by Ann Boelter
Jarl watched Nena pick at her food. Had he not just witnessed her strange reaction to Osa, that in itself would have told him something was amiss. Normally she wolfed down every bite to be away from him as quickly as possible. He wondered what had affected her so, but did not ask. There was no point. Her response to every single question, other than on the subject of moving her brother’s body, was always the same. “Ask your whore.” So he was shocked when she spoke.
“That woman,” she began, “she is a warrior?”
Jarl hid his amazement and took another bite, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, before answering. “Osa? Yes. She’s a warrior and a good one. We call them shield-maiden.”
Nena considered that information for a long moment. “So, she is unmarried?” she asked.
“No, Osa is married to Hansted. He is another warrior here,” he elaborated.
“Are they recently married?”
He thought about it briefly, then shook his head. “No, not recently. I don’t know for sure, but I think they’ve been married quite awhile—ten years, perhaps.”
Nena nodded as if it all suddenly made sense to her. “Then she is barren.”
“Osa? No, she has two children. They remain with her sister in the north while she and Hansted are on this expedition.”
Nena’s face was so shocked by his latest admission that Jarl felt obligated to defend them. “Between the two of them they will earn as much on this one journey as they would in three lifetimes of successful farming. Their children are with family and well cared for, and would continue to be so, should they fall and not return.”
“Are there others here—female warriors?”
Jarl loved the strange way she pronounced his words, each rolling of her tongue with guttural undertones. He wanted nothing more than to keep her talking.
“Yes. A few. Why does that surprise you? Are not all of your women raised to be warriors?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Our women fight only until they choose,” she said. “Or rarely until they are with their first child, if the number of men in the village is very low, and they are needed to fight,” she added.
That explained the barren question. “What if a woman does not wish to give up being a warrior? Can’t she continue to raid?” Jarl asked.
“No. And no woman would want that. Once a woman chooses, she no longer wishes for such things. She wants only to be a mother and to remain in the village to tend to things there,” she finished, trying to seem matter-of-fact, but coming off more as well-rehearsed.
“With most of our women it is also so,” Jarl said. “But not all. They are trained to fight as young girls, and as they grow older, many do not care for the danger and prefer to remain at home.” He paused, then added. “But with our people, it’s the woman’s choice...well, hers and her husband’s. Do none of your women ever want the same?”
Nena shook her head.
Jarl could tell the conversation was winding down. He didn’t want it to end. “That seems a great waste. Some of our women are even leaders.”
His last statement did not have the desired response of initiating further discussion. After her initial shock and search of his face to see if he was lying, Nena became silent, contemplating the new information.
THE NEXT MORNING Jarl was up and gone before first light. Nena could hear activity going on outside the tent in all directions. She could barely contain herself. When the tent flap next opened, it was not Jarl who returned, but two men she had never seen before. They propped open the tent flap, revealing an empty wagon parked outside. Without even seeming to notice her, they efficiently began to pack Jarl’s belongings. No move was wasted. No time was spent pondering the best way to fold something or what to pack together. Everything was tied in bundles or neatly fit into crates as if it had a predetermined place.
She evaluated each man closely as they moved about the tent. Her hopes rose even higher. The older one was stronger and more aware, but he moved stiff in his right shoulder. The younger one had no injury that she could determine, but glanced at her nervously whenever he had to walk near her, and averted his eyes quickly when she looked back at him. Neither would be a match for her. She waited, tense with anticipation. Soon, she would be the only thing remaining in the tent for them to move.
When the last bundle was stowed on the wagon, the two men remained outside talking under their breaths. The younger one cast an unsure glance at her, and they conferred again. Perhaps they were trying to decide which one was going to unchain her. Perhaps it would only be one of them. How fortunate for her that would be. She waited to see what they would decide. But instead of coming back inside, they gave her one final look, then moved from her view. She heard them untying some of the smaller support ropes on the outside of the tent. The canvas wall to her left sagged slightly. Nena wanted to scream with frustration. Were they not going to release her? Surely they weren’t going to just drop the tent around her ears.
She heard a horse’s hoof beats approaching and stretched to the end of her chain to gain a better view out of the tent opening. There were the reddish-brown and black legs of Jarl’s stallion, then Jarl’s boots as he dismounted. He said something to the two men, tied the horse’s reins to the wagon, and entered. He surveyed the empty tent with satisfaction before walking toward her.
“Don’t look so disappointed,” he said in response to her expression. “You didn’t really think I’d trust one of them to release you, did you?” Nena scowled at him, and he paused, reading her face. He chuckled. “Ah, you did.” He shook his head. “I know better. And I like them both far too much to subject them to that.”
Jarl unhooked the chain from the pole and started to lead her toward the door. “Remember to behave yourself, Princess,” he warned. “The furs may have already been packed, but I’m not above rolling around on the ground with you if you try anything.”
He untied the horse’s reins and led both the stallion and Nena half a dozen paces away from the tent. He pulled her closer to the horse and tied her hands off to the front of the saddle so he could watch the final step uninterrupted. The two men disappeared inside with long poles. The top of the tent jiggled and changed shape, then the men reappeared dragging the heavy center pole between them. They loaded it, splitting the wagon lengthwise down the middle, and while the older one lashed it down to keep it from rolling side to side, the younger man returned inside alone. Nena heard two quick tapping sounds, then he reappeared, racing back through the doorway. Within seconds, the tent collapsed to the ground with a whoosh of air from the opening, and the men began to roll it up.
Without waiting for them to finish, Jarl led Nena to the wagon and climbed into the back, tugging on her cuffs for her to follow him. He pointed for her to sit on one side of the pole, then produced a shorter length of chain from his pocket.
“You’ll be sitting, so you won’t need the extra length,” he explained as he replaced the longer chain on her shackles. “Besides, it would likely only get you into trouble.” After securing the new chain to the pole, he climbed down from wagon and smiled at her. “Comfortable?” he asked.
She glared at him and looked away.
He laughed.
Nena heard the squeak of leather as he remounted, then the sounds of the stallion’s hooves moving away. She jerked the cuffs in frustration. She had hoped to be free of the pole for the move, yet here she sat, as secure as ever. And this shorter piece of chain didn’t even allow her enough length to wrap around someone’s neck.
One such someone appeared at that very moment. Altene watched as her own belongings were stowed, then took her place in a pile of Jarl’s furs on the opposite side of the wagon. Nena grimaced, then looked away, refusing to acknowledge her. The day could not get any worse. Jarl’s security measures would deny her the escape she had desperately hoped for all week. And not only was she utterly humiliated at being loaded like some common piece of Jarl’s chattel, now she would al
so have to endure Altene.
The two men who had packed the tent climbed up onto the driver’s bench, and the wagon lurched forward. Creaking and bouncing, they fell into line with others from the camp, continuing their journey north. The pace was slow to accommodate the walking prisoners, among whom Nena was still sorely disappointed to not find herself. After hours of bumpy, silent travel through the unchanging plains, Nena stole a glance at Altene.
The Klarta woman stared out of the opposite side of the wagon, clearly no more happy with her traveling companion than Nena was. That Altene found her presence irritating made Nena feel somewhat better. A plan began to form in her mind. Perhaps Altene’s unwelcome company could be turned to opportunity. If Jarl could gain information from her about the Dor, why couldn’t she do the same about the Northmen?
“Where are we going?” Nena asked.
Altene looked at her without replying, then looked away again.
Perhaps she didn’t know. Nena tried something else. “I thought that the word Jarl was a title, like King or Chieftain, not a name. Did I learn this incorrectly?”
Altene gave her a long measuring look, then surprised Nena by answering. “No. You are correct. Normally it is a noble’s title, but for him, it is his given name.”
“How did you know Jarl would not force me to his furs?”
“Because everyone knows it.”
“But why?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because we are stuck on this wagon together.” Nena rattled the chain on the pole for emphasis. “Because we have nothing else to do, and perhaps it might speed the journey.”
Altene heaved a great sigh. “I suppose.” She thought for a moment. “Truly, I do not know why. Rumor has it his mother was raped in front of him when he was but a boy, too young to defend her—that she made him swear to be a better man than that.” She paused, then shrugged. “But you know how rumors are. The truth could be far removed.”
“Was it also the same with you then? Did he keep you a prisoner at first? And what changed to make you now serve him so willingly?” Nena asked.
Altene smiled and shook her head. “Jarl had only to ask to lie with me. No man before him ever did. I was a true prisoner for many years before that.”
“Why do you hate me?” Nena asked. “Do you think it’s somehow my fault, or the fault of the Teclan, that you spent your life a prisoner? The Teclan don’t take slaves. We’re not responsible for you being here.”
“And that probably lets you rest easy at night, doesn’t it?” Altene asked, her voice hard. “The Teclan don’t take slaves, so they are not responsible for what happens to a village after they attack. Did you know there are other tribes and bands of slavers who follow Teclan warriors like the great buzzard follows the lion? When the men are killed and a village is left decimated and defenseless by the Teclan, these others appear within days, stalking their wounded prey.
“You wouldn’t know anything about a village’s desperate attempts to flee—to find some place to hide or defend. But these men who follow the Teclan are skilled, and they hunt with no more mercy than if they were hunting a rabbit. Every man, woman, and child, regardless of age, is captured. For all those who survive, a buyer will be found, the price dependent on the individual’s abilities. Even the weakest and the youngest are capable of performing some menial task.
“Do I hate you?” Altene considered the question out loud, then nodded. “Yes, I do. Though I suppose it is a hatred born much of envy. I envy to be you—to have lived your whole life in privilege and without fear. Even now, if you were any other woman, you’d have been taken by half the Northmen camp, yet because you’re Teclan, you’ve been spared again.”
“Then release me. You want me gone—to have Jarl back to yourself. Now, during the move, in the chaos, I could find the child and escape with her.”
“You are a fool,” Altene said and looked away.
Nena waited for many minutes, then started a new line of questioning, sure that Altene would spite her with silence. “Where do they come from? How far north are their homelands?”
“I do not know exactly.” Altene surprised her by responding. “I believe the journey takes them months. To get here, they follow a maze of rivers from the far north and west through a wild land they call Rusland, far beyond where any Dor has ever ventured. In places they must carry their ships across land to the next river until they reach the last river they call the Volga. That river brings them here, to the Great Sea, though they call it the Caspian. I have heard them say it’s small compared to the seas of their homeland. Each time they come ashore in a different place and make a sweeping arch through these lands, acquiring treasure and slaves on the way. Their ships await them on the coast.”
The Great Sea. Nena had only beheld it one time. It was the year she had first become a warrior. The journey north to the sea was one her father insisted all Teclan warriors make at least once—to see the great body of water that held power to rival their mountain. Her father had accompanied the novice warriors that year to refresh ties with the Sea Tribe’s chief, whom his sister had married years before.
The Great Sea was beautiful, Nena recalled, but terrifying at the same time. She remembered wading out into the clear turquoise waters while children from the sea tribe paddled around her in tiny boats, laughing and playing. Though she knew how to swim, she’d kept her feet planted firmly in the soft sand, feeling the power in the small waves that pushed and pulled at her like a living thing—a living thing so vast, one’s eyes could not take it all in with a single look. That power had frightened her, as she was sure it also had the other young Teclan warriors who waded with her, though none admitted it.
Her father had explained to them that the Great Sea protected those of the sea tribes as the Great Mountain protected the Teclan. He cautioned all the warriors that any attempt to ever pursue a sea tribe out onto the water would be fatal, even though they made navigating it appear easy. The Great Sea, when angered, could raise walls of water taller than three men, destroying anything in its path.
So how had the Northmen been able to cross it? And Altene said they came from a land that had seas larger than the Great Sea? Impossible. She returned her focus to Altene. “So there are more of them on the ships? How many?”
“I don’t know, however many it takes to sail them. At the port they will sell everything they do not wish to take back with them, including most of the prisoners for slaves.”
“They don’t sell all the prisoners? They take some with them?” Nena asked.
“Yes, for labor when they must move the ships over the land.” Altene smiled. “And for other things they may be good at.”
“Have any who have been taken ever returned?” Nena asked.
Altene paused. “Not that I know of.”
“What do you think becomes of them?”
“How should I know?” Altene snapped. “I’m sure many die on the journey. The labor of moving the ships is supposed to be nigh impossible.”
“And yet you wish to go?” Nena asked.
“My labor will be of a far more delicate nature.”
“Hmm,” Nena murmured. “Has he shared with you then, his plans to take you with him?”
“Not in so many words, but his intentions have been plain.”
Nena looked out over the endless grasslands and reflected on Altene’s words as the wagon continued its agonizingly slow pace. “Before I was here, did you ride in the wagon or walk with the others?” she asked.
“I always rode. Jarl prefers me well-rested at the end of the day. As you will soon discover.”
Nena scowled and Altene laughed.
For Nena, the long days in the wagon seemed never to pass. The landscape afforded little relief with only occasional trees when they were close to a river. On days when the air was still, the clouds of dust raised by the caravan threatened to choke her. Some days Altene was talkative. Others she sat in surly silence, refusing to answer a single que
stion. Jarl had refuted her earlier claim of wanting her well-rested. She had yet to share his furs even once, and Nena could see that disturbed her greatly.
Every night, Jarl’s tent was set up, though most of his belongings remained packed on the wagon, and many of his men slept under the stars. Nena soon realized the tent was not for his comfort. It was a battle planning station and scouts reported in at all hours of the night. Maps were perused, routes were adjusted.
Even had she not been privy to every conversation and every plan, Nena would still have known when the next target village was close. The men were tense and excited, eager to fight. It came as no surprise to her when Jarl ordered the halt of the procession and a full camp to be set up. The same two men unpacked the wagon, placing every item exactly where it had been before, and Jarl returned her to the pole.
The routine in his tent picked up much where it had left off, with Jarl settling grievances and dealing with camp business. The most significant difference were the many reports from the reconnaissance teams. Every activity of the next village was documented and relayed to him. Nena couldn’t help but wonder what the scouts had reported when her small party had arrived at the Eastern Plains tribe the day before the tournament. Seeing the minute details his men provided him with now, she was sure it would have been noted. What had they said to him? “Nine other natives arrived today. Armed, but no threat.” It was difficult for her to accept that was all it would have appeared to be to an outsider—that such a major event in her life could be reduced to nothing more than those nine words.
While the last minute plans were made, Nena again could only watch and file away the details of how things changed when they attacked—how many men went to fight, how many men stayed behind to guard things. She waited and prayed for an opportunity to escape.