Nena Read online

  And what if Rondor did win? Would she choose him? She definitely preferred that he win, but couldn’t say she felt any more than that. The women from her village had told her she would know; there would be no uncertainty. Maybe the gods were waiting until after the tournament was over....

  Matches were met with shrieks and wails as favored contestants won and lost. Gambling was a favorite past time of all Dor, and the Eastern Plains tribe was no exception. Many gems, furs, and even horses would change hands this day, and they were not quiet in expressing how they felt about it. By mid-afternoon, Nena’s brother was still undefeated, as were Dorac and Rondor.

  Currently, all attention was focused on a particularly heated battle between Dorac and a wisp of a man who refused to be beaten. The crowd screamed with glee as the lopsided match continued well past all expectations. In his eagerness to dispatch his unworthy opponent, a frustrated and embarrassed Dorac made mistakes, each one only serving to keep the smaller man in it.

  Dorac closed on his opponent again, seeming to finally have him cornered. In a bold move, the smaller man rushed forward and scurried beneath Dorac’s outstretched arms. He tapped Dorac on the back with his tournament sword, adding insult and gaining a point. The crowd’s screams swelled to a roar. Nena laughed out loud and looked to her father. He was smiling, too. The slight man’s status would climb considerably this day.

  When she looked back, the match had turned to utter confusion. People were spilling into the arena, interfering with the contestants. It was unheard of. No one interrupted a match, no matter who the contestants were, or how well or poorly they were doing. What were they thinking? From her raised seat on the dais, it soon became clear that the front observers were being pushed forward by the surging crowd behind. She assumed people from the rear were trying to gain a better view of the match. Until she saw their faces. The desperate terror in their eyes.

  It was then that she saw them.

  Northmen! Huge, hairy man-beasts, with pale skin and shaggy beards. Their round, painted shields were unmistakable. They advanced from behind, hacking down the villagers in a great wave of death, forming a nearly impenetrable wall between the unarmed Dor and the weapons they had left in their tents. The dull tournament weapons, though present in abundance, were useless.

  Nena pawed through her pile of gifts and grabbed the antler dagger. The gift that had seemed so plain in comparison to all the others, was now by far the most valuable. Slipping it under her sash, she dropped from the back of the dais. After a quick look to verify the path was clear, she crouched and sprinted for the guest tents that fortunately had been set up on the opposite side of the tournament grounds from the attack.

  Making it to her tent unnoticed, she slipped inside and grabbed her sword. The thin, curved blade was smaller than a man’s and appeared almost delicate by comparison, but in her hands it was every bit as deadly. She ripped through her travel packs, pulled out her spear, then dashed back outside.

  Smoke and the unmistakable metallic smell of blood assaulted her nostrils. Screams of the panicked and dying filled the air. The Northmen seemed to be everywhere. Some on horseback, most on foot. The riders had a huge advantage over the terrorized crowd—an advantage they pressed with deadly disregard. Nena palmed her spear—weighing it, balancing it, feeling it; it was the only weapon long enough to overcome their height advantage.

  A rider bore down on her, swinging his axe. Nena stood her ground in the horse’s path. The man grinned, his teeth barely visible through his thick, matted beard and mustache. At the last second, she dropped and rolled, planting the base of her spear in the ground and aiming its metal tip at the rider’s chest. She felt the wooden shaft stiffen upon impact, then flex. She prayed it would hold. The Northman’s hardened leather body armor resisted but was no match for the direct strike. As the horse’s momentum carried him forward, the razor sharp tip of her spear pierced through the thick leather plate plunging deep into his chest—ultimately driving him from the back of the horse and sending his body crashing to the ground.

  Nena was on him in an instant, yanking the spear from his dying body before turning to find the next. She longed for her mare, Nightwing. With a horse, she could kill them by the score, not wait for them to come to her. She glanced toward the corrals. The gate hung open. The Northmen had stampeded their horses to keep them on foot. Nena caught a glimpse of the thundering herd on the edge of the village and whistled in the direction of the swirling flow of horseflesh—a high piercing trill that hung on the wind. For a moment she thought she heard her mare’s whinny reply but couldn’t be sure. Would it work? Would the horse brave the melee and come to her? She had only taught the animal the simple trick to entertain children in her village, not for anything like this. Nena whistled again and saw the black mare break free of the herd and turn in her direction. Her heart soared.

  While she waited for the horse, Nena looked for her father and brother in the smoke and chaos, then reprimanded herself. If her father could have heard her thoughts, his punishment would have been swift and severe. “Never think about your fellow warriors in battle. It is the surest way to get them killed. All of your focus must be on killing the enemy until there is none left to kill. A single foe you miss while distracted looking for friends or family could be the one who kills them. Never forget that.” Her father’s words had been drilled into her from the time she could first hold a sword, but she had never been so pressed to heed them before.

  The mare, her eyes wild with fright, slid to a stop next to her. Nena grabbed a handful of mane and swung aboard bareback, guiding the animal forward with her knees. There was no time to soothe her. She had enemy to kill.

  The first five Northmen never even saw her. Using Nightwing’s speed and agility, she rode them down from behind while they were preoccupied with attacks of their own. She was in pursuit of another now, and leaned low over the mare’s neck to better corner around a tent. She never saw the Northern warrior who wielded the great axe—only the flash of bloodied silver. Nena felt as much as heard the sickening solid thunk as the axe head buried deep into the front of her mare. Felt as much as heard Nightwing’s bloodcurdling scream.

  As the front of the horse collapsed from beneath her, Nena instinctively loosened her grip with her legs so as not to be taken to the ground and crushed beneath the wounded animal. Nightwing cartwheeled. Nena was catapulted through the air. She curled her body and hit the ground in a rolling ball, bouncing to her feet to face her attacker. Her spear lay in two pieces on the ground midway between them. Her sword had landed near her feet, but she could see the blade was broken even as she reached for the hilt. Picking it up with her left hand, she raised the jagged broken blade toward him. He looked at it and smiled.

  That was the reaction she had hoped for. Quick as a striking snake, she pulled the antler dagger from her sash with her right hand and sent it winging through the air. Nena watched with satisfaction as the knife buried itself in his left eye socket. He buckled to his knees, swayed, then collapsed on his side in the dirt. She ran to retrieve the dagger, then raced to Nightwing’s side. The horse remained on the ground, unable to rise, thrashing and screaming in agony.

  A sob caught in Nena’s throat at the sight of Nightwing’s nearly-severed front leg dangling from her body and the great pool of blood forming beneath her. She covered the mare’s eye with her hand, hoping to soothe her one last time. The horse responded to her touch and stilled. “Go and be free with the horses in the sky. I will see you again one day, and we will ride together once more,” Nena murmured. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she drew her dagger across the mare’s throat.

  Her own spear and sword useless, Nena picked up the dead man’s sword. It was too big for her to wield for any length of time, but it would have to do until she could find another. She turned toward the sounds of the loudest cries. Channeling her grief and rage, she forced her mind to focus on one directive.

  Kill the enemy until there are none left to kill.


  The last of the sun had just dipped below the horizon when Jarl reined in his stallion. The mahogany bay tossed his head impatiently, but obeyed. The fighting was all but over; only a few native warriors remained to be subdued. Jarl remained astride to watch one of the final skirmishes playing out before him—his eyes taking in the woman with long bronze legs wielding a sword too big for her. Two of his men circled her warily, while a third—a mountain of a man with flame-colored hair, sat off to one side on a bundle of furs. Jarl easily recognized his second in command, Tryggr, and made a quick concerned assessment of his injuries. Tryggr held one hand pressed tightly against the side of his head. Fresh bright blood seeped from between his fingers and down into his thick red beard.

  Jarl dismissed it. The blood was not pulsing, and head wounds always bled worse than others. Far more concerning was the deep battle-axe cleft that had penetrated Tryggr’s leather chest plate and another gash on the side of his left thigh. Both of them were ugly wounds, but they hadn’t come from the woman. The blood was darker. Older. Jarl took only a second to appreciate the significance. Clearly Tryggr had felt well enough with them to attack her, so maybe they were not as bad as they looked.

  “No sense standing there fretting over me like an old woman, Jarl. I’m fine,” Tryggr said. “I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, but it’s a long way from my heart. And when the day comes that a woman can take me in open battle, then I’ll expect you to just put me out of my misery anyway. Today is not that day.”

  Relief flooded through him, mixing with Jarl’s frustration and anger. The battle had already proven far more costly than expected. This was to have been an easy victory according to his scouts. A rich, basically unarmed village preoccupied with some celebration, but from the fighting he’d seen and the earliest casualty tallies, Jarl now knew that was far from the case.

  He turned back to the woman. Her hair had come unbraided and cascaded around her shoulders and down her back in a tangled mane of brown so dark it was almost black. She wore the common dress of the Dor female warriors, a supple tan hide tied around her neck, the thigh-length skirt slit on both sides. Her eyes were also typical Dor, large and dark and almond shaped. He glanced at the small black tattoos on her upper arms. He knew each signified something specific to other Dor, but the symbols were foreign to him, and he had no recognition of their meaning. There was blood on her, too, but upon closer inspection, it did not appear to be hers, and there was far too much of it for it all to have come from Tryggr.

  “What’s going on here?” Jarl asked the other two men, though their intent was clear. They were the victors. They had fought, bled, lost brothers, and now the flame of battle fever would be extinguished with a woman. “Have my men grown so soft that it requires three of them to conquer a single maid?”

  The two men stopped and acknowledged him with a salute. They actually seemed to welcome the respite. “She ain’t no ordinary wench, sir. She fights like a she-devil,” one said.

  Jarl shook his head to indicate how foolish he found their words.

  “Look at Tryggr.” They pointed to his burly, second in command as further proof. “She took his own dagger away from him and cut off his ear.”

  “Only part of my ear,” the red-haired giant protested.

  “I thought the intent was for you to do the poking with your other dagger, my friend.” Jarl addressed his bloodied second. “Or did you decide to play the woman this time?”

  “You’re funny,” Tryggr responded. The jest, coming from any other man, would have been poorly received, but from Jarl it only brought a tired smile. They had fought many battles together and consumed much bonding wine after. “She’s mine by first claim, but I forgo it and offer her to you, if you think you can get the job done.” Tryggr slid sideways and patted the spot next to him. “But I’ll save you a place here, where you can rest when she cuts off some part of you. Hopefully it will only be something as unimportant as your ear.”

  Jarl looked back to the woman. She was stunning in a savage way. A way that very much appealed to him. His own blood ran hot from the battle, though he never participated in the raping. Willing women suited him much better, and he would have plenty of opportunity to work out his tensions when he returned to camp. There was no shortage of women there. But this one...this one was different. Standing there so defiant, so raw, so beautiful. Jarl felt his blood do more than stir as his eyes took in every inch of her. He swung a leg over the neck of his horse and dropped lightly to the ground.

  “You should go find the healer and have your wounds tended to, my friend,” he said to Tryggr as he passed by.

  “There’ll be time for that once I’m sure I won’t be needing to haul you there as well. My coin is on that we’ll soon both be needing to see the healer together,” Tryggr retorted.

  The two other men hooted, thrilled that their leader was joining the fun. “You’re in for it now, sweetheart,” one said, as they both withdrew a few paces.

  “Careful, Jarl,” Tryggr warned. “The boys weren’t lying about her, and she still has my dagger somewhere.”

  From the quality of his horse and the way the others deferred to him, Nena could tell this one was of higher rank. That fact appealed to her. Rank did not affect how they bled or how they died, and better she could kill one of importance than these last two dogs.

  She examined him, looking for a weakness to exploit. Unlike the other Northmen with their thick beards and shaggy hair, this one was clean-shaven and his brown wavy hair was cut short on the sides. He was taller than the last two she’d been fighting, but not near so large as the red-haired giant whose ear she had trimmed. Most concerning to her was that, despite his size, he was balanced and sure on his feet. The others, even the smaller ones, were typical Northmen, heavy lumbering movers. Their slow reactions had given her the edge she needed to combat their size advantage. She would have no such luck with this one; he moved like a warrior.

  Jarl saw her fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword. Judging from the ample distance his men had given her, he knew she must be able to handle it. He feinted to the right and the blade slashed the air where he should have been. Jarl smiled to himself, impressed. Blade too large or not, she was strong and quick. For many minutes he moved around her, measuring her responses, his weapons remaining sheathed.

  Without warning she charged him, her blade whipping through the air in a blur of death. The ferocity and swiftness of her attack caught him off guard. Jarl pulled his own sword, barely managing to withdraw it in time to deflect her first strike. Her blows continued to come with blinding speed, keeping him hard-pressed and off balance. It was all he could do to parry each one as he stumbled backwards.

  Ultimately, her earlier battles and the weight of the weapon began to take their toll. Jarl could see her movements, though still fast, were becoming more labored. He went on the offensive. After pushing her back with multiple small strikes, he gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and brought it down in one crushing blow. Steel clashed against steel. Her body shuddered under the impact. Jarl fully expected to see the blade fly from her hands, but somehow—incredibly—she managed to hold onto it, though the force of the concussion sent her staggering. As she tried to recover and bring the sword back around to face him, Jarl dropped to the ground and kicked her just below one ankle—driving it into her other leg, and knocking her feet out from under her. He lunged for her as she fell, trying to trap her with his body, but she rolled away and jumped to her feet. Jarl did the same. They stood facing each other, both breathing hard.

  Jarl caught a glimpse of the outline of Tryggr’s dagger under the cloth belt of her waist. He made a grab for her wrist that held the sword. Seizing it with one hand, he squeezed relentlessly. She cried out in pain but still fought to maintain her grip on the hilt. Jarl knew it was only a matter of time and twisted his body around to a position behind her. As she dropped the weapon, he reached around her waist with his other hand and ripped Tryggr’s dagger from under her s
ash. He threw it to the ground, then pulled her in against him in a tight bear hug.

  She screamed a guttural scream of rage and twisted in his grasp, her back pressed up against him. When she threw all her weight downwards, Jarl assumed she was trying to reach Tryggr’s dagger on the ground with her free hand. He tightened his grip, knowing it was safely out of reach. Too late, he felt her fingers brushing the knife sheath inside his own boot.

  “Watch out, Jarl!” Tryggr shouted. “She’s got your knife now.”

  Reacting with instincts honed by years of battle, Jarl released her with a small shove and leaped backwards while maintaining a grip on her one wrist. Air swirled past his throat as her backhanded strike barely missed its mark. She wasn’t just strong, she was clever; he had to give her that. While he was evaluating her, she’d apparently been examining him, too. Instead of fighting for either weapon he’d taken from her, she’d located another. His.

  A split second later, the dagger slashed toward his wrist to free herself from his grip. Jarl let go. The sudden unexpected release threw her off balance, but his reaction wasn’t quite fast enough this time. Searing white hot pain shot up his arm as the blade sliced across the back of his hand. Jarl arched his body and caught her knife-wielding hand in midair as it slashed toward him yet again. He jerked it down against his knee, dislodging the dagger, then twisted her whole arm up behind her back to immobilize her. Holding her arm there and grabbing a handful of her thick hair, Jarl forced her to her knees on the hard-packed dirt in front of him.

  “That’s it, sir—give it to her good. We’ll see how tough she is now. Dor bitch.” The two men hooted and called out encouragement as they moved closer.