“But now isn't the time,” Frida said grimly, shaking her head. She should have known it wouldn't be so easy. “We've already lost one day due to my...” She shook her head again. “We just don't have any more time to lose. And don't think I don't know that your poking around in my head could make matters worse.”
“That is, unfortunately, true,” Brynarr conceded. He gave Frida a serious look. “Of course, I'm not saying that it wouldn't be a good idea. I still believe that you with your magic could be the key to winning this war. Before we get too far south...”
Frida nodded grimly. “Before we get too far south,” she agreed. “But we still have a ways to go yet.”
Brynarr reached up a hand to brush back some of her hair, his expression gentle. “How are you feeling, though? I won't lie, it was a little alarming, seeing you this morning.”
Frida blushed, imagining how she must have looked. Probably like the weak female he had once pretended she was. “I'm all right,” she said, even though she still felt a little off. She wanted nothing more, at the moment, than to bring Brynarr back to their tent and cuddle into his arms—but she wasn't sure where that sentiment was coming from.
“You still look a little pale,” Brynarr told her, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Perhaps we should get some food into you.”
“That's probably a good idea,” Frida admitted, the medic side of her taking over. She shook her head. “I should be fine, though. It was a bit of a surprise—usually I only have visions in my dreams, not when I'm awake like that. But I should be fine.”
“Good,” Brynarr said. He led her towards the mess tent and got her seated there; then, he went to grab food for both of them. He returned with two bowls of stew and a couple of lumps of hard bread. “Here,” he said, handing half the food to Frida.
“Thanks,” Frida said.
“I expect your visions will get worse, the closer we get to the Borderlands,” Brynarr mused as they ate. “I suspect that in some ways, they're tied to the energy of the world around you. Today, the place where we were planning to spar was rife with energy. I should have picked a different location, but I didn't realize it would affect you so badly. But of course, you have energy of your own, and you have no way to shield yourself against the energy in the world.”
Frida munched on her food, thinking that over. She didn't really want to tell Brynarr about the vision, so she definitely wasn't going to tell him her personal theory about what had triggered it. Because for all that the vision had been confusing and out-of-context, she still remembered that it had started off with the woman, Eir, thinking that Brynarr had called her there to spar with naked blades—and wasn't that exactly what Brynarr had called her there for that morning?
It seemed that her vision was caused by a strange alignment between the vision and her current state of being.
“You look like you're thinking of something important,” Brynarr said, glancing at her face.
Frida shook her head. “It's nothing,” she said. When he didn't look convinced—when it looked as though he would press her further—she shook her head again. “I have a bit of a headache,” she lied. “I'm sure it has to do with the vision and the energy of the world around me and all of that.” She gave him a hint of a smile.
Brynarr continued to give her a sober look, though. “That's not surprising,” he agreed. “But I want you back into bed once you've eaten, is that clear?”
“Only if you join me,” Frida blurted out.
Brynarr raised an eyebrow at her and then shrugged. “If you wish it,” he said nonchalantly. But Frida could tell from the look on his face that he felt as though he had won some sort of victory with that.
And she supposed that was true in some ways. She wasn't sure where her shyness had gone or why she was suddenly so infatuated with the man, but she was quickly growing used to sharing a bed with him—to the point where waking up without him that evening had been disorienting and, if she was being honest, disappointing.
She shook her head, willing those thoughts away.
When they'd finished eating, Brynarr took care of cleaning their bowls and spoons and then came back over to her, offering her a hand up, which she gladly took. Her legs were still feeling a little unsteady, and she was glad to be heading back to sleep. Hopefully she'd feel better by the next morning. She wasn't entirely sure what was wrong with her—a vision had never affected her like this before—but she was relieved that Brynarr seemed to also think that this was just symptomatic of her vision.
In their tent, she glanced nervously over at Brynarr before slowly beginning to undress, not leaving anything on.
Brynarr gaped at her and then shook his head, raising an eyebrow at her. “Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?” he asked.
Frida shrugged a little. “Depends on what you think I'm suggesting,” she said coyly, lying down on the bed—but staying outside the covers, so that he could see her curves laid out along the sheets.
Brynarr grinned at her and began removing his own clothes, with much more obvious impatience than Frida had shown. Finally, he lay down on top of her, his warm weight draped over the entirety of her body.
Frida couldn't help sighing as her body relaxed a little at the familiar weight and the comforting touch of skin-on-skin. She sighed again as Brynarr began to stroke his hands down her body, touching her in all the right places.
Soon, he replaced his fingers with his tongue—kissing and sucking and licking his way down her body as though she were a special treat to devour. And she realized that somewhere in the back of her mind, she wanted him to devour her, wanted to experience that rough, carnal sex that came strictly from desperate need.
She trembled against him and watched him smile against the inside of her upper thigh. Slowly, his tongue flicked at the mound between her legs, quickly finding the spots that made her whimper with need.
He didn't tease her for long, though. Instead, in almost no time, he was giving his member a few rough strokes and lining the head up against her entrance. “Is this okay?” he asked, even though Frida kind of got the sense that he wouldn't stop now even if she asked him to. And she supposed that was fair enough, with how turned on he clearly was at the moment.
She smiled up at him, wanting to convey with more than words how utterly okay this was. She settled for kissing him, using every single one of her tricks in an attempt to get him to respond with whimpers and groans of his own. She bit at his lips, sucked at his tongue, created the perfect friction against every bit of his mouth.
He thrust inside of her in one smooth, fluid motion that had her practically keening as she writhed against the sheets. There, he paused for a long moment, clearly giving her a chance to adjust to his girth. And although she appreciated that, she still needed more, so before she could even breathe well enough to speak again, to beg him for more—she twisted the sheets into her fingers and used that grip to give her purchase, moving her hips down and then sliding back off his prick again. She repeated this a few times before he started to move as well.
Soon, they were moving against one another in perfect unison, both a mess of whimpers and desperate pleas. As they both neared their climax, Frida suddenly realized that she could see little flickers of magic all around them. At first, she thought that they must be sparks caused by either her out-of-control magic or by Brynarr's magic charged with excess energy.
But then, she realized that with the way the magic was flowing all around them, this looked like the way she imagined Brynarr saw the world, with pools of energy all over the place.
Before she could examine the idea too closely, though—and certainly before she was fully able to get a glimpse of the beautiful, shining world around her—everything flickered one last time and faded as she fell through her orgasm, shuddering and writhing against the sheets.
Her climax was enough to bring Brynarr over as well, and he shot his seed into her needy cleft—wave after wave of pleasure that only ebbed as Frida'
s walls stopped quivering.
They lay there for a moment in utter silence, each listening to the other person's heartbeat. Finally, Brynarr shifted them so that they were lying on their sides, with Brynarr at Frida's back.
He gently kissed her shoulder blade. “That was incredible,” he told her, almost purring with pleasure.
Frida laughed a little. “Yeah, it was, wasn't it?” She smiled over at him and then cuddled against his chest. “Thank you,” she murmured, even though she wasn't really sure what she was thanking the man for. But before she could elaborate, her eyes had slipped shut.
Chapter 8
Frida surveyed the men spread out in front of her, a small frown on her face. “If we're going to march these men into battle, we need to do some work with them,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I mean, it's good that they seem to understand how to work together to set a camp—but that's only a very small part in the sort of teamwork that they'll have to do. They have to understand how to march together, how to fight alongside one another, how to–”
“I know what goes on in battle,” Brynarr said, cutting her off with a raised hand.
Frida rolled her eyes a little. “Well, then, what's your plan for making them into a cohesive army?” she challenged. “They don't even all speak the same language—sure, they all speak at least rudimentary Imperial Tongue, but they all have their different dialects. And trades. And traditions. And families.”
“But they all want the same thing,” Brynarr argued, shrugging a little. “None of them would be here if they didn't think that this was the best way to support and protect their families. They have enough in common.”
“That's not going to make them a cohesive fighting unit,” Frida said, shaking her head. “What happens when armies appear on the horizon? What happens when people start dying? Many of these people have never left their homes before—they don't want to die on some foreign soil without their families ever knowing what happened to them. We need to make sure–”
“You seem to know a lot about battle for a woman,” someone interrupted, coming up behind the two of them, and Frida jumped a little, not having heard the man approach.
She recognized the man, although she didn't know his name. Where most of the soldiers—and would-be soldiers, as the case sometimes was—had been picked up from villages along the way, this man had encountered them along the road and had come along with them. There was something about him that instantly made Frida wary of him—but Brynarr didn't appear to have the same reservations.
He was older, a tall and grey-haired man with a long beard and a wrinkled face. But he could keep up with the army, and she didn't doubt that he knew how to use the long sword that hung at his side. He wore a dark cloak that swirled down around his ankles as he walked, and his hands were usually hidden inside of the cloak. He carried a tall staff and reminded her of drawings she had seen of wizards when she was a child.
But Brynarr would undoubtedly have said something if he thought that this man was a sorcerer—if not to the army itself, then certainly to Frida. Whoever the man was, she was sure he just wore this outfit so as to seem more intimidating to highway robbers and other ne'er-do-wells.
Frida held out her hand to the man. “I am Frida Grimsdottir,” she said. “And this is–”
“I know who you are,” the man said, eyeing her closely. He didn't offer his own name, though.
Frida frowned at him. “Who are you?” she asked. “And what business do you have here?”
“The same business as yours,” the man said, shrugging a little. “My name is Perig. And I believe that I might be able to help solve your problem of getting the men to fight together.”
“Oh, really?” Frida asked, raising an eyebrow at the man. Although she didn't doubt that he could use the sword at his side, she did have some doubts about his ability to keep up with the younger men in the troop. And the idea of having this old man train the army? Well, that was just absurd.
“What do you know about military training?” Brynarr asked, eyeing the man with interest.
Perig shrugged, his eyes still on Frida. “I was one of the chief swordsmen to King Varg for three decades,” he said. “I believe I learned a trick or two during that time—but that is for you to judge, I suppose.”
Brynarr and Frida were both silent for a long moment, staring at the man consideringly. It was Frida who finally broke the silence. “What does King Varg have to say about the whole war?” she said, unable to keep the scorn from her voice. “In all of this, he has remained silent, with his soldiers kept firmly behind his walls. What right does he have to call this his kingdom, when he has left the rest of us out to die at the hands of these sorcerers from the Borderlands?”
Perig smiled a little, clearly amused by her outburst. “King Varg doesn't have the men to fight off the sorcerers,” he said, a little sadly. “Nor did he have much luck rounding up soldiers from the towns near him to join the fight.” He gave Brynarr a piercing look. “You must be most persuasive, my Lord Brynarr.”
Frida snorted. “Don't call him that; it'll make him big in the head. Besides, he's no lord.”
“Is he not?” Perig said, giving her a strange look.
And Frida suddenly realized that she didn't know. For all the questions that she had been accumulating, it seemed that whenever she had a chance to actually ask them, they flew from her head. She still knew precious little about the man she was traveling with, except that he had come from the south and was a sorcerer himself.
And when she really thought about it, that alone should have been enough to have alarm bells ringing in the back of her head.
But she shook her head, clearing it of those thoughts. “What would you wish to do with the men?” she asked Perig. “What would be your course of action to make certain that they were ready for battle?”
Perig shrugged a little, turning his gaze away from Frida finally and looking down over the encampment of men. “It would be the same as in any sort of military service,” he said. “They will need to drill. And drill. And drill some more. It's only through practice that they will be ready for battle.” He glanced over at Brynarr. “We ought to break them up into regiments based on their ability—a healthy mix of seasoned veterans and green recruits in each regiment. And then, we will train them.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Frida agreed, nodding her head.
Brynarr was frowning, though. “And who is it that will lead these trainings—you?” he asked, scorn in his voice. “These are my men. I was the one who brought them along with us. I will be the one to lead them into battle.”
Perig raised an eyebrow at him, but his expression and tone remained mild. “I would have expected nothing less from you, my lord,” he said. “However, if you don't begin training them soon, you may find that the battle is upon you before your men are ready. And we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?”
He said it almost like a threat, and when Frida looked over at Brynarr, she thought the man was about to attack Perig. She placed a hand lightly on his arm, trying to calm him down—and somehow, it seemed to work.
Brynarr sighed a little and looked out over the men, away from Perig. “Very well,” he said finally. “I will entrust their training to you, as I continue to recruit more soldiers. But should you fail in your duty...” The threat hung in the air between the three of them, and Frida could sense that Brynarr really meant it—despite Perig's age and the odd mismatch of their so-called soldiers. She wanted to protest, but she sensed that now wasn't the time, especially not when they had an audience. She would give Brynarr time to calm down and then gently remind him that…
But no, of course Brynarr would do the man no harm. He likely just wanted to impress upon Perig the importance of his task, as though the sword-master might somehow not already know this.
“Frida will, of course, help me out with all of this,” Perig said, looking over at the woman. “She appears to have a keen eye for battle strategy, amon
gst other things. Besides, I will need someone's help in sorting out who belongs in which regiment, and I assume that you will be busy with your recruitment process, my lord.”
Brynarr looked like he wanted to protest at that, but there was really nothing that he could say: Perig's reasons were sound. Besides, Frida was going stir-crazy in the camp with nothing to do anyways. It would be good to have a project to divert her attention while Brynarr worked to drum up as many soldiers as he could.
She smiled a little, looking out over their army. They had a lot to do, but she was already excited to get started.
Chapter 9
Brynarr was agitated when Frida got back to their room that night. They were lucky enough to be staying in an actual town for the night. The majority of the army would, of course, still be camped outside the walls of Gotahval, but they were still happy to be able to while away the evening in the bars and brothels.
Frida had been out with a few of the men, having drinks and talking strategy. They still had a long way to come before the army would be anywhere near ready—but Perig was definitely helping things take shape the way she wanted them to. She only wished she had more training—that she could help more. But every once in a while, she had an idea that came from seemingly nowhere, that got her raised eyebrows around the table when she put it forth. She was secretly proud of those moments and was trying her hardest to come up with more clever ideas.
“Where the hell were you?” Brynarr asked as she came back into the room they had got at one of the local inns.
Frida froze in the doorway, staring at him. She knew that she herself had had a few drinks, and although she wasn't drunk, she certainly wasn't sober. She could tell that Brynarr had had some drinks as well, but she didn't know how drunk he might be.
She shivered a little, those alarms bells suddenly screamingly loud in the back of her head. “I was just with Perig and some of the others—Geir, Erlend–”
Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1) Page 18