Nena Read online

  Sigurd smiled. Leila had been right. Jarl was not yet ready to see it. But he would in time. Of that Sigurd was certain; Leila would see to it. When she put her mind to something, no man would be able to resist her for long. “She is The Treasure Huntress,” he said.

  Jarl nodded. “She’s perfect, as is her name. I’m only sorry Leila could not see it.”

  “She saw the most important parts, and I will describe the last to her when I see her again in Valhalla.” He noted Jarl’s doubtful gaze. “She is in Valhalla,” Sigurd said with conviction. “You knew her only as gentle and weak, but when she was younger, she was fierce—a shield-maiden with no equal. Many an opponent fell to her blade.” He smiled seeing the memory. “Men were afraid of her, but to me, she was the most perfect woman the gods had ever created. I thought to have no chance with her, of course. I was a decent fighter, but not a great one. My skill lay, well...,” he glanced at the ship, “in other forms. But the gods must have taken pity on me, or maybe they knew that by giving me a woman so far beyond my reach that I would cherish her with the proper honor she deserved. That is the only reason I can possibly think of that an average man like me was chosen by a warrior goddess like her. And she was a warrior. Even in the end, she fought as no other could.”

  Sigurd shook his head. “But I digress. Building this ship made her last days—our last days so much better, and I thank you for that. She thanked you for that. You gave us something far more valuable than your coin, so you owe nothing further. Leila wanted you to...” He paused as he searched for words. “She wanted you to get more than you bargained for,” Sigurd finished with a strange enigmatic smile.

  “Even at the original sum, I will have already received that. This ship is easily worth ten times what we agreed,” Jarl protested. “I do not wish to start off with bad luck from a cheated purchase.”

  “It is I who have changed the sum so there is no cheating, and it will not be without cost to you. There is an additional stipulation. When you lose the desire to seek further riches, you must gift the ship to someone else. Someone worthy of her. She cannot sit idle and forgotten at a dock, nor can she ever be sold. She must forever serve a captain who is driven to hunt for true enrichment—in whatever form that takes for him.” He smiled the strange smile again. “This edict must be passed down to each captain who follows you. You must swear to it, as must they. It is not negotiable.”

  “I swear. But I would swear it, and still pay you the agreed upon sum.”

  Sigurd shook his head. “It is what Leila wanted.”

  Jarl nodded. “Very well, but know that it is only under protest that I accept.” Jarl paused, his eyes drawn back to the ship’s sleek lines. “What will you do now? Begin another? I must say when people see her, they will flock to your doorstep.”

  “I will never build another ship.”

  “You say that now, but when you are over...”

  “Jarl, a man hones his craft during his lifetime. Every ship I have ever built was an improvement on the last.” He looked at The Treasure Huntress. “I could never build another ship even close to her equal—much less improve upon her. When you realize you have reached your zenith, it is time to quit. There will be no satisfaction and no joy in building something inferior. And The Huntress....” His voice trailed away momentarily. “With Leila, I built something that exceeded my wildest fantasy. Anything else would be a disappointment. I have hung up my tools for good, and there they will stay.”

  Jarl wanted to argue—to point out that even what Sigurd considered to be his inferior boats were far superior to any others. It was why he had come—why he had refused to take no for an answer. But he could see in Sigurd’s eyes there would be no point. His decision was made. Perhaps when his grief had passed, he might change his mind.

  “Others will still come...as I did.”

  Sigurd shrugged. “They will be turned away. Leila was the only reason I accepted your offer. She is gone now, and the next will not be met with such favor or kindness. You can tell that to any man who asks you. They will not be welcome here.”

  “As you wish. But I fear they will not believe me. They will think I am only trying to discourage them to not have competition.”

  Sigurd wasn’t listening. He was staring at the ship. “I thought it would be impossible for me to see her go,” he murmured.

  For a moment Jarl wasn’t sure which her Sigurd was referring to—the ship or his late wife. He realized it was probably both.

  “Leila put every last bit of her strength into this ship, and I know she’s a part of it. I must admit that after she died, I wasn’t sure I could do it—to give up that last piece of her, but...,” He smiled a small smile. “It is not so painful as I imagined it would be. I understand now. Her spirit is in there, and she wants to be free. She was trapped in her weak body for so long, but now she’s strong again. She’ll protect it, you know—and you and the captains who follow you. Of that I have no doubt. She was a ferocious fighter...and an amazing lover.” His voice trailed off. “But a word of advice—don’t ever cross her. You do not wish to feel her wrath.”

  Jarl nodded. “I shall return tomorrow with a crew to sail her.”

  “There’s no need. The two of us can take her to Grimstad. I’ll return home from there on foot,” Sigurd said as he jumped from the dock onto the deck of the boat.

  “But we have to pass through the rocks outside the harbor,” Jarl protested. “The channel is narrow there, and the winds unpredictable. Two men cannot maneuver a ship this large. I would hate to have her damaged—or worse.”

  Sigurd only looked at him as if his concerns were foolish. “She’s large, but she’ll handle nimble like a fox. You’ll see. I know the ship, Jarl, and you must learn to trust her.”

  Jarl was torn. He did not wish to deny Sigurd, but the ship was far too valuable to risk on what seemed like a whim. He glanced up at the golden dragon’s eye and swore that it was measuring him. He shook his head and took a deep breath.

  “Very well then,” he muttered. “Off to Grimstad.” As Jarl stepped on board, he had the odd impression that he and Sigurd were, in fact, not alone. He dashed the thoughts from his mind. All that talk of Leila’s spirit had gotten inside his head.

  “You take the helm,” Sigurd said as he moved quickly around the ship, tightening lines, loosening sails. “She’s yours now.”

  Jarl took hold of the rudder. It felt warm to the touch. From the sun, he chastised himself—nothing more. Yet still he could not shake the feeling the ship had a spirit of its own—not necessarily the spirit of Leila as Sigurd had claimed, but a spirit all the same. Jarl shook his head and gripped the handle tighter. It felt good in his hand.

  “To our first of many adventures, Huntress,” he murmured. “May the gods bless us with good fortune.” At his words, the front smaller sail dropped under Sigurd’s masterful care, catching a breeze that Jarl swore had not been there before. The great ship glided out into the fjord.

  South of the Caspian Sea - Circa 905 AD

  NENA PULLED HER long thick braid over her bare shoulder, thankful she had insisted on the simple hairstyle and plain leather dress of a Dor female warrior instead of more formal garb. She glanced to the opposite end of the curved dais and the host chief’s wife. Though the sun was far from high, the sweat trickling down the woman’s fleshy neck was clear indication she was already sweltering under her silk robes and bejeweled, tiered hair.

  Her scrutiny of the woman was interrupted by the final arrivals. The host chief, with Nena’s father and younger brother, Ruga, close behind, climbed to their positions of honor in the center of the dais. Though younger than her father by several years, the host chief strained to hold in his paunch as he walked. Disturbed, Nena looked away from him. The wife she could possibly understand, but how did a man allow himself to get so soft? Ruga split off from behind the two older men and took the seat next to her without saying a word.

  Nena took a deep breath and looked out over the assembled cr
owd. It seemed as if the entire host tribe was pressed against the colored flags around the tournament area, each anxious to catch a glimpse of her. She tried to ignore them. Their collective tension only added to her own nervous anticipation, and she could not let that show—could not disgrace herself or her family in front of these people by showing emotion. She knew the one question that was on the crowd’s singular mind. It was the same question on hers and probably her father’s and brother’s as well. The question that had prompted their whole journey here to the Eastern Plains. Would she choose today?

  It wasn’t as if it were really her choice. The gods had already chosen, and through her would reveal their decision when they were ready. It was one of the few responsibilities the gods bestowed upon women. If all today failed to move her, no one in this village would blame her, though they would be disappointed; a marriage alliance with her Teclan tribe, the most powerful of the Dor, would ensure their future prosperity.

  Part of her hoped she did choose, that she could choose. That a man here would stand out above all others, and she would finally proceed with the next step in life—becoming a wife and sharing a man’s bed. At nineteen summers, she was well past the normal age of choosing, though there were no set rules on age, and no one questioned the gods’ will.

  An equally large part of her wanted never to choose. If the gods revealed a man for her here today, then she would be forced to say good-bye to the rugged mountains of her birth and take up life here as a migratory flat-lands dweller. She would also say good-bye to her days as a warrior, never again to feel a strong horse beneath her and the wind in her face. This part of her could not imagine being content to languish in these flat grasslands, with a baby on her hip, while the warriors rode away to glory.

  That’s because the gods have not yet chosen for you. Once they do, you will no longer yearn for such things.

  Nena’s reassuring inner voice was interrupted by the deep pulsing beat of the tribal drums. Her blood stirred, her bounding heartbeat answering the rumble call on a primal level.

  The tournament had begun.

  The first warriors to enter were those available to be chosen. Twelve in all, they walked in single file and stood before her, their oiled, bronze bodies glistening in the sun. Nena’s eyes took in every detail. These would be the best the village had to offer—the smartest, the strongest, the most successful. Black tattoos, chronicling their victories and achievements, covered their arms. Though she was not close enough to read the specifics in the intricate symbols, the extensiveness of the marks told her who was most accomplished.

  She couldn’t help but be disappointed. Even the most decorated here paled in comparison to the warriors of her own tribe. Her younger brother’s marks already reached his shoulders, and her father’s tattoos extended far beyond his arms, covering his entire torso front and back. But that was to be expected, she reminded herself. No other tribe equaled the Teclan in battle.

  After a nod from the host chief, an ancient looking man with a hunched back and long white braid that reached almost to the ground, stepped forward from the far side of the dais. His golden robe had no adornments other than a scarlet wheat ear, the symbol of the Eastern Plains tribe, emblazoned across the front. Nena knew the red was not dye, nor paint. The edges were already turning darker. It would be fresh blood from a recent sacrifice to the gods to invite their favor. The meat from the animal would later be shared with the tribe in the great feast at the tournament’s conclusion. The elderly herald limped to the center of the line of men, then turned to face the dais before announcing the name and family lineage of the first candidate.

  One by one, after their names were called, the warriors approached the dais with a single gift, in hopes of capturing her eye and impressing the gods even before the tournament began. Nena bowed her head respectfully as she accepted each gift, then laid it beside her, trying to show no apparent favor. It was easy to do. She had no interest in the gifts, only the men. She evaluated each one closely, rejecting them in her mind for some reason or another almost immediately. Too short. Too soft. Beady unintelligent eyes. The worst were those who seemed hesitant and approached the dais with trepidation. She understood that her tribe was feared, but still it baffled her. How could a man possibly hope to be chosen if he was intimidated? The gods would never choose a weak man for her mate.

  After delivering their gifts, the men returned to the line and stood, legs apart and arms crossed, while the next approached. Most of the gifts were gems—some large, some rare. As a Teclan, Nena already had more jewels than she could ever spend. Generations of successful raiding and hording had seen to that. But as each precious gem was unwrapped and displayed for her, she understood that these people had no such caches, and far different values because of it.

  Her mind drifted. Many of the jewels in her tribe could have easily come from these people in earlier raids. She wondered if they ever gave thought to revenge. Now would be the best and probably only opportunity for them to have it. Her group totaled only nine: herself, her father, Ruga and their six escort warriors—and they were far from the fortifications of their mountain stronghold. Even as she thought it, Nena knew their safety was never in doubt.

  Her older brother, Lothor, remained at home with the rest of the Teclan tribe. Lothor, whose growing reputation of being even more formidable than their father, Meln, was well-deserved. Should any tragedy befall them on this trip, Lothor wouldn’t hesitate to hunt down and kill every person even remotely associated with the deed. Men, women, children—none would be spared. The Eastern Plains tribe would cease to exist. Their vengeance would be brief.

  The announcement by the herald of the second to the last candidate, Dorac, pulled Nena’s focus back to the present. She recognized the name. He was one of the favorites of the local women who had helped to bathe and prepare her that morning. She could see why. He cut a strong figure. Taller than most by a full hand’s width, his muscles bulged and gleamed in the sunlight. Where many of the men had seemed nervous approaching her, Dorac swaggered to the dais with a large bundle. He pulled the ties that bound the outer wrap, then paused before slowly peeling back the cover to reveal the tiger skin.

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd at the extravagance of his gift. From the corner of her eye, Nena saw her father stiffen; even he was impressed. They had heard of the tiger skin in their distant mountain home, but none of her people had ever beheld it—the striped hide of the great cat larger than two men. Dorac stood basking in the furor his gift had caused.

  It was a bold move, but one Nena found arrogant. The tiger hide was probably the single most valuable possession in this village. She knew no man would give such a gift unless he had every expectation of owning it again. He was staking his claim—giving her the tiger for holding until it was his again by marriage.

  She sniffed, annoyed by his presumptuousness, and took the hide, setting it aside with no more care than the carved antler dagger she had received before it. Dorac’s eyes narrowed with suppressed fury. Nena dismissed him with a curt nod and looked to the next. Instead of returning to the line of warriors, Dorac took up a position near her, standing on the side of the dais, as if his being chosen were a foregone conclusion. Though Nena’s face remained impassive, inside she churned. A great warrior he might very well be, but she prayed the gods had chosen another for her. Thankfully she felt no stirring to choose him—in fact, felt nothing other than irritation toward him.

  “I do not care for Dorac, Sister,” her younger brother leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Hopefully I can defeat him early in the matches so the gods will not consider him for you.” It was a sharp contrast to his earlier boasts of certain tournament victory during their long ride here. His confidence was not near so high after seeing his latest opponent. He leaned closer. “And it would be a terrible thing if your drink were to spill on the tiger.” His eyes laughed, though his face remained as expressionless as her own.

  Nena fought back a smile; she dare not enc
ourage him. Her brother was irreverent! “You should not speak of such things,” Nena whispered, afraid for him, though she knew she should have been angry and disciplined him herself. Men, even powerful men, were forbidden to interfere with a choosing. To do so risked angering the gods. Thankfully her father had not overheard him.

  Rondor was the last to approach. His name was probably the second most mentioned by the local women. He was nearly as tall as Dorac, but his muscles rippled instead of bulged beneath his oiled dark skin. His brown eyes were warm and intelligent, and he moved with a confident, athletic grace that appealed to her—the opposite of Dorac’s brash swagger.

  His gift was a plush sheepskin warrior saddle trimmed in the black and white hide of the small, striped horses that roamed the distant wild lands far to the south. The animals were too slow and disagreeable to ride, but their uniquely-colored hide and meat were prized. Nena lingered over Rondor’s saddle, admiring the craftsmanship in the ivory handhold and the well-placed loops to carry her provisions and weapons. Other than the antler dagger, it was the only gift that recognized her own significant achievements as a warrior.

  The extra time she spent on the gift did not go unnoticed. Nena felt the heat of Dorac’s baleful glare on her cheek. Rondor must have felt it, too, because he turned and locked eyes with Dorac. The air between the two men seemed to crackle with intensity—neither giving quarter until the chief ended the standoff by signaling for the tournament to begin.

  The remaining competitors, including Nena’s brother, entered the arena, and dull wooden tournament weapons were distributed among them. As warriors of all ages prepared for their matches, Nena found herself watching and comparing Rondor and Dorac. Rondor could win the tournament, of that she was becoming more confident. The women had said he was the most skilled at horse, and his agility would lend itself to sword and knife. Dorac would dominate in the battle-axe, a heavy weapon, and possibly the spear, but those were only two events.