Nena
Page 15
“What information would you consider valuable enough to keep someone?”
“Their language and customs, if they are strange to us.”
“So you had a Northman prisoner?”
“Three of them—at different times.”
“What happened to them? Do they live?”
“No.”
“How did you convince them to teach you? By torture?”
“The first one, yes, but once we were able to learn more of your culture, we offered them what they all wanted most. A good death.”
Jarl leaned back and rubbed his chin. “What do you know of that?”
“I know that your gods reward you for dying with sword in hand by sending you to a better place in your afterlife, Valhalla.”
“So these men, your prisoners, were given a chance to fight?”
She nodded. “Trial by combat.”
“And none won?”
She shook her head.
“Were they fair fights?”
She frowned at him, insulted. “Of course.”
She seemed sincere. He changed the subject. “Surely there is something that you need or want that you cannot always acquire in raids. Is trading forbidden?” Jarl asked.
“Forbidden? No.” She shook her head and thought for a moment. “My father does not trust other tribes to meet with them to barter. Such meetings, wherever they took place, would ultimately make us vulnerable to betrayal. Either out in the open, in their lands, or if we allowed them through our defenses onto the mountain.” She paused. “But it is more than that. My father would be insulted to sit with a lesser man and have him dictate or negotiate terms as an equal. Teclan do not negotiate. We take. Even friendly tribes who we have marriage alliances with, we do not trust. We do not raid them, but they are not our equals.”
“I’ve never known a people who did not always want more—more jewels, more horses, more something.”
“A man can only ride so many horses, Jarl, but he must feed them all. And you can only wear so many jewels. Gold and gems never spoil or die. Every jewel that has ever been taken by a Teclan warrior, since the beginning of time, remains with the Teclan. Most are passed down from mothers to their daughters.”
“So do you have your own stockpile of jewels?” he asked with a smile, still not fully believing her.
“Of course. My mother was the daughter of a chief and then wife to a chief, so mine may be even larger than most,” she said matter-of-factly.
“And do you have so many that you keep them in a chest like that?” He nodded to the chest on the table behind him where he kept the jewels from their raids.
Nena looked at it, gauging its size, then shrugged. “Something similar, but much larger.”
Jarl set down his fork and leaned back in his chair, sure now that she was having sport with him. “And all Teclan women have such a collection,” he reaffirmed.
She nodded.
“So all a man would have to do is take the Teclan stronghold, and he would be wealthy beyond his wildest imagination.”
Now it was Nena’s turn to smile. “Yes, that is all a man would have to do.” Her smile grew larger at the thought.
“I’ve heard that it’s well fortified, but for that kind of wealth, surely it is possible,” Jarl said.
“Surely it is not,” Nena disagreed. “Since the Teclan have been on the mountain, as far back as even the oldest stories can recall, never has a foreign force been successful in taking the mountain. Never. And many have tried.”
“Hnf,” Jarl grunted.
“My family could afford a great ransom for my return,” she said, suddenly serious. He had not mentioned it again since she had first been captured.
He looked deep into her eyes while he considered her offer.
“I think I now understand your people’s position on trade, and in this I must agree with you. When you already have what you want, there is no reason to barter for even a large quantity of something else—even something of great value. Especially if what you have is irreplaceable. I already have what I want. And it is not a ransom.”
THE SLAVER’S CARAVAN set up camp on the northern edge of the Northmen’s tents, and from what Nena heard, it was quite a spectacle. Her rides had been curtailed until the business with him was over, so she had yet to lay eyes on it, but the other women said the slaver’s tent was as red as the reddest sun before it sank in the west. And they said he dressed himself in silks and jewels finer than any woman. The women who bathed her were all more talkative than usual—with the sudden unexpected absence of Altene.
She’d been sent to please the slaver.
Nena shivered in the warm water. What was Altene experiencing in that very moment? What was she having to do? How could she do it? Where did her spirit go when it was happening? Did she have a warrior’s soothing place? And while she did it, did she smile and moan and pretend to want him as she did Jarl? For all of Altene’s bravado, Nena knew she cared deeply for Jarl. A feeling that, while he was affectionate toward her, Jarl did not return. And to be given by the man she cared for to service another? And not just another—a slaver?
For the first time, Nena truly felt sorry for Altene. She was nothing more than an animal to these Northmen, and while Jarl may have been kind to her, he was no different. Nena knew she had to remember that. In the face of his kind words and acts, she had to keep her feelings hardened toward him. If she did not escape, that could very well be her one day. Jarl pretended to care about her now, and maybe he even did, but had he felt the same once for Altene?
Nena had thought her only two possible futures were to escape or to be loaded onto a ship and taken to the frigid North. Now she realized there might very well be a third option. This slave trader dealt in all goods, and, if he was smart, he would surely recognize her value to her family. Perhaps he would help her to escape—for his own substantial reward, of course. Nena couldn’t wait to see him. Couldn’t wait to see if he was from a tribe who was friendly, or would want to be friendly with the Teclan. To slip him a message to negotiate ransom with her father or brother. But wait she did. It was two days before he was presented at Jarl’s tent. Two days while he took preliminary inventory of the other items. Two days that Altene remained absent.
When the guards outside the tent announced his presence, Nena saw Jarl scowl. Tryggr looked up from filling two polished silver chalices with some of their finest wine and saw it, too. “For the gods’ sakes, Jarl,” he whispered, “if you can’t be nice to him, at least try not to look like he is some animal scat you just scraped off your boot. You may be the greatest at acquiring treasure, but you’re the worst at bartering it.”
“But he does remind me of something I stepped in,” Jarl replied.
“I know. He’s disgusting,” Tryggr agreed. “There’s no doubt about that, but he’ll be bringing us chests of gold in a few weeks. I choose to focus on that, and you should, too. Everything is set here; there’s food and wine, and I’ve already shown him everything outside: the slaves, the extra horses, the weapons. All you have to do is work out the price.”
The guard shifted his weight at the entrance at the delay.
“Do you want me to stay?” Tryggr asked hopefully.
“No. I’ll be fine,” Jarl said.
“Just try not to insult him like you did last time,” were Tryggr’s parting words under his breath.
Nena’s eyes were riveted on the tent opening. In a cloud of red swirling silks and cloying fragrance, the slaver made his entrance. Her hopes were dashed as soon as she saw his face. He was a Worick.
“Liars, murderers, thieves and poisoners.” Her father had described them. “They are cunning and cruel, but cowards to a one. Never trust a Worick.” He had counseled her and her brothers repeatedly. “They will not fight like men, but are equally as dangerous as the most skilled Teclan warrior. Never forget it.” Nena never had.
Woricks’ skin color was only a few shades darker than the Dor, yet they were easily disting
uished from any other people of the region. Their custom of binding the sides of the heads of their children produced a characteristic oblong skull, further accentuated by their naturally long narrow faces. If the bulging back of their heads were not enough, the Woricks’ fascination with body piercing truly set them apart. They did not wear their jewelry as others did around their necks or on their fingers and arms. They attached it to themselves permanently, and they believed more was better. Though only his face and hands were exposed, it was enough to see this Worick was no exception.
On his face were three nearly solid lines of penetrating gold rings. Some were so thick and heavy they left sagging dark holes in his skin. The first line began at the top of both of his ears, ran across his temples and along the full length of both of his eyebrows. The gold arches met in the middle between his eyes, joined there by a single gold-rimmed ruby. The second line started mid-ear and coursed across his cheekbones, meeting on the bridge of his nose, then running in a single line down to the tip. The final lines started at the base of both ears and traveled along his lower jaw, stopping just shy of his chin. From there, his thin black beard was greased stiff and pulled to a long point. Even it was adorned at the bottom with a large gold nugget woven into the tip.
The Worick hadn’t seen her. His eyes were on Jarl. A false smile covered his thin elongated face as if he were greeting a long lost friend. With Tryggr’s words fresh in his ears, Jarl attempted to smile back, but managed only a grimace. His lips parted in the normal fashion, but no depressions formed in his cheeks, and there was no crinkling around his eyes. His eyes were hard. Nena had never seen him this way. Not even when he was freshly returned from battle. She could feel the open hostility simmering just beneath his surface.
“Greetings, Piltor,” Jarl acknowledged the stranger and waved him toward the table.
“Greetings, Jarl,” the Worick replied. “I must thank you for your most appreciated and generous gift of Altene. I understand she is your most often chosen, and I can see why. As a man in my position, I did not think I could be surprised by a woman’s talents, but she is a gem, and a varied one at that. My appetites tend to be…shall we say…unique, and I found her to be most accommodating.”
Jarl scowled and Nena cringed.
After the initial pleasantries, for what they were, were exchanged, the Worick continued, “I hear you have a tiger skin. Is it here? May I see it?”
A tiger skin? Her tournament gift from Dorac? It seemed a lifetime ago and she had not seen it since, but of course the Northmen would have recognized its value and taken it.
Piltor glanced around the tent, his eyes seeking the hide, but finding Nena. “And what have we here?” he murmured in appreciation and moved toward her before Jarl could respond. His eyes were like clammy hands touching her everywhere, leaving cold slimy trails on her skin. Nena shuddered. The Worick was close now, circling her, taking in every inch of her. His eyes discovered the Teclan star, the lightning bolt, and the open circle on her arm. He sucked in his breath.
“Unbelievable,” he whispered. “I see you have saved the most valuable for last, Jarl. She is splendorous,” he said, drawing out the final “s” to a soft hiss.
Nena stared at his thin wet lips, fully expecting to see a forked tongue slither from between them. He turned to look toward Jarl, giving her a full close up view of his profile and the freakish egg-shaped bulging back of his head. He was the most revolting human being she had ever seen.
“She is not for sale,” Jarl said.
Piltor laughed. “You’re negotiating has improved, my friend. That is one of my favorite and most successful tactics when I see a customer openly covets one of my treasures. First, frighten him with it being unavailable, then the price will not matter. But everything is for sale.” His voice trailed off. “I must admit, she so took me by surprise that I have shown you my desire, and know I will now have to pay dearly for it. What is the price?”
“I said she’s not for sale,” Jarl repeated, his voice tight.
Piltor laughed again. “That is not how this works, Jarl. Now you are to pretend to consider to sell her, as if it had only just crossed your mind. Then make up some lie about how maybe you could do it, but only for a good friend, such as I. I’m sure you must think you know what she’s worth, but I doubt you truly do. The pleasure houses in Anbai will pay more for her than everything else you have here combined. And not because she’s beautiful—though she is that. You have many beautiful captives. She is Teclan. And not only a Teclan, but the virgin daughter of Meln.” He whistled between his teeth and shook his head as if he still could not believe it. “I don’t think you can imagine what they would pay.
“The Teclan may be respected, Jarl, but they are not loved. Many men have lost things at the ends of their spears and swords. Many who would relish the opportunity to get back at them.” He nodded at Nena. “She would provide a most enjoyable way to do so.”
Piltor mistook Jarl’s silence for consideration. “She will be as well-cared for as any slave ever was—to ensure her longevity, of course. And she will be trained,” he murmured, lost briefly in his own imaginings. “Perhaps as good as Altene. If you would like, I could include in our negotiations a free night with her, or two, on your next visit to our lands. I can guarantee I will include at least one for myself. Though not her first night,” he sighed wistfully. “I could not come close to being able to afford that.”
Piltor reached out toward her breast as if to sample the quality of the wares.
Nena shrank away, sure now that a passage north and a lifetime in a frozen hell were much preferable to spending any time with this vile man. She twisted her body out of his reach to the full extent of her bindings, unable to heed her earlier council to stay still for the lion and not excite the predator’s urges. The slaver only smiled and stepped closer.
Nena stared down horrified as his hand closed the distance between them. His energy, she sensed, was dark and twisted—as alive as Jarl’s had been when he was close. But unlike Jarl’s that was warm and vibrant, the Worick’s energy was cold and wriggling. Any second his hand would touch her, and she would feel the cool slime she had only imagined before. So focused was she on his fingertips, she did not see Jarl moving across the tent toward them. Out of nowhere, his hand slapped down on Piltor’s wrist, seizing it and jerking it away.
The Worick grunted in pain. Jarl’s eyes were the color of dark slate, and his face bore an expression Nena had never seen before—a cold hard fury she had not known him capable of. She could see the muscles of his forearm bulging as he applied more pressure to the man’s wrist. She wondered if at any moment she would hear bones breaking. She hoped so.
But then Jarl released him, a smaller version of the false tense smile back on his lips. “As I said before, she is not for sale.” His eyes glittered dangerously, challenging the man to ask again. But Jarl had made his point. The Worick only nodded as he rubbed his wrist.
“I stand corrected, Jarl. Perhaps everything does not have a price.”
The negotiations after that were brief. The price the Worick offered for the remaining items seemed low to Nena, but she had no way of knowing. As he moved toward the tent opening to leave, he paused and took one last lingering, appreciative look at her before he exited. Nena again felt the slimy tracks of his eyes where they touched her. Jarl bristled. Then, in a flash of red silk, the Worick was gone.
Tryggr entered soon after, an expectant smile on his face. “Well? How did it go? Will we soon be rich men? Piltor seemed to leave in a twist; did you drive a hard bargain?”
Jarl relayed the offered price.
“What?” Tryggr said incredulous. “That’s impossible.” He shook his head while the number slowly sank in, then exploded. “What the fuck happened in here? It should have been twice that, at minimum, and you know it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jarl said.
“Doesn’t matter? Yes, Jarl, it does matter. Acquiring wealth is the whole purpose of our li
ttle expedition. We don’t come all this way to enjoy the weather. What happened? Did you insult him?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? Not exactly?” Tryggr blustered. “What does that mean? You only insulted him a little?”
“I may have almost broken his wrist,” Jarl admitted.
“Broken his wrist? For what?”
“He was sticking it where it did not belong.”
Tryggr glanced at the chest full of gems, then followed Jarl’s eyes to Nena.
“Her?” he asked, his voice very low. “Do not tell me it is because of her that he offers half. Do not tell me that my labors for the past months are now worth half because of some Dor bi....”
“Tryggr!” Jarl cut him off. “Mind your next words.”
The two men stared at each other in hard silence.
“So that is the way of it then?” Tryggr asked, his jaw clenched.
“It is,” Jarl said with finality.
Tryggr turned without another word and left the tent.
Jarl paced the tent like a caged animal, then slammed his fist down on the table so hard the plates and untouched cups of wine jumped and rattled. He ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a long look. Then he, too, left the tent, leaving Nena alone with her racing thoughts.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She could not stay here a moment longer. She struggled against the overwhelming urge to scream and jerk wildly against the cuffs until her wrists were bloody. She had to escape. The slaver was no hope. Jarl had made it clear he was not going to ransom her. The port loomed ever closer. She was out of options.
THE NEXT MORNING, Jarl called his higher ranking men to the tent to discuss the slaver’s offer and make plans. Tryggr was present, and though he pointedly ignored her, he and Jarl seemed to have come to some understanding.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that the Worick’s offer was half of what we expected,” Jarl said to the assembled men. “Even with the Curse, we’ve made very good time on this trip and are well ahead of schedule. There is plenty of time to make an additional short sweep to the east, here.” He pointed to one of the maps. “Or I would hear other thoughts.” He looked to the men.