Nena

by Ann Boelter

  The next village fell quickly. From all reports, the Northmen suffered few casualties and Jarl ordered only two days of rest—time enough to take a full accounting of their most recent acquisitions. Then they were packed and traveling again.

  The next time the full camp was set up, it was expected to be for a longer stay than any of the previous ones. Scouts had reported several potential targets in the vicinity. Jarl chose a campsite near a wooded area and a fork in the river. It was a good location, centrally located from which to attack, and able to sustain the camp for an extended period of time. As the days dragged by, Nena continued to learn about the Northmen, about Jarl, about other Dor, even about herself. Many of the things uncomfortably contradicted what she’d been taught and had known her entire life to be true, and much of what she learned she would have preferred not to know.

  After being so long in his nearly constant presence, it was impossible not to have learned the most about Jarl. It was easier in the beginning when she thought of him as an ignorant cruel barbarian, with no code, no honor. A savage grunting man-beast, as all Northmen were known to be. But now she knew none of those things were accurate in describing him. From all accounts he was fearless in battle. And while she had witnessed him to be strict with discipline, he was fair in his dealings with the men. Those were traits to be respected, not despised or feared. Those were Teclan values. That he shared those characteristics with the Teclan surprised and disturbed her.

  In other ways he was as opposite of a Teclan as he possibly could be. Nena had never seen anyone even remotely like him. Every emotion manifested itself clearly on his face and body. When he was amused, the fine lines in the corners of his eyes crinkled, and unusual sharp depressions formed in his cheeks a short distance on either side of his mouth, even before he smiled. And his eyes. They were a unique blend of colors—shades of browns and greens with flecks of yellows and even dark blues, like the gods could not decide which color to make them, so had given him all instead. Even stranger still was that they changed color with his mood. Nena had no idea eyes could portray so much depth, so much feeling. Though he usually held his actions in check, Jarl’s feelings were never secret. It was something Teclan were schooled against from the time they could walk—to show your feelings was weak. But Jarl could never be called that. Somehow, it just made him more alive.

  Something else Nena soon came to easily recognize was his arousal. It wasn’t so much a single defined thing that she could see. It was more the way he carried himself as he moved around the tent, the air around him charged with a tense masculine energy. Some nights he consumed large quantities of wine and sat staring at her, brooding. These nights he would go to his furs alone. Other nights he would look at her longingly, then call for Altene. But these nights were becoming less and less frequent.

  That fact pleased her, and not because it had anything to do with them. On the nights Altene shared Jarl’s furs, what Nena learned about herself was even more difficult to accept. She had never thought of her body as being anything other than an obedient tool to her mind. It wielded her knife to skin a kill, or her spear to kill an enemy. It vaulted effortlessly onto Nightwing’s back. It did anything she required. Sometimes it might fail her by being too slow or too weak, but it was never independent. Other than thirst and hunger, it had no demands or desires that her mind did not give it, and with training even those could be ignored.

  But thirst and hunger were the closest things Nena could come up with to describe how her body responded to him. While her mind still formulated ways to kill him, her body reacted to him of its own accord. It tingled when his eyes caressed it from a distance. And when Jarl called Altene to his furs, it was filled with a deep aching hunger she had never experienced before. Her body disgraced her.

  Nena had known before what happened between men and women in the furs. Teclan women were not shy about their intimacies, especially the older ones. It was something they did not discuss in mixed company, but many an experience had been shared in private. Even with all their talk, Nena was not expecting this. She knew, in general, how the act was performed and that it would be pleasurable—how pleasurable seemed to depend on the individual man. But no one had ever described anything close to what she saw Altene and Jarl experiencing. For all of Altene’s falseness, she’d apparently been honest in this. Her ecstasy was unmistakable, as was his.

  Nena still used her warrior tactic to take her consciousness away, but when the increased tempo and intensity of their sounds intruded on her peaceful scene—their soft gasps, the moist sounds of their lips and then intimate places meeting, her stomach clenched involuntarily. Though her eyes remained averted, Nena could clearly see the taut muscles of his straining back, his muscular buttocks thrusting and thrusting, from other times when she had stolen a look.

  She had looked more than once, truth be told. At first she told herself it was to identify any weakness in him, an old injury perhaps that she could later use to her advantage. And maybe it had been initially—though he was not shy around her; she could have seen everything she needed to see in that regard, one of the many times he moved around the tent naked—and she had. Now, after all this time, she knew every detail of his lean body. Every detail down to how the hair on his chest and abdomen swept in from both sides, meeting in the middle of his rippled stomach before angling downwards. How each individual muscle in his upper arms bulged, smooth and well-defined. How his battle scars were fewer than she expected from his reputation, and none seemed to hinder him. She knew all of those things, so there was certainly no reason to look now, yet she still did. Her lack of discipline in this regard disgraced her even more than her body’s responses.

  The time Nena spent away from Jarl when the women took her to the baths was no less disconcerting. Increasingly confident around her that she was not going to escape and get them punished or killed, the women’s tongues were loosened. They were from many different villages, but their stories were shockingly the same.

  Nena knew them to be true, but had never once considered life from the perspective of the vanquished. The Teclan were never raided; their families were never torn asunder by outsiders. No outside force had ever made it past the Bloodcliff Gates of their mountain stronghold, much less to their village high above. The Teclan had losses but they came as a result of their own initiated actions. Loss was a way of life for these women, and had been for as long as they could remember.

  It was their belief and acceptance of melding with their captor’s tribe that was most shocking to Nena. They expected that after their initial grief, if they could be taken as a wife, it was for the best. Not only had the gods chosen it, but the new tribe was obviously stronger than their previous one, so they should be better off. Some viewed it as an almost accepted way of mixing blood. Coming from a strong tribe, Nena found their attitudes baffling. The idea of living in a weak, fearful tribe to start with, and then submitting to being a captive were difficult enough, but to embrace the enemy as your own was inconceivable to her.

  Yet the more she listened to them, the more she began to understand, and even agree, that for them, perhaps joining a new tribe was better. What was their alternative? With limited fighting skills, vengeance was not an option. And if they could escape, where would they go? Back to the remnants of an already weak tribe and wait for the next attack? If they could find peace and happiness in a stronger tribe, was that wrong? Nena could have accepted it easier had they not applied the same logic to the Northmen. To them, the Northmen were only a tribe of a different skin color. That, Nena could not accept.

  Two of the women who regularly bathed her, shared tents full time with Northmen, and Nena had to admit, they appeared happier than those who did not, often chatting away at how well they were treated and their hopes for a future with these men.

  Some days it was too much for Nena to take in. Her mind was stretched with so many facts, so many details, so many new ideas. Northwomen warriors—even leaders, if she believed Jarl’s words.
Jarl not being the beast-man she had assumed all Northmen to be. Her body’s traitorous response to him. The way these women accepted their lot and their bizarre ideas on assimilating with their captors. Had this always been the way of the world? Had being a Teclan so shielded her? Was she truly as naive as Altene said? Sometimes her mind hurt when it was time to sleep at the end of the day.

  “What do you think of that, Princess?” Altene’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She always used Jarl’s pet name for her, but when Altene said it, it was more as an epithet. “Have you ever feared for your life when you went to get water? Or wondered where your next meal would come from because your village was gone? I think not. You Teclan have no idea of what others endure in their everyday lives.”

  “I know I will never accept being a captive, and I will never forget who I am. No matter how long it takes—weeks or years, one day I will escape and return to my people.”

  “And that may be fine for you; you have some place to go back to. We must find a new home, a new tribe.”

  “The Northmen are not a tribe,” Nena maintained.

  “Aren’t they?” Altene countered. “I would say, not only are they a tribe, they are the strongest tribe.”

  Several of the other women nodded in agreement.

  Nena didn’t argue. She wasn’t up to it. It took too much effort and her own thoughts were too conflicted to mount a proper argument. Every new thing she learned challenged the black and white world she knew, each new concept adding another shade of gray.

  JARL REACHED FOR the tent flap to call for Altene, then changed his mind and stepped out into the warm night air. He needed a release, but Altene was not who he wanted. The prospect of spending an uninterrupted evening alone in the tent with Nena was a physically uncomfortable one, and tonight, it would most likely be uninterrupted. The first village from this latest grouping of targets had fallen with little resistance to their swords that morning. His men would all be celebrating.

  After the ease of today’s victory, he knew the men were already eager to move on the next settlement. He would finalize the plans tomorrow and they would attack it soon, maybe even the following day. Jarl nodded to his guards and made his way toward the loudest sounds of revelry. He found Tryggr there.

  “Ah, Jarl. Come to join us for a drink. It’s been too long. Come, come.” Tryggr waved him to a chair.

  “Is there any left?” Jarl asked dubiously, noting the flushed color of Tryggr’s face nearly matched his hair.

  “Plenty,” Tryggr answered and handed Jarl a half full bottle.

  Jarl took a swig without waiting for a mug. His face twisted and he coughed at the stoutness of the brew. “What the hell?”

  Tryggr laughed. “Horace just finished this fine concoction. Only the gods know what’s in it. I, myself, am too afraid to ask. Probably not quite the quality fare you’re used to?”

  “It’ll do.” Jarl said and took another swallow. “Where’s Gunnar?” he asked after he caught his breath from the second dose of the burning liquid.

  “He was here briefly, but you know Gunnar—unable to resist a beautiful woman. Some new one caught his eye today, and he couldn’t wait long enough to even share a proper drink with friends.”

  Jarl nodded. Gunnar’s appreciation of women was well known. “How fare you after today’s battle?”

  “Not a scratch today. I am fully returned to form. And you? How fare you with your wild Teclan woman? Still have her chained to the tent pole? Or have you finally been able to secure her to your man pole yet?”

  “I’m getting there,” Jarl replied.

  “That’s a no, then.”

  “You do not understand the principles of taming, Tryggr. It’s the same as breaking a fine horse. Choose a strong-willed one and take your time, and the results will far surpass your expectations. Rush the process, and you will be left with little of worth.” Jarl took another long pull from the bottle and exhaled sharply through his clenched teeth. “Though that is probably why you still ride an oversized plow horse. My stallion fights beneath me like an additional weapon, often taking down more foe with his hooves and teeth than my sword. He does this now, but trust me, when I first captured him, he was as eager to kill me as the woman is.”

  “I ride an oversized plow horse because that’s the only thing big enough to carry me,” Tryggr objected. “And no matter what the method, Jarl, everyone gets around to riding them sooner or later. Maybe it’s time you just threw your saddle on her and see what happens.” Tryggr laughed and slapped his leg, then reached for the bottle and took another swig.

  Jarl shook his head. Tryggr would never understand. He was a good and trusted friend, but they were very different men. Tryggr lived and fought by brute strength alone, and it had served him well. His only battle loss had come at Jarl’s hand, and from that Tryggr had sworn his undying loyalty, but it had not changed him.

  “No, but seriously,” Tryggr continued when his laughter had abated. “I’m telling you, you’re not thinking clearly. She’s not like your horse that will fight by your side for years to come. What difference does it make what she thinks of you, or if she’s a bit battered by the experience? She’ll recover; they all do.” He shrugged and took another drink. “And soon we’ll be returning home.” When Jarl did not respond, Tryggr paused and regarded him closely. “You can’t possibly think to have a future with her? As what? As bed slave? As wife? Do you think to marry her and take her home to the North? She’s never even seen snow, Jarl. She knows nothing of surviving in the cold, and nothing of our ways. Will she gather wood and keep a fire in your hearth? Tend to your cottage and rear your brats? Is that what you see?” He didn’t wait for Jarl to answer. “No, it’s not, because you haven’t thought any farther ahead than fucking her. So do it. It’s consuming your thoughts. For the sake of the gods, man, go do it now. Throw her to the furs and get this madness out of your system.”

  Nena was kneeling, balanced on the balls of her feet, when he entered. She looked up at him. It was early for him to be retiring to his furs. But Jarl wasn’t looking at the furs. He was looking at her. Her pulse quickened. Something was off. Something had changed. She stood in one fluid movement to face him.

  Every fiber in her body sensed him. Her eyes. Her ears. Even her skin felt for tiny wind currents. It was her warrior training. The Teclan were thought by their enemies to have reflexes of lightning, but in truth they were no quicker than any other Dor. They were just taught from a young age to be aware—to sense their opponent with all their senses, not just their eyes. And even with their eyes, they learned to see differently. Not to see the sword blade as it was pulled from the scabbard, but to see the fingers as they twitched or trembled before they gripped the hilt. To see the slight flaring of their enemy’s nostrils as they inhaled before lunging. Through those small silent almost invisible signals, the opponent telegraphed what their next move would be long before they made it. The Teclan saw and felt it all.

  Without a word, Jarl came closer, not stopping until he stood only inches from her. Her senses screamed at his nearness. She could not turn them off, and they continued to bombard her with signals of imminent danger. His eyes were the deep green of when he was aroused. She smelled the smoke on his clothes from the cook fires outside, the harsh scent of lye soap on his skin, and the alcohol on his breath. His masculine energy ran unchecked between them, filling the small space like a living thing. Nena did not step back or shrink away. There was nowhere for her to go—a few feet in either direction to the end of her chain, and the result would be the same. She would not show fear. She dare not excite the predator response in him. Every warrior knew that if attacked by the lion, never to run, but to remain as still as possible and hope the beast would lose interest. Nena called upon that training now.

  Jarl reached up and touched her face, stroking from her temple down over her cheek to the line of her jaw. She remained perfectly still, but the track of his fingertips left a stinging burn as if he had slapped her. His
touch was gentle, but Nena could see his entire body was as taut as hers. She held his gaze, unmoving, grasping at every shred of her discipline to do so.

  With Tryggr’s words fresh in his ears, Jarl stood before her, taking in every detail. Her eyes, dark unreadable pools, held his. The curve of her lips, her exotic scent and her warmth beckoned him. Her proud strength combined with her almost innocent sensuality filled his senses, and it was far more intoxicating than the liquor he had just consumed. He could only imagine how having her would feel.

  “Do I frighten you?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “Free my hands and give me a weapon, and I will show you,” she murmured.

  Nena’s senses first reported the unusual indents in his cheeks beginning to form, then the softening at the corners of his eyes, before his lips twitched and he smiled a rueful smile. He grunted and nodded, appreciating her response. Her words had broken the spell.

  “Yes, I imagine you would. But know that I will tame you. There has never been anything in my life that I wanted that I could not win.” He paused and exhaled slowly as his eyes gave her one final admiring exploration. “Though I must admit, you are turning out to be a far greater challenge than I had anticipated.”

  The next morning a messenger arrived from the healer, bringing word of a sickness spreading among the prisoners. The cases were few, he reported, so Nena was surprised at the level of Jarl’s concern—even more surprised when he postponed the attack on the second target within their range. As the number of cases grew, the senior healer became a frequent visitor to Jarl’s tent. Each of his reports were more grim than the last.

  “It’s the Curse, my lord, worse than I’ve ever seen in years past, but it is definitely the Northman’s Curse,” he announced one evening.

  “How many have we lost so far?” Jarl asked.