Sword Stone Table

by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)

He did not have a home. He was a man of war.

  And visions were not for trusting.

  Not until he’d seen her tears, sensed her fear, and believed her shame. And by the time the salt had dried on her cheeks, his blade was hers.

  If only she’d have it.

  Months had passed as he’d searched for the remaining blades—the ones marked with the thistle and held by warlords, brothers of the first he’d killed, who had laid waste to towns and villages without hesitation. Who had destroyed and tormented and taken what was never theirs to claim.

  The warrior took their lives in return.

  Their lives, and the swords he’d vowed to return to their maker, each revealing a new memory of her. Working at her forge, waking in her bed, bathing in the lake that lay like a mirror beyond her cottage.

  Memories of a future that threatened to consume him.

  Her future.

  And his, as well.

  IV

  She made his blade in the days following his departure, after watching his black horse disappear over the horizon, the dust settling in its wake. Only then did she turn to the hearth and begin her work—using the steel of the swords that had been her father’s and grandfather’s greatest creations to forge the one that would be hers.

  She worked in a fevered state, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely thinking as the hammer came down over the blood-orange metal, cleansed in fire and remade in perfection for a singular owner. A just warrior. One who, when he held this blade, would know the truth of his destiny.

  When it was finished, she set the steel in the place of honor above the hearth, where she slept under its watch each night and woke to it every day.

  Mild autumn turned to brutal winter and wet spring and finally, to a nearly unbearable summer—hot and unpleasant enough to drive the bladesmith and her wolf into the world beyond her forge, to the lake that stretched across the northern edge of her land, far enough from the village and close enough to her cottage to keep others away. She was alone in the cool water, her movement the only disturbance over the looking-glass surface, when she felt him.

  He came on a breeze that kissed the damp skin of her bare neck as she stood chest-deep in the lake, facing its fathomless center, and she reveled in the comfort of him, chasing away the worst of the summer—and the worst of her past.

  He’d returned.

  Relief came. And something else. Something she might have called joy, if she’d been able to recognize it.

  She turned, her gaze drawn to his. He stood on the long sloping path leading from the cottage to the lake, frozen. He drank her in and she did the same, finding him somehow bigger, stronger than he’d been months earlier, muscles honed more sharply, covered in dirt and dust as though he’d come straight from battle.

  Perhaps he had.

  She did not look away.

  She never wanted to look away.

  He’d returned, which meant he had taken her vengeance and made it right.

  He’d returned, and now he stood on high like a king and watched her with pride and arrogance and something else that felt like a gift. Like a tribute.

  He felt like a tribute.

  Indeed, when his eyes darkened and he moved, his purpose undeniable, it was she who was the monarch, as though she had summoned him to her side. She lifted her chin, letting her own arrogance show. A match. “You did not die.”

  A smile flashed. “Are you disappointed?”

  No. Never.

  “I have not decided.”

  He was at the edge of the lake, the water teasing at his boots. “You will let me know when you have?”

  She could not help her own smile then. “Aye.”

  He crouched, his thighs thick, straining his breeches, and set his fingers to the water. “Are you not cold?”

  She was hot as the sun.

  Something gleamed in his eyes. Something like pleasure. “This is a beautiful lake, lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is it big enough for two?”

  Like that, cold seemed no longer an option, possibly ever.

  Yes. Please.

  He heard the answer and stood, reaching for the belt that held his short swords.

  Her breath grew shallow, but she did not turn away. He was silent for a moment, and then, as though they were a long-matched set, he said casually, “Do you not wish to ask me a question?”

  “I do not,” she said, and it was true. There was a playfulness in the moment, and she did not wish it to disappear. Especially not as he shrugged out of the leather baldric holding his knives.

  His shirt sailed over his head as though it had a thousand times before—as though he had not left this place months earlier vowing to vanquish her enemies. Vowing to take their heads. Vowing to return with the swords that brought her shame.

  Her gaze tracked over the wide bronze planes of his chest, the dust of hair, the flat copper nipples like coins—a reminder that he was too dear a cost for a bladesmith at the end of the earth. That he was minted for more than this.

  And then she saw the ink high on one muscle.

  The plump head of the thistle and below, the thorn.

  As though he were her blade, forged in her fire.

  Her eyes flew to his—those eyes that also seemed too expensive. “You bear my mark.”

  “In more ways than one.” Another riddle. “Ask me the question.”

  “I already know the answer. You return with them.”

  A shadow passed overhead. A bird in the sunlight. A half-there cloud. And then the warrior inclined his head. It might well have been a genuflection for the grace of it. The gift of it. “I do.”

  It was done.

  Four swords from the four most evil men she’d ever met.

  Four swords she wished she had never made.

  Four swords that protected her village and destroyed how many others?

  Four swords that would never harm again.

  She lifted her chin. “I am not sorry for it.” Indeed, she would have liked to have delivered the blows.

  “Of course you are not.” A half smile. “You thank the heavens I live.”

  She raised a brow. “Do I?”

  A little gruff grunt of laughter as he sat on a large flat stone on the bank of the lake and removed his boots, one at a time, the muscles of his arms straining with the work.

  For a wild moment, she thought to help and then decided she preferred to watch.

  For a wild moment, she thought he might prefer she watch as well, as she drank him in. Finally, she said, “How did you find me?” The lake was far enough from the cottage that no one ever came looking for her here.

  “I have seen you here,” he said simply.

  Another riddle. The last time he’d come, it was autumn, and too cold for the lake.

  Before she could press him for more, he said, “What is your name?”

  The question startled her. Was there anyone left who knew the answer?

  And did she wish him to be the one? To hold sway over her?

  Did she wish to hold sway over him?

  “Orsa.” It was out before she could decide.

  He stilled, his hands at the laces of his braies. “I am Bruin.”

  “You say you have seen me here, warrior.”

  Those eyes darkened. “And I have, lady.”

  Had she ever been called such? “In your dreams?”

  “Something of the sort.”

  “And in those dreams, were you here with me?”

  His fingers worked at his laces, quick now. Sure. Leaving his trousers on the shore, he entered the water without pause, pure grace. Unashamed of his nakedness, heavy and perfect.

  He had no reason fo
r shame. She watched as he came for her, reading his skin, myriad scars, white and raised like roads cut through the land, paths well traveled. A long scar down one side, the mark of a short sword. At one strong thigh, a wild crisscross that only one with vast knowledge of weapons would know had come from a mace.

  Each healed, the scars left behind knitted firm and making him stronger. More powerful.

  “Do you imagine you see those dreams, lady?” he said, the words low and soft, carrying an impossible distance across the sheer surface of the lake.

  “I, too, have had dreams.” For months she’d woken to them, aching for his nearness. For his touch.

  When the water reached his waist, he dove in, surfacing mere feet from her, hands running over his face, clearing it of the dust, of the days’ ride, of the battles he had fought and won.

  For her.

  Her heart pounded as he revealed the clean, square, sharp angles of his face, his full lips, and those eyes that saw everything. More than it.

  And then he was there, inches from her, his fingers reaching for her, sliding over her cheek, cool and hot all at once. “What do you dream?”

  I dream of you.

  “Shall I tell you of mine?” he asked before she could reply. “I dream of you. Like this. My lady in this lake, with the sun beating down. With the moon gleaming on your skin, turning you silver, making you one with the water. I have seen you here a thousand times. Every night since the night I lifted the second of your swords. I see you in this place with your white wolf sentry on the bank. I see you now. In this moment, with my hand on your skin and your black gaze on mine.”

  Her breath came fast as he closed the distance between them, blocking out everything but the feel of him, the quiet lap of the water shifting between them, holding his heat at bay.

  “And I cannot sleep for it,” he whispered, leaning closer. “I cannot think for seeing you here, tall and strong and full of steel. Do you see it, too?”

  She did. She nodded, and he stroked down, over the column of her neck, down farther, over smooth, sun-kissed skin and beneath the water, where the backs of his fingers teased at the straining tips of her breasts.

  “Do you see that I have gone mad from the sight of you, in this lake, at your forge, in the door, waiting for me…every night for months? From the sound of you, rich and beautiful? From the scent of you, like heather and flame? A scent that is no longer a vision, no longer a memory, but real?”

  It wasn’t possible.

  And still, she saw the wildness in his gaze. Saw the pulse pounding at the base of his neck. Heard the truth in the words.

  He was so close—she ached from his nearness.

  And then he was closer, his lips nearly on hers. His breath sweet against her skin, a whisper of sensation as he asked, “Do you see that I am mad from the wondering…will you taste of the dreams, too?”

  Would he?

  Yes.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  He stopped, so close, and achingly not close enough.

  “Don’t,” she said again, pained.

  No kissing.

  He didn’t hesitate, his fingers coming to her cheek. “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?” Her neck.

  “Yes.”

  Lower, to the straining tip he’d abandoned. “Here?”

  Yes.

  His massive thigh fit between hers, lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, and he lowered his lips to her breast. She gasped, her fingers sliding into his hair, wet from the lake, holding him to her. Claiming her pleasure. Claiming him.

  Without stopping his caress, he carried her to the large flat rock that jutted into the lake and set her down, the warm red sandstone at her back and the cool water at her feet as he reveled in her bare body.

  As she reveled in his inspection. His want.

  His need, hard and unmistakable.

  One enormous hand spread over her torso, pressing her into the smooth stone, grounding her pleasure as he traced the curves and valleys of her body. “Here?” he whispered at the soft swell of her belly.

  Her fingers in his hair answered, urging him on, his tongue swirling over her skin. Lower, lower, magnificently lower, until he parted her thighs and one finger slid through her like a promise. “Here.”

  It was no longer a question.

  He no longer required answers.

  “I dreamed of this,” he whispered, and then his mouth was on her, warm and lush, pure pleasure that eased over her like waves. Her fingers tightened, the sting of her grasp a gift. Her hips tilted, working against him until she gasped and sighed and bowed off the stone, unable to control the shattering release he gave her.

  And only when that was done and she’d released him from his purpose did he rise up over her, placing a line of sinful kisses across her skin, warmed from sun and stone and sex. He did not try to claim her mouth this time. Instead, he settled himself between her wide, welcoming thighs and looked deep into her eyes.

  “I dreamed of this.” Those words again, shattering through her. Impossible and somehow true.

  “And what happened after?” she whispered.

  “After…” He paused, and she saw the truth in his gaze—pure need, matched, instantly, in her own.

  He saw the shift, felt it as he slid home, heavy and thick and hot inside her, stretching her to magnificent fullness, deep, deeper, until she could not remember what it was to have him away. And what should have brought her fear and uncertainty instead brought her comfort. And pleasure.

  Wild, unbridled pleasure as he met her movements, lifting and rocking and thrusting, his hand sliding between them to stroke at the very heart of her need, feeding it until she gasped and sighed to the sun and sky and he growled his reply.

  When they returned to the moment, he gathered her into his arms and reversed their positions, taking the hard stone at his back and leaving her cushioned on his chest, his heart pounding a chaotic rhythm beneath her ear.

  He spoke, the words a low, delicious rumble. “I did not dream that. That was too good even for dreams.”

  She smiled, feeling lighter than she had in a lifetime, her fingers stroking over his chest, to the place where her mark was inked on his skin. She lingered there, tracing the pattern of the thistle, as familiar as her name, as the lake, as the feel of a hammer in hand. “When did you get this?”

  He replied to the trees above. “A lifetime ago. Long before I discovered your blade.”

  Impossible.

  She lifted her head, but he was already adding, “A soothsayer in the south inked me with it. Spun me a tale of the thorn and thistle—two halves of a world at war, finally, together in peace.” He looked to her. “Promised me that one day, I would find the one who would knit them together.”

  She caught her breath. “It is my mark. The thistle.”

  He nodded. “But on the blades I collected for you, the thorn.”

  She returned her cheek to his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath her, the opposite of her wild thoughts.

  His touch trailed over her shoulder and along her side to her hip, where his massive hand settled, holding her tight to him. “I wish I could have brought you their heads along with their blades.”

  She shouldn’t have smiled, but she did, warm with the knowledge that he fought for her—which none had ever done before. “I do not wish their heads.”

  “What, then?”

  I wish you. She did not say the words, too afraid of what they meant.

  He did not push her. Or perhaps he did. “In the village, they say you are cursed.”

  “Not cursed,” she replied. “A curse.”

  “They say you stay away.”

  “They fear me,” she whisper
ed.

  “Why?” His fingers did not slow, continuing their path up and down her skin. A fleeting comfort.

  “They think I am poison. They think I will doom them all.”

  A cool breeze broke the heavy heat. “They do not know the truth.”

  She lifted her head. Met his gaze, green and gold, like summer. “What truth?”

  “They do not know that you saved them from the real curse.”

  Four men in her cottage. Brothers. Beasts.

  Banished from the village by the Bladesmith Witch.

  “They do not.”

  His hand slid into the thick fall of her hair, half damp from the lake. “Kiss me now.”

  She wanted to. She’d never wanted anything so much.

  “You are not the wound,” he said, holding her gaze. Refusing to let her hide. “You are the balm.”

  She wanted that, too.

  Instead, she slid away from him, off the rock, stretching in the sunlight, unmoved by her own nudity even as his beautiful, unwavering gaze tracked every inch of her.

  He took pleasure in her.

  And she took pleasure in that.

  “Come, then, warrior,” she said finally. “Your blade awaits.”

  V

  Inside the cottage, the wolf stretched across the threshold like a warning, she fetched the blade from its place, gleaming sharp and stunning in the afternoon light, streaming in through the windows set high up on the walls.

  She turned with it in hand, holding it reverently, the steel perfectly honed, the hilt inlaid with obsidian and gold. He watched her carry it to the fire with a similar reverence, and they both felt the weight of the act.

  As the sword warmed, she spoke, not to her warrior, but to her fire. “My father—and his father before him—loved to tell me that this forge had made the blades of kings and queens. That those who rode into battle under the banner of justice and changed the course of history did so with our steel at their side.” She hesitated. “But no king came when famine took my grandfather’s village. No king came when plague took my father’s. Their finest blades went unclaimed.”

  He spoke her name low like the rumble of the forge.