  Frida suddenly realized that she was shivering a little, and she shrugged. “I had a nightmare. A nightmare that was possibly a foretelling vision. It's nothing. But with the sorcerers–”

  “Come here,” Brynarr said, pulling back the covers a little and letting her climb into bed with him.

  Frida shook her head, though, resisting. “No, wait,” she said. If they didn't talk this through now, she was afraid she would forget it by the morning. “There has to be some way, right? I mean, there's a reason I can't see the energy in the world right now, right? And there's a reason I can't use my magic. What if there was some sort of a way to do that on a large scale, to all of the sorcerers in the Borderlands? We could neutralize them, and then we could defeat them.”

  “Frida, get in bed,” Brynarr said impatiently. “It's the middle of the night.”

  Frida blinked at him and then sighed, deflating a little. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I shouldn't have woken you up. I was just… It just seemed so plausible.”

  “I'm not saying it's not plausible,” Brynarr said. “But we're not going to solve the question tonight. I still haven't been able to figure out how to get your magic working again, and until that happens, there's no way we're going to be able to use that knowledge against the sorcerers.”

  “I know,” Frida said. She sighed as Brynarr pulled her into his arms, warming her. “I'm sorry I made you mad before,” she said softly.

  Brynarr hummed a little, seeming to consider his words carefully. “I don't want you helping Perig with the armies anymore,” he said finally. Before she could protest, he continued: “I want you by my side as we recruit more soldiers. I think it could help to have you by my side; people might be more trusting. It would be just like it was at the start of this.”

  “How many more towns will we hit before we reach King Varg's lands?” she asked.

  “Three,” Brynarr said. “And then we will have our greatest challenge yet.”

  Frida bit her lower lip, staring out into the darkness, images from the dream still heavy in her mind. “There must be some way to block their magic,” she murmured as she drifted off to sleep. Behind her, Brynarr didn't respond.

  Chapter 10

  Frida stared in wonder up at the tall stone wall that surrounded Laedrickshold, home of King Varg and the capital city of Kjota. “I never thought I'd be here,” she told Brynarr honestly.

  The man snorted and urged his horse forwards, seemingly unimpressed by the walls that seemed to reach to the very sky. “The actual walls are quite short,” he told her. “But there is a magical wall that extends from the top of the physical wall, going as high as the eye can see.” He shook his head. “The fortress was built back when magic was still commonplace in Kjota—in a time when sorcerers weren't feared and murdered.” His hand clenched into a fist.

  Their whole troop�
��now made up of five separate battalions each made up of 100 men—halted as a single messenger rode down from the gates. He was dressed in full armor, and he kept a sword in his hand as he went. Up on the walls, Frida could see arrow slits, and she realized there were probably archers manning every slit, looking for some sign of whether they were friend or foe.

  She smiled easily at the messenger, urging her horse forwards alongside Brynarr's. “Hello,” she called out.

  This was a carefully-scripted meeting, of course. Everyone knew what effect marching an army on the capital city could have—but they had no quarrel with the people of Laedrickshold. Instead, they were hoping to impress King Varg with the forces that they had amassed and convince him to send forces of his own alongside their troops to fight back in the Borderlands.

  Perig believed they had a strong chance of being granted forces: the Borderlands weren't so far away from Laedrickshold, and King Varg must want to ensure his continued reign and supply source—because if the lands around his castle fell to ruin, the people of the capital would have an impossible task of providing for themselves. There was no farmland or anything like that inside the walls of the town; even if they managed to withstand the onslaught from the sorcerers, ensconced within their walls, they would have to delve into their emergency stores, and those stores wouldn't last forever. In the event of a siege, they were sure to lose.

  Frida wasn't so sure how their meeting would go, though. She couldn't believe that King Varg hadn't already done more to fight back against the invading forces. The last three towns that they had passed through had already seen raids from sorcerers and their ilk, and they had heard rumors of much worse happenings down along the border between the civil world and the untamed Borderlands.

  But then again, Brynarr's charm made it easy for him to convince men to come along with them and join their army. She doubted the king would have much luck in such a venture.

  “The king requests that your spokesperson come alone to the castle to speak with him,” the messenger said, looking back and forth between the three who had ridden out in front of the army: Brynarr, Frida, and Perig. He looked surprised when his eyes rested on Perig, and then his eyes narrowed. “Although with a traitor in your midst, I'd say that the king may rather kill you on the spot.” He started to lower his sword, and Frida realized that that must be the signal to get the archers shooting.

  “Wait,” she said desperately, spurring her horse forwards a couple more steps. “Please. We are the people of King Varg's realm. And we merely seek an audience with him. We do not wish to fight you—instead, we have come to fight the sorcerers and scum coming into Kjota from the Borderlands.”

  The messenger eyed her for a long moment. “Very well,” he told her. “I will take you before the king. But I will have no choice but to tell King Varg about Perig the Traitor's presence amongst your companies.”

  Brynarr spurred his horse forwards as well. “I am the spokesperson for our army,” he argued. “You should take me with you, rather than this woman. She is only my wife.”

  Frida bristled a little, turning to face Brynarr in the saddle. His demeanor had been downright mercurial over the past few days, and she didn't know what to make of it anymore. Sometimes, he treated her like a lover; sometimes, he treated her like an equal. But other times, he treated her as though she were some possession of his, treated her as though she had no right to have a brain of her own.

  It was doubly frustrating since this whole venture had been her idea to start with.

  “Brynarr, I–” she began.

  “I will take the woman with me,” the messenger repeated, eyeing Brynarr with a neutral expression on his face. “Perhaps you will cooperate better if I have taken someone who is dear to you—like a hostage.”

  Frida swallowed hard, wondering what she had gotten herself into. Before she could ride forwards, Brynarr caught her arm, giving her a look. She suddenly realized that he wasn't trying to belittle her; instead, she could see concern in his face. “Remember that we aren't sure what kind of man King Varg is,” he told her in an undertone. “Remember that for all we know, he has already struck some sort of bargain with the sorcerers and that is why he does not seek combat with them.”

  He reached up behind his neck and undid the clasp of his necklace, taking it off and leaning over to put it around Frida's neck. From the thin gold chain hung an amulet about the size of Frida's palm. It was decorated with all sorts of arcane drawings and runes—and despite her inability to see the energies of the world, she could feel that it practically hummed with power.

  “That will keep you safe,” he told her, still talking lowly so that he couldn't be overheard by anyone else. He tucked it under her clothes. “If anyone asks, say it is a family heirloom and it's meant to remind you of me, to help you stay calm. Play up the fact that you are a female. And find out everything that you can about Laedrickshold and our King Varg.”

  “I will,” Frida said, nodding at him.

  Chapter 11

  She turned towards the messenger and smiled sweetly at him, spurring her horse forwards to follow his into the city. “My name is Frida Grimsdottir,” she told the man as they walked their horses up through the winding stone streets. Meanwhile, she paid close attention to where they were going. The place was maze-like—all the better to defend it, she was sure. But it would make it difficult for her to escape easily on her own if things went sour with the king. She would need to convince him to see their side—to see that they weren't there to fight against him but rather to fight with him. She could only hope that it wasn't as Brynarr feared and that the king hadn't already formed some sort of alliance with the sorcerers.

  “Where do you come from, Frida Grimsdottir?” the messenger asked.

  “Daelfjord, in the far north of Kjota,” she said. “But our army comes from all the towns and villages between Daelfjord and Laedrickshold. We are hoping–”

  “I am not the king,” the messenger interrupted. “You don't need to convince me that your troops come in peace. That is the task that you will have to do in front of him.”

  “I know,” Frida said, feeling a bit nervous with the way he had interrupted her. She cast around wildly, trying to come up with something else to talk about—but she came up blank.

  That nervousness persisted as they went through a second wall—although with this one, she could see the top of the battlements and the soldiers walking around on it—and entered the courtyard of the castle keep.

  The castle itself was perched on a hill in the middle of the keep, with a murky, black-watered moat surrounding the bottom of the hill. She began to reassess her options if things turned sour: there was no way she would be able to get out of there on her own. She swallowed hard and hoped beyond hope that things would go well for her.

  They crossed the moat on a wooden drawbridge and entered through a third set of gates, these ones with murder-holes up above their heads where soldiers could drop rocks or scalding oil on unwanted visitors. She swallowed hard as she took in the brutish, war-like nature of the place, feeling incredibly out of place. Perhaps she should have let Brynarr meet with the king after all.

  Inside the castle, though, things changed dramatically. The whole place had clearly once been made strictly for protection from attackers, but now the walls and floors were covered with rich tapestries and fine ornamentation. She stared around her in awe, feeling especially grimy in her road-worn cloak and trousers. Her cracked leather boots left traces of mud on the floor as she walked, and she tried to avoid stepping on the tapestries that littered the way, for fear that they would never be able to scrub them clean.

  When they reached the throne room, the messenger halted. “We'll need to take your sword and any other weapons that you might have away from you here,” he said, holding out his hand. “I'm afraid it would not do to allow you to come before the king bearing arms.”

  Frida frowned, her hand coming to rest on the hilt of her sword. “Surely you don't believe tha
t I would draw my sword on the king of Kjota, do you?” she asked, sounding scandalized. “Even if I wanted to do such a thing, I have no doubt that your very talented sword-masters could disarm me in a matter of seconds.”

  “Be that as it may,” the messenger said, a small smile on his face, “it is a rule that has been in place in this throne room for many hundreds of years now—for all the generations that have ruled in Kjota. I'm afraid that you have no choice but to observe the rule.” He paused. “But I do assure you, my lady, that we will take the utmost care with your equipment, and it will be returned to you as soon as you are ready to leave the keep.”

  Frida sighed but eventually unhooked her sword and scabbard from her belt, handing them over to the guard. She still had a small knife hidden beneath her trousers, in a small scabbard that was strapped to one leg, but she doubted they would check her for more weapons, and she wouldn't feel safe if both of her weapons were taken away from her.

  The messenger seemed satisfied, regardless, and he led her into the hall. Frida noted that two more soldiers came forwards and fell into step just behind them. A well-protected king, then. Despite the fact that his people were dying.

  She hid her sneer and dropped into a graceful bow as she reached the king. He was weather-beaten and grey, but not nearly as old as she had imagined him to be. In fact, he might even have been her father. But that didn't make sense, she realized, given that he had been king for all of her life. He should have been older…

  There was no questioning that to his face, though. Perhaps he knew some sorcerers of his own and had discovered a cure for old age.

  “My Lord,” she murmured respectfully, even though she had little to no respect for this man who didn't seem to care at all about the people that he ruled.

  “Who are you?” the king's councillor asked from the king's left.