She had made clear her intention to run away again. He knew now she did not speak in vain. He would need to ensure her captivity until they reached the shoreline and his longship. She would hate him for it, but what choice did he have? She was his only chance at buying his country peace, at saving his land and his people. Svagnar had set fire to too many funerary pyres. The ashes of too many men and women had been swept out to sea by the wind, too many bodies given to the gods of death and war. This was a bloodless resolution, even if it cost the young princess her freedom.
He would have to wait for her recovery before journeying on. She might die still, he could see it in her blood-drained lips and hear it in the death-rattle of her breath labouring through her chest. But Svagnar had not taken her to watch her die. He would wrench her from the jaws of death if he must.
On the first day, he tended to her wounds and let her sleep. On the second day, when her fever was at its fiercest, she writhed and gasped in the throes of it, gripped by visions. Svagnar crouched by the fire and watched with knitted brow as she tossed and turned and mumbled more nonsense about dying on a sword.
Later, she was calmer, her face pushed into his furs, breathing in little pants and moans, and she spoke of a man, a knight. He listened carefully, intrigued, his head tilted to hear her over the crackling of the fire.
“A good and honourable man,” she slurred. “Knight of the realm. Not like him.”
She muttered this repeatedly, then finally fell into a sleep so profound he feared that she might have died.
The third day, she was more lucid, but she sweated abundantly, drenching his tunic, her hair plastered to her forehead. He left briefly to fetch more kindling to feed the fire, hoping the fever would burn itself out inside her. He brought water to her lips, making sure she drank every drop, and wiped the sweat from her brow, her neck and her throat.
That night, he barely slept at all, despite trying. The girl slumbered fitfully at his side, trembling and shifting restlessly. At one point, Svagnar awoke to find that her tunic had hitched up and tangled itself around her waist. She lay on her side, her head tucked into her arms, her round buttocks and snow-white thighs exposed to him in an alluringly innocent way. Svagnar swallowed hard as he spotted, on one of her thighs, a large, fading bruise, violet and blue. The sight of it, the flaw on the alabaster flesh, sent a hot, rough arousal straight through him, making him painfully hard.
What kind of animal was he, to be so furiously hard when she lay in the throes of her fever? Oh, but her wet hair plastered to her neck, her dark eyebrows pulled into a frown even in the depth of her sleep, her long legs with their incongruous bruising… he could barely bear to look at her without wanting to pull her against him, to spread her pale thighs, to thrust himself into her. Her limbs underneath his loose tunic were long and slim, unexpectedly muscled. She drew from him not just lust but a lustful fascination. He longed not only to have her - he longed to know her.
Careful to not disturb the sleep she sorely needed, he pulled the hem of her tunic down from around her waist, covering her tempting arse before it sent him over the edge. Turning away, he stared into the fire, trying to will away the painful arousal between his legs. If he was to have her, it could not be like this, when she was sick and fragile. If he was to have her, she would be ready and willing, her proud eyes burning with desire, her slim body writhing over him, her dark hair thrown back like a banner in the wind. Svagnar groaned, and when sleep eventually found him, he was harder than ever.
The next day she was much better. She sat up and looked around, taking her surroundings in for the first time. Her eyes were still dark and glittering with the heat of her fever but she ate all the food he gave her heartily, tearing into the dried meat and bread. She ate fast and breathlessly, betraying her hunger. She even thanked him, and when he handed her his flask she drained it to the last drop, drawing a glare from him.
They were running low on supplies, between what she had stolen and what he had used up during the days spent searching for her. They should already be at the shore by now. So once he was satisfied that she was feeling better, he tossed her the clothes he had peeled off her and dried over the fire the past few days.
“Get dressed, hellhound,” he commanded. “Your foolishness had cost us enough time already.”
“Go outside while I dress, then.”
He barked out a burst of incredulous laughter: “I think not. You’ve lost the privilege of my trust. Now get dressed, or I will drag my clothes off you myself.”
She threw him a baleful look that reminded him of her promise to stick a knife in him. He believed in her threat more than ever. The ridiculous hellkite had the mettle required for such an act - that much was clear. She turned around and dressed in the most modest way she could, pulling her under-trousers on first, then the under-shirt. Once she was done, she put his tunic back on and he raised an eyebrow:
“Give me my clothes back.”
“Pray, do not be a tyrant,” she said reasonably. “It’s too cold out there. I’ll catch my death.”
“Aye, you’ll catch your death at my hands for being an infernal nuisance! Maybe it was my sword your witch saw in your future.”
“You don’t have a sword,” she retorted coolly, pointing her chin at the axe strapped to his side.
“Not one you can see,” he said darkly.
That shut her up, and he watched with satisfaction as a blush smeared itself on her pale cheeks. If this made her blush, he wondered what she would make of the thoughts that haunted him at night, the way he undressed her in his mind’s eye and pinned her down to sheath himself fully into her. He imagined how fierce she would be, how she would strive for dominance and how he would revel in the strength of her, making her squirm beneath him.
Svagnar banished the thoughts lest he should blush too. They had a long journey ahead of them; he could not let himself be undone so early on by things that were only real in his mind. He broke camp, packing the furs on his horse’s back, patting its neck.
Artor was his favourite stallion, and Svagnar was glad he had brought him along on his journey. The pale beast had ridden hard, and would not get much rest now until they reached the shore. He would feed him like a king once he returned to his castle at Fjersfell.
When he was ready to set off, Svagnar took a length of rope from his pack and turned towards the princess. She was waiting placidly by the remains of their fire. Her hands hovered close to the embers, no doubt trying to capture as much heat as possible before the icy journey ahead.
She looked up when he approached and he saw the exact moment she spotted the rope. Her eyes went wide, blue as night skies, and she stumbled back. He stopped, tilted his head in warning. She scrambled to her feet. He bent his knees, ready.
She dashed across the barn, sending hay flying, and Svagnar sprang into motion. She headed towards the hole in the barn wall. Before she could even get past the derelict stalls, Svagnar was on her, catching her by the waist and sending them both crashing onto the floor. She landed with a gasp, the air knocked from her lungs. She squirmed, freeing one arm, and raised it to strike him. He caught her wrist and pinned it back to the floor.
Grunts of exertion filled the barn as she writhed and bucked her hips. Svagnar's weight had settled between her legs, his hips pinning hers. He knew he was too heavy for her - surely she must have known it too - and yet she fought on, desperately trying to wriggle from his grasp. Svagnar observed how flushed her cheeks became, how her hair whipped across her face, how her lips parted over each harsh intake of breath. Her body squirmed beneath him, the friction of it less exciting than the excitement of overpowering her, holding her close, dominating her with his strength.
A slow, pulsing arousal filled Svagnar, and a moment later, the girl froze completely. She looked up at him with wild eyes: in truth, her struggle had made her look as though she had just been fucked in the hay. She braced her hands against his shoulders in a fruitless attempt to push him off, her hips gro
wing completely still beneath his.
“You-” she seemed to be unable to even utter her thoughts. “You - you beast! You barbarian! Get off me this instant!”
“No,” he said placidly. “If I let you go, you will run away.”
“But you’re- but I can feel your manhood!”
The urge to laugh was so ferocious that Svagnar had to bite down to stop himself. She looked utterly outraged, as though he had threatened to take her right there in the hay.
“Aye, what do you expect?” he retorted. “You’re squirming around like the best harem dancer in Lazulai.”
She hit his arm hard: “You’re an animal! Release me now!”
He could see that she desperately wanted to struggle, though she exercised great willpower to stop from doing so. He was not surprised at her shock and alarm - he was ferociously aroused, and his position between her legs, suggestive of more lascivious acts, was only making his predicament worse.
“I will release you, but first I must tie you up.”
“No!” she shoved his chest, pushing with all her might. “I will not be - I will not! Don’t you dare!”
“Hellhound, cease your hollering! You’ve brought this upon yourself, running off in the night, straight into the maw of the storm. I must tie you up if only to protect you from yourself.”
Bracing his body against hers to keep her pinned, he grabbed her wrists and pulled them over her head. As he leaned down to tie them, he felt her small, high breasts against his chest, pushed there by the force of her breath as she struggled to break free. She was sorely testing the strength of his resolve. He gritted his teeth and bound her arms, taking great pains to ensure the knots were completely secured.
Once the deed was done she stopped struggling, and he lifted his weight off her, standing up and pulling her with him by the rope between her wrists. Her hair was in disarray, long dark strands scattered with straw. Her blue eyes were as cold as the Arkavik sky before a blizzard.
“Mark my words,” she said, her voice low and earnest, startling him. “For as long as I live I will not rest until I am avenged for this.”
He laughed openly, his head thrown back. What a creature she was, this strange princess. She was being utterly sincere, and Svagnar found himself endeared by her solemn vow. Picking her up, he propped her onto Artor.
“I’ll sleep with one eye open for the rest of my life,” he said sardonically, hopping on after her.
“For what’s left of it…” she murmured darkly.
They set off from the barn. Outside, much of the storm had passed, and the sky on the horizon had cleared, patches of blue appearing underneath fortresses of clouds. It had stopped raining, but the wind was relentlessly cold, whipping them as they rode through hills and moorland.
The princess held her silence as she had when he had first taken her from her tent, earnest and motionless. She had painstakingly pulled her hair back into its severe plait, and looked the very image of saintly propriety, sat there rigidly in front of him.
Later in the afternoon, he felt her shivering violently, even though he had let her keep his tunic. Still, she made no complaint or demand - she merely suffered in silence. Taking pity on the stubborn creature, he lifted his furs and pulled her in, wrapping his arms about her, engulfing her in the heat of his body. She made no comment but stayed there, blotted against his chest.He was reminded of a small woodland creature, her inquisitive head moving underneath his chin to observe the surrounding landscape.
Near dusk, Svagnar stopped by a tree to relieve himself and eat. A sip of his flask would have warmed his veins nicely, but that infernal bride of his had finished every drop. He reached into his satchel, looking for something to eat when a sound stayed his movement. It was the battering of hooves upon the ground
He looked up at the princess who still straddled Artos. Her eyes widened as she listened to the sound getting closer. Svagnar lifted his finger to his lips. She smiled at him - a beautiful smile he had not imagined could form on such a severe face - and opened her mouth wide.
Her scream was loud and clear, and she screamed for as long as it took Svagnar to drag her off his horse and slam his hand over her mouth, pinning her head against his shoulder. She pulled at his forearm with her bound hands, but he held her firm. The beating of the hooves grew closer.
She raised her leg and kicked him right in the knee. He wore no greaves when he rode, preferring leather leggings, and her heel collided right against the bone. It did not hurt him so much as surprise him, and he stumbled for a second. Pushing her advantage, she sank back against him, trying to throw him off balance. He took a steadying step, but she dug both heels into the ground and shoved back.
They fell with a simultaneous groan, but he held her mouth firmly covered still. He could tell her fury was growing; she fought against him with all her might as he struggled to keep her clasped in his arms. The beating of the hooves slowed and grew so close that they could hear the jingling of harnesses.
“Aye and a great jarl he is, wrestling in the mud with his abducted bride,” a voice said, amusement dripping from each syllable.
Svagnar looked up, and a grin broke his face.
“Gunnar, you whoreson! What in the name of all the gods are you doing here?”
He leapt to his feet, dragging the princess with him. Gunnar and Eirik sat upon their horses, looking down with grins to match his. They were both his cousins, vikingr warriors and two of the best members of his Jarlsguard. Slipping from their horses, they greeted Svagnar with hard hugs and claps on the back.
“What brings you here?” he asked, looking between them both.
They both looked much worse than when he had last seen them. Mud and blood both spattered Gunnar’s rugged features, and Eirik’s thigh was wrapped in gore-soaked bandages, a deep gash in his head. They were two of his most trusted guards, and he had sent them on the important mission of taking back a guard and the princess’s lady-in-waiting to King Owayn with news of his daughter’s abduction. Svagnar had hoped to be well on his way to Arkavik by then. His carefully laid plan had not gone as expected.
“We were set upon by a group of Veritian soldiers - a patrol guard,” Gunnar said. “We were much closer to the Karschan border than we expected. They didn’t seem to be looking for us, but they found us. They outnumbered us ten to one. We fought fiercely, but they soon had the advantage over us.”
Svagnar felt something pull on his shoulder and looked down. The Veritian princess was pushing past him, facing Gunnar, asking imperiously:
“What of my lady-in-waiting? My guard?”
Gunnar cast a look of surprise at her. He probably had not expected her concern, as shocked as Svagnar had been on the night he met her. Nevertheless, Gunnar answered her, addressing Svagnar too.
“Eirik was injured, and we retreated. We had to leave the servant girl and the soldiers behind.” He turned back to Svagnar and added with a shrug: “She was only a servant. There was no point risking our lives to keep her and the gua-”
A flash of movement interrupted him. The Veritian princess threw herself upon Gunnar like a hellhound upon the soul of an unfortunate sinner. She was small compared to him, but she gripped the collar of his chain mail and yelled: “She’s not just a servant! She's a - a person, you oaf! How dare you! Do you even know if she’s alive?”
Gunnar stood frozen in shock as Svagnar dragged her off him. Her eyes were wild and glinting with tears. She breathed hard, her fury fuelled by a terror so extreme she shook in his arms as he pulled her away from Gunnar.
“She is a person, not a thing! You animal! My guards were good people, they didn’t deserve this, they-” she stopped, steeling herself, swallowing her anger. “Were they alive when you left them? What happened to them?”
Before Gunnar could respond, she turned to Svagnar, seething: “I went with you as I promised, I kept my word - I begged you not to kill them!”
She looked at him with real sorrow in her eyes, the sort of sorrow he had k
nown when he had buried his own father, the sorrow he had seen the eyes of the mothers and wives of fallen vikingr, the sorrow in Lief’s eyes when his young son had died from a fever. The raw, hard sorrow of losing something terribly precious.
Svagnar gripped her by her shoulders and said: “Listen to me, hellhound… Adrienna.” Her name tasted strange in his mouth, delicate in a way she wasn’t. “I gave my men no order to kill your people. This isn’t a mission of massacre or vengeance. We are here to bring peace to our country, not start the war anew, do you understand?”
She wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her bound hands, glaring at him.
“Now - Gunnar was beset by Veritian men. Your people. So unless your own men hurt your servant, you’ve nothing to concern yourself about.”
Gunnar and Eirik watched as Svagnar calmed the girl down, exchanging a look. Svagnar had a feeling they would mention this later, but for now, there was no time. Setting the princess back on the horse, he turned to them.
“You’ve done well, brothers. We’ve fallen behind, but we’re close to the shore. I suggest we ride through the night.”
The men nodded, and Gunnar helped Eirik back onto his saddle before climbing into his.
“Eirik, will you be able to withstand the ride?” asked Svagnar.
Eirik gave a curt nod. He was pale, his lips ashen, his eyes drawn. He must have lost a lot of blood, but Svagnar had watched Eirik survive battles as though the god of war himself laughed behind his eyes. A blessing of survival had been bestowed upon his cousin - it was why they called him Eirik Without-Death. His shorn hair was crusted with his own blood, and yet he was the first to resume the ride.
Svagnar climbed on behind the princess. She seemed to have fallen into deep, troubled thoughts. A part of Svagnar wanted to ask her about her thoughts, to comfort her when she seemed so troubled. But she was not his to comfort; he must remember that.
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