8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Every morning for the last fortnight, Toran had woken to his beast beating its hooves against his chest. It pounded its fury and need, demanding release. Demanding he claim the fierce shield maiden as more than someone he’d pledged troth to.
He’d lurched out of bed at dawn’s first light that morning to escape the infernal yearning, and sought the practice field. It was now midday, and he stood in the circle of swords with a heaving chest, covered in sweat and mud.
His brothers in arms had commended his victories, and now, as he reached down a hand to his formidable man at arms, Glamorgan the Giant, there was no one left to challenge him.
Glamorgan righted himself with a good natured bellow and clapped Toran on the shoulder. If his feet hadn’t been braced apart, the man’s meaty fist would have toppled him to the ground.
“Well met, your majesty,” his comrade beamed at him. “Though I have to ask what devil plagues you.”
“Nothing plagues me. I simply find myself with an excess of energy and the need to hone my skills.”
Glamorgan’s brow went up. “So it’s pining after your wee fierce wife that has ye trouncin’ us all so soundly.”
“It’s no such thing,” Toran gruffly protested.
“A man doesnae run roughshod o’er his friends unless somethin’, or someone, is plaguin’ his mind.”
“Just excess energy,” he insisted as he took a swig from his waterskin.
“If ye say so, your majesty,” Glamorgan said with a hearty laugh and a thump between Toran’s shoulder blades. “I suggest ye get washed up before the evening meal, if there is someone plaguin’ ye, ye don’t want her to wrinkle her nose at yer stench.”
He sensed she was watching him from the shadows - but he was helpless to stop what he’d already begun.
He’d been lying beside her for weeks, aching.
Even though he was certain she didn’t appreciate his sacrifice, he refused to dishonor her by assuaging his need elsewhere.
There was something that called to him behind the fierce mask she wore, and he wondered if she was as impervious to him as she seemed.
He stood under the waterfall, his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it swiftly.
He imagined her soft cry of surrender, and the way she’d bite and claw at him as she came.
The mere thought of tasting the musk of her body, of swallowing it as he pleasured himself just like this, sent him hurtling over the precipice.
When he opened his eyes to half-slits, squeezing the last of his seed onto the ground, her eyes were wide and her mouth slack.
Her cheeks were flushed as well, and she’d dropped her axe.
Toran smiled with wicked self-satisfaction.
“Why do you skulk about spying on me in my bath, wife?”
She narrowed her eyes and squared her shoulders. “I came to challenge you to an axe-throwing contest.”
Toran gave her his back and stepped under the waterfall to rinse away his loss of control. When he turned back around, she was still standing on the shore with crossed arms and a mutinous expression.
He wrapped his plaid about his waist and met her gaze with an inscrutable one of his own.
“You’ve had an axe in your hand nearly your entire life. Why would I agree to a contest with odds stacked against me?”
“You’ll agree because if you win, I’ll let you have your consummation.”
Toran didn’t trust her sudden peace offering. “And if I lose?”
“If you lose, you set me free. To voyage somewhere of my own choosing.”
“That would jeopardize my alliance with your father.”
“If you lose, I will pacify my father.”
Toran’s instincts were clamoring inside his head.
Her proposition was a bad bargain that he had no hope of winning.
He had more to lose than she did.
Knowing these truths, a kernel of hope still unfurled in his chest. What if his touch was the thing that convinced her to remain at his side? The thing that tamed her as his beast longed for her tame him? The chance to demonstrate how much she haunted his dreams was impossible to ignore.
His wife was holding an ax with a long, curved blade she and her fellow warriors called a skeggox. The blade was so long, it extended below the handle, and looked like a beard.
Toran was wielding a Franciscan axe because it was lighter than the one she held, and designed to spin in flight as it sped toward its target.
That morning, he'd asked the gods to ensure his throws would be more precise than hers.
That they'd reward him with the chance to taste the pert mouth that had been plaguing his dreams.
Glamorgan and several other warriors had set up a series of targets designed to test their skill and accuracy. The very last one, at the far edge of the field nearly a thousand lengths away, was a monstrosity with tentacles, and clearly meant to be a representation of the Kraken enemy.
“I should be grateful there are no targets that resemble berserkers.”
“It would be a sign of disrespect - and they wouldn’t dare,” Toran informed his wife.
A cloud passed over his wife’s face as she shrugged her shoulders. “I am accustomed to disrespect.”
That slip of her mask, and telling confession, made Toran angry on her behalf.
Despite her wishes to remain in the berserker court, perhaps it was better that she was here instead.
The more he learned of her family, the more confident he became in his ability to persuade her to remain at his side.
“No warrior as fierce as you should ever be forced to tolerate disrespect. You have proven yourself a hundred times over.”
She gave him a rare, pleased smile. “I should like to believe that my prowess with my weapons, and my dedication to training, speaks for itself. Thank you for the compliment.”
He gave her a curt nod in return and surveyed the targets. “I shall allow you the first throw,” he conceded.
Her pleased smile disappeared as she watched him with narrowed eyes. “What is your motive, husband? Are you making allowances for my gender? Or do you have some other nefarious purpose?”
“Neither, Fireheart. By allowing you to make the first throw, I am signaling to our audience that I respect your skill and will be forced to match it.”
His explanation clearly didn’t allay her suspicions, because she huffed when he’d finished.
“I think you’re lying, but I cannot prove it. So I will go first.”
She took a step backward and squinted toward the first target. The sunlight gleamed off her blade, nearly blinding him, as it tumbled through the air. It landed with a solid thunk in the middle of the bullseye.
When she turned around, she had a smug look on her face. Toran motioned for one of his soldiers to retrieve her blade. “Your aim is to be envied, wife.”
“There are few more accurate. And no Keltoi, or any other man, has been able to match me thus far.” She didn’t bother hiding her glee or her pride at the declaration.
“I am heralded as one with some skill at this sport as well,” he told her as he grinned.
When she’d challenged him to this contest, Toran had immediately sought out the targets he’d stored in one of the barns because he was determined to brush up on his rusty skills.
He’d been relieved to discover very little improvement was needed, and that he still had the knack for accuracy he’d perfected as a soldier.
Once upon a time, he’d used that proficiency to ascend the ranks of his father’s army.
When he’d become a general, he’d focused on swordplay instead.
He mimicked her pose and sent his own shorter ax spiraling through the air.
When it pinned the bullseye, he turned to her with a raised brow.
“You’ve been hiding things, my husband.”
“You assumed too much, when you challenged me, wife. It is not only you and your kin who wield axes in battle.”
“That may be so, husband,” she said with a sly smile. “But we are the ones who consistently wield them in battle. And familiarity breeds competency.”
“So sure of yourself,” he chided. “We shall soon see the accuracy of your assumptions.”
“You will learn that I am seldom wrong,” she quipped as she let her weapon fly through the air again.
It once again landed in the center of the target, and he watched in amusement as she hopped in delight.
“Match that, husband.”
He gave her a cocky grin and stepped forward. As soon as the page removed her ax and retreated to a safe distance, he took aim.
His ax hit the center of the target, just as hers had done.
When her brows rose in astonishment, he wanted to pound his chest because he was obviously more than she’d bargained for. The crowd of spectators roared in approval - clearly hoping victory would be his, not their new queen’s.
The last target was the furthest away, and his wife squinted into the sunlight as she kicked her leg back. He could tell she was holding her breath as the ax spun toward its destination.
It didn’t land in the bullseye this time. Instead, it lodged in the ring just to the right of the painted center.
“Aargh!” she mumbled in frustration. “The sunlight does me no favors.”
He’d beg to differ as he watched the way it sent elusive patterns shimmering over her hair and skin. Whether it was sunlight or nerves that had affected her throw, now was his chance to even the odds between them.
As soon as his ax left his hand, he knew he’d won.
When it landed in the bullseye painted on the chest of the Kraken creature, he turned to her with a triumphant smile.