Nena Read online

  Altene’s words transported Nena back to her trip to the tournament only three short days before. She was astride Nightwing again, still a day’s ride out from their destination, when her brother had dropped back to ride beside her. Her younger brother, Ruga, so brave, so sure of himself. “I shall fight hard, Sister. If there is a man in this village who can defeat me, then the gods will know he is worthy of your immediate choice. Unfortunately, that means you will yet have to remain a warrior, because none will best me.” It was his first tournament outside of their own tribe. His excitement at being chosen to attend as his father’s second, an honor normally reserved for their older brother, Lothor, could not be contained.

  “Eventually the gods will have to choose one for you, of course—but a second place champion to be sure.” Though said in jest, Ruga’s words were true. Her brothers were both great warriors; Lothor undefeated. And even though Lothor was not present, any man who could defeat Ruga would have to earn the gods’ strong consideration. “And when I win the tournament, I shall find the most beautiful woman there and offer her alone my willingness, so that I am not chosen by the wrong one. Not like Belka.”

  Nena knew the story, but listened as he told it again, as if she did not. “Belka entered a tournament with his eyes on the chief’s beautiful daughter, but left himself open to the choosing. When he won, a big fat maid claimed him before any other could, and he had to marry her.” Her younger brother rolled with laughter. Nena had no idea of the truth of the tale. Belka was, in fact, married to a large woman, but she had given him many strong sons, and he seemed happy. Besides, it was the gods who chose, and in Belka’s case, she felt it was a good match.

  Nena could still see the sunlight shining on his dark hair as he teased her. Ruga, so sensitive and carefree underneath the well-trained surface—so different from the stern Lothor. Was he dead? Was her father dead? If she trusted Altene’s words, she knew now they were not enduring the shame of being taken. They could still be alive. As much as she wanted to hold onto that hope, Nena knew in her heart the men of her family would never run from a fight, much as she had intended to fight until her last breath—until Jarl had intervened. Nena felt her throat constricting. Tears threatened her eyes. She grit her teeth. She would not cry, not in front of this Northern dog and his Klarta whore.

  “Do men ever take more than one wife?” Jarl’s next question interrupted Nena’s thoughts. “I mean, can a man be chosen by two women?” he clarified.

  Altene shook her head adamantly at first, then paused. “When I was in the pleasure house in Anbai, I heard of such things in far off tribes, many moons ride from here, but only there. A Dor man may have more than one woman under his roof, his mother or sisters, but only one wife.”

  “So women usually choose from within their own village?”

  “The gods can choose anyone, but usually it is from within their tribe, yes. There are also great tournaments once every few years where friendly tribes meet and compete. Blood is mixed that way,” Altene added.

  “And that is what was happening here?”

  “Not exactly. No other tribes were invited to this tournament, only the chief of the Teclan and his family. The Eastern Plains chief would not have wanted to risk her choosing a warrior from another tribe; an alliance with the Teclan would have meant a very prosperous change in their fortunes. The men would have been competing for their own women also, but the top contenders would have all put forward their willingness to be chosen by her. And I am sure the local women would have been under strict instruction to delay their choosing until after she had done so.”

  Nena listened deep into the night as Jarl continued to ask specifics on their customs, their beliefs, their lives. Anything and everything Dor. She could tell by Altene’s elated expression and almost giddy responses, it had never happened before. She was eager to tell him anything he wanted to know, thrilled by his attention, however motivated.

  When Nena thought she could not possibly keep her eyes open another moment, Jarl sent Altene away and retired to his furs.

  THE NEXT MORNING Nena was awakened by the clatter of the entry boards. Upon Jarl’s bidding, a guard entered, his clothing and boots covered in dust and blood. Nena was instantly alert. Were the Northmen under attack? She strained her ears but heard nothing out of the ordinary outside the tent. She looked back to the man. He did not appear to be overly excited. Nor did he have any injuries or damage to his clothing from fighting that she could see.

  “I have the report you requested,” he said to Jarl.

  Jarl rose and hastened to meet him at the doorway. “Outside,” he directed.

  The two men moved far from the tent, and though she could hear their voices, no matter how hard she tried, Nena could not make out their words. When Jarl returned, his mood seemed pensive. He looked at her as if he were about to say something, but was interrupted by a second excited rattle of the boards.

  “Come in,” he called out. It was Altene.

  “My lord, I have news,” she said in a rush.

  Jarl held up his hand. “First. What is the significance of placing a body off the ground on a raised platform made out of sticks?” Jarl heard Nena’s chain rattle behind him, a sound he only heard when she changed positions abruptly, which was rare. It was actually uncanny how she was able to move most of the time without the slightest clink. For him to hear it so loudly now, he knew it had to be in response to his question.

  “I do not know, my lord,” Altene answered quickly, clearly more eager to give him her own news than give much consideration to his question.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” he demanded.

  “It’s not a Dor custom I know of,” she offered, sensing her mistake. “but I was taken from my tribe when I was young.”

  “Do the Dor burn their dead on a pyre?” he asked.

  “Not that I’ve ever heard. We always buried them.”

  “Wait outside. I will call for your news in a moment.”

  He moved to stand in front of Nena. She remained kneeling, balanced on the balls of her feet, a position he had seen her hold for hours at a time. She seemed composed, but her face was drawn.

  “You know what it means,” Jarl stated without asking.

  “Why did you ask her that?” Nena responded without looking up from the floor.

  Jarl hesitated. “There is no trace of your father, but your brother and six other Teclan were killed in the battle.”

  She looked at him then, her eyes searching his face. “You lie.”

  He shook his head. “Why would I? If I wanted you to feel alone and vulnerable, I would have told you all were dead. If I wanted you to be happy and have hope of rescue, I would have said all lived. I will not lie to you. I sent men back to the village to examine every body. Six men bearing the Teclan star on their arms were discovered among the dead. The seventh’s body was found on the platform I described. His arm bore the star and also bore the lightning bolt, as does yours.” He paused. “He was young.”

  Nena fought back the wave of pain that threatened to choke her. It was her brother, Ruga. What the Northmen had mistaken for a funeral pyre, was in fact a sky grave, the final resting place for a warrior killed far from home. Only the Teclan believed this, and for her brother to have been so placed meant another Teclan yet lived. If she believed him about the identity of the six dead, then it would have to have been her father. But why would he not have taken care of the others?

  Her face was so pale, Jarl felt compelled to say something. “It did not appear anyone had attempted to set it on fire, or by my men’s accounts, that it was even complete enough to hold a flame. Perhaps they ran out of time. I can have my men return to finish building it, and light it, if you wish.”

  Her head snapped up. “No. They must not touch him.”

  “Explain to me why and I will make sure it is so,” he reassured her.

  Nena did not want to talk to him of this, of all things, but her brother’s body could not be distur
bed. She began to speak, her thick accent blurred with obvious pain, making some of her words difficult to understand. “When a Teclan warrior dies, our spirit makes the great journey to the sky to join our ancestors in the afterlife. From our mountain home the journey is short and the path easy to find. But if a warrior falls on the plains, too far from the mountain for their body to be returned there, then sometimes the spirit can be lost making the great journey. The sky grave separates the body and spirit from the ground, allowing the wind to pass beneath it and show it the way to the afterlife.”

  Jarl nodded. “I understand. We will leave him.”

  He turned to the door. “Come in, Altene. What is your news?”

  “I have found a man who saw the Teclan fall to your soldiers. All are dead. Meln from a battle-axe to the head, and Ruga, his son, to a sword,” Altene said with great relish.

  Jarl looked to Nena, trying to gauge the impact of Altene’s words, but the Teclan woman remained unmoving, as if she had not heard or understood. He turned back to Altene. “Is that all?” he asked curtly.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said, confused by his unexpected response. “But do not pity her. She does not mourn them, I assure you. The Teclan believe it is a great honor to die in battle. Though that is probably easier for them to believe when their own losses are usually few and their victims’ are many,” she spat, unable to hide her true feelings.

  “Then they are much like us, the Norse, in both of those regards,” Jarl said. “We also know our kinsmen live on fighting and feasting in Valhalla in the afterlife, but it does not always soften our grief at their passing.”

  Altene clamped her mouth closed, upset that she had inadvertently drawn a connection between the two of them.

  “You may go, Altene.” Jarl dismissed her.

  Later that afternoon, Altene returned with the four women to take Nena to be bathed. Nena stood quietly while the women fitted the rope harness to her body. She did not fight them. There was no point. She was very familiar with the hobble harness; the Teclan were quite fond of it. Loose and flowing, it allowed a prisoner free movement to walk, sit, even labor, but the loops, knots and twists provided incredible leverage. With even the smallest amount of pressure on either of the two longer lines, the prisoner could be choked and immobilized on the ground in a matter of seconds—a fact she had been emphatically reminded of on her first trip to the baths.

  Even as she’d lain gasping on the floor, she’d felt it had been worth it at the time—to have been able to reach Altene and slam her cheek into the side of a post. Now she could see it had probably been a mistake. Altene had been furious. The two women who had held her ropes too slack that day had been replaced with new ones, and Nena could only assume by the way the women now fearfully regarded Altene, the first two had been punished severely. Nena didn’t particularly care about the other women’s poor circumstances, but her actions unwittingly had serious consequences for herself. All the women’s eyes now followed Nena’s every move with grim determination.

  As they made their way to the baths, Nena scrutinized them—which women watched her the closest, who were friendly with one another, who might be distracted. Most importantly, she looked for any sign of sympathy—whose trust she might be able to win—who could perhaps be turned to ally. Altene she had already dismissed, though it didn’t stop her from pressing Altene to release her whenever they were away from Jarl.

  Each time Altene refused with disdain. “Things have never been better for me. Why would I risk that?” Altene scoffed. “For whatever reason, your presence has sparked his interest in our culture. It is an interest I’m happy to fulfill. He asks my opinion now, listens to me when I speak, even invites me to share some of his meals.”

  “So is it our culture again, then? Before you seemed eager to distance yourself from your people,” Nena pointed out.

  “Yes, and it will remain our culture until it no longer suits me,” Altene said.

  Once in the bath tent, Nena’s dress was removed by one of the women while two others stripped naked and stepped into the knee deep water ahead of her. The two women holding the long lines remained outside the water on opposite sides so that Nena could never have access to them both at once.

  None of the women addressed her, only pointed to indicate when they wanted her to do something. They actually spoke very little even amongst themselves. Nena wondered if it was because she was Teclan and they were intimidated, or if Altene had given orders forbidding it. But they did not need to speak for Nena to know quite a bit about them. By the marks on their arms, she could see they were all from the smaller, weaker tribes of the plains—all tribes that would have been victims of the Teclan in the past, and all tribes easier for a Klarta to dominate.

  They bore no bruises or scars that Nena could see, yet appeared almost tranquil—accepting of their fate. Nena could not comprehend it. How could they so easily embrace servitude and not be plotting to escape? How could they be surrounded by so many potential weapons and not arm themselves? Nena made no attempt to ask them; she knew they would not answer. Again she told herself she must be patient. As with everything else in her life now, she had to watch, learn, and wait.

  Though the water was warm and their touch was gentle, Nena was uncomfortable being the recipient of the slaves’ attentions. She sat stiffly on the edge of the low bench under the water while the two women lathered and scrubbed every inch of her. No place was missed. As one slave lathered her hair and massaged her scalp, the second used a dull quill to clean underneath her fingernails. Her arms were then lifted to wash her armpits and the sides of her breasts. Her feet were each held out of the water and care was taken to scrub between each toe. Nena grit her teeth as the soapy rag was run between her buttocks, and again when her legs were spread to better accommodate the probing rag in her private places. It was all done quickly and efficiently, but Nena found it degrading just the same.

  All the while, Altene sat lounging on the side, well out of her reach, making sure the task was done to her satisfaction, but never getting involved in the work. “If I were rich, I would have slaves bathe me every day. I wouldn’t lift a finger to tend to anything myself,” Altene imagined out loud.

  Nena didn’t respond but couldn’t help but be struck by how different they were. The Teclan felt it showed weakness to have others perform labors for them. Because of this, they were the only tribe she knew of that did not keep slaves. Young children, the elderly, and the sick or wounded needed to be attended to, but for any who were physically able, to accept such care was disgraceful.

  One of the women held her fingers over Nena’s eyelids to keep them closed, while the second used a bucket to rinse the lather from her hair. After twisting her hair into a large tight knot and squeezing the excess water from it, a vial of scented oil was pulled through her long strands, and any tangles were removed with their fingers. She was then allowed to step from the pool and stand while they dried her entire body with soft hides. The final step was to rub her skin with more scented oil until it glowed. Altene snapped her fingers, and Nena was provided a fresh baggy leather dress. She hadn’t seen her original soft doeskin since the first night, though she was sure, by now, it had to have been cleaned. After the two slaves who had bathed her donned their own dresses, Nena was returned to Jarl’s tent and secured to the pole.

  Nena counted off the days until the camp would move—each one seeming to drag on forever. Every day she listened in silence as Jarl and Altene pieced together her life and the life of all Dor. Every day she continued to do the same about the Northmen, watching, listening and learning. Every seemingly insignificant detail, she committed to memory for her escape.

  As the guard entered with their evening meal, it was an escape she hoped would come on the morrow. One more sleep and the day the camp was to move would finally have arrived. Everything would be disorganized. She would be free of the pole. Jarl would be preoccupied. She would have to slip among the prisoners and find the girl, but with the plai
n dresses Altene kept her clothed in, she would not stand out.

  Jarl unhooked the chain from her cuffs and led her to a chair at the table. There were only two places set, which meant Altene would not be joining them. Nena breathed a thankful sigh of relief; she would be able to eat her meal in peace tonight. After she was seated, Jarl took his place opposite her, facing the door, as he always did. Nena knew it was so that he could see anyone who entered and keep her in his line of sight at the same time. During meals, though, intrusions were rare and usually brief. Once he ascertained it wasn’t an emergency, Jarl would send the person away with instructions to return later.

  When the entry boards rattled, Nena turned to look, ever hopeful. Who knew when and in what form opportunity to escape would avail itself. Nothing she had seen so far prepared her for the woman who entered.

  Jarl was, in fact, just about to send her away, but Nena’s response made him hesitate. For all her practiced mask, Nena was clearly shocked. She stared openly at the woman. Puzzled by her reaction, Jarl beckoned the blond Northwoman closer.

  “Yes, Osa?” he asked.

  “Apologies to bother you, my lord, but there is a question on the guard rotation when we break camp tomorrow.”

  Nena was only barely aware of their words, so focused was she on this woman. Her blond hair, the same shade as Gunnar’s, was fastened with intricate braids coiled on top of her head. She wore light armor stained with blood from previous battles. Tall and strong, she carried sword and dagger and talked to Jarl as a man would. When their conversation was over, Nena’s eyes followed her to the doorway until the last trace of her disappeared beyond the flap.

  She turned back to her plate of food, trying to process what she had just seen. Her curiosity was intense, but she dreaded the thought of having to ask Altene about it. She could clearly imagine Altene’s smug, superior look as she relayed the information as if she were speaking to a child. Or worse, if she thought Nena wanted to know badly enough, she would refuse to answer at all.