by Ann Boelter
“You can sit there,” Tryggr said and pointed to a narrow spot between their packs. Once she was seated, he brushed past her and began to tie the flap closed. He had just finished and was surveying his handiwork when the first wave of rain hit. He waited for a moment, watching for leaks, then satisfied that it would hold, he stumbled back to his bundle of furs. Crammed inside with two sets of gear and tack, there was little room for either of them to move. They sat in awkward silence in the dim light as the rain pounded against the outside of the tent.
“Is that blood?” Tryggr asked, when she shifted her position and her dress fell away from her leg.
“It is nothing,” Altene said and pulled the material back to cover it.
“People don’t bleed for nothing,” he disagreed.
“The saddle has rubbed me raw on the insides of my knees. Your cream has been most helpful with the pain,” she elaborated.
“Let me see,” he said gruffly.
“It’s nothing,” she repeated.
“I’ll decide that, now let me see,” Tryggr demanded. Altene pulled up her dress and revealed the ugly purplish wound on the inside of one of her legs. Tryggr exhaled sharply. “I’ve never seen it so bad before. Your skin must be very soft.” He turned and rummaged through one of his packs. He pulled out a shirt and began ripping it into strips.
“Tryggr, really you don’t need to...”
“Hush up, woman, and present your leg.”
Altene did as he commanded.
Using a small strip of shirt and water, he first wiped the wound carefully, then smeared a thin layer of salve over the top. He wrapped a clean strip around her leg and tied the knot on the outside of her knee to secure the bandage. “Now the other leg,” he directed.
He frowned when he saw that it was worse, then cleaned and bandaged it, too.
“Gratitude, Tryggr,” Altene said when he was finished.
“Don’t go getting all soft on me. I would have done the same for one of the horses. You couldn’t ride for much longer like that, and when you started to slow us down, it might have been just enough to push Jarl over the edge. He’s halfway there already,” he muttered and shook his head. “I only tended to you to spare myself from having to listen to his ranting later, so don’t thank me. Get some sleep.”
“She did not stop,” the tracker reported to Jarl and Tryggr. “You see, these tracks here were made while the rain still fell. You can see the way the water poured into the print when the animal lifted its foot.”
Tryggr raised his eyebrows and shook his head, amazed. “I don’t see how that’s possible. You couldn’t see a damn thing in that rain.”
“She couldn’t either,” the tracker disclosed. “She was riding almost blind.”
“Almost?” Jarl asked.
“She used the river to guide her. I’ve found several places where she accidentally rode into the water. She couldn’t see a thing.”
“But she didn’t stop,” Jarl said, resigned to the fact that any news from the tracker these days was going to be bad.
“No,” the tracker confirmed.
“How far back are we now?” Jarl asked.
“It’s too hard to tell with the tracks being so wet. Once things dry out a bit and we get to tracks that were made on drier soil, I can tell you for sure, but she was not making good time.”
Jarl twisted his head and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he did the calculations in his head. The storm had kept them pinned down the first afternoon and night, and all the next day and night. Even if her pace was only at half speed, that put them at least another day and a half behind her. An additional day and a half on top of the lead she already had. How could she not have stopped?
“I know what you’re thinking, Jarl, but it’s not as bad as it sounds,” the tracker continued. “She’ll have to stop and rest some time. No one can go on forever without sleep. The time she made in the storm was very slow at best. We are all fairly rested now, and if we ride at normal speed today, we’ll have gained on her by nightfall—maybe quite a bit, depending on how long she stops for,” the tracker added.
NENA STOPPED THE horses at the base of the tall red cliffs. The Bloodcliff Gates. How many times had she returned from raids and felt their welcoming security? Why did she not feel it now? Where was the relief that her exhausting journey was at an end? Where was the elation that her escape was successful and she was free? Why did she not feel anything but numb? It had to be the Taymen.
“We are here,” she said to Exanthia who was back on her own horse, trailing at the moment. “We’ve made it. These are the Bloodcliffs that keep us safe on the mountain. No enemy has ever passed through them and lived. You see on the top.” Nena pointed up to the rim. “Warriors man these cliffs day and night. When you are older, and a warrior, you will do the same.”
Exanthia said nothing, only stared at the imposing red monoliths.
“Come,” Nena said, as she led the way into the narrow canyon between the sheer rock walls. They had made it only a short distance inside when the trail turned and wove through a patch of large boulders. “These are here to slow an enemy. They prevent wagons or large groups of men from being able to pass in a rush,” Nena explained. Before she could continue, she was interrupted by the sound of pounding hooves. She looked further up the canyon, beyond the boulder field. Hard riding Teclan warriors bore down on them. In that moment Nena could see how terrifying they must be to an outsider. In her current state, still jittery and numb from the Taymen root, they were almost intimidating to her. She turned back to Exanthia and reassured her. “Have no fear. You are safe with me, and these are your people now.”
Teclan warriors surrounded them, their faces stony masks, though Nena could tell they were excited to see her. She recognized them all. There was Gentok, who, though only a few years older, had been one of her weapons trainers. Nena regarded him with fondness and respect. Then there was Baldor, a larger heavily-muscled warrior, whose sister had chosen her older brother Lothor. He was a fierce warrior, and though he was brother’s closest friend and her own brother-in law, Nena had never particularly cared for him.
“You have returned, Nena. Your father will be very pleased,” Gentok welcomed her.
“My father? He lives?” She tried, but could not keep the emotion from her voice.
“Yes,” Gentok replied. “Your father is a strong man, and though his injuries were grave, the gods have mended him.”
“And my brother? Ruga?” The words were out before she could stop them.
Gentok shook his head. “Your brother rides in the afterlife.”
Nena nodded.
Baldor rode beside her, interrupting them. He made no attempt to hide his examination of the circle on her arm, before taking an exaggerated look around, pretending to look for a husband who was clearly not there. “It is just the two of you then?” he asked.
“Yes,” Nena replied, and fought back a wave of annoyance.
That brought a hint of a smile to Baldor’s lips. He looked her over again with more familiarity than she cared for. Men from her village had looked at her before, but when it was the gods’ choice, it had been more with a wistful longing—never this kind of boldness. It would be an adjustment for her, but she had to accept the fact that men would be this way now—and Baldor was one of the more qualified candidates. Her stomach twisted.
“And what have we here? A prisoner?” Baldor turned his attention to the girl and bumped his horse into hers. He raised his hand as if to strike her. Exanthia’s eyes were wide with fright, but she kept her chin up and did not flinch away.
“Leave her!” Nena’s command rang out in the narrow canyon. Baldor hesitated, his earlier familiarity with her gone. Nena drove her mare between Baldor and Exanthia’s horses, forcing his mount to back away to make room for her. Her hand rested ready on the hilt of her sword while her eyes remained fixed on Baldor’s face, daring him to defy her. Nena did not fear him, and not because she was the daughter o
f Meln. Though he was nearly twice her size, she knew Baldor relied too much on his size and strength and less on skill. She was fully confident in her ability to back up her command. “She is no captive. She is my ward and under my protection. Any who take issue with her, take issue with me.”
The other warriors looked to Baldor with interest, awaiting his response to her clear challenge. Nena’s reputation as a skilled fighter was well known—not to mention how it would look to the tribe if Baldor were to exchange blows with her on her long awaited return home. Baldor nodded curtly and turned his horse away. Without another word, he moved to the front of the group and waited for the others to fall in behind him.
Though she outranked him, Nena did not challenge him again or assert her claim to lead the small band. Nor would she have done so had any of the others taken that position. She was too physically exhausted and mentally drained. She did not wish to be responsible for any more decisions, even simple ones. For now, she was content to follow. With Exanthia riding close behind her, and Gentok and the other warriors bringing up the rear, they began to make their way up the mountain.
As the horses climbed the rugged, but well-worn trail into the trees, Nena waited to feel at home. Everything was so familiar. There was the large boulder that had rolled across the trail last year after heavy spring rains. And the great pine whose trunk took three men to encircle with their arms. It had been struck by lightning four summers ago and survived, but since then, stood only half of its previous height. There was even the same small patch of purple wildflowers that grew in the boggy spot on the edge of the trail. Nena could have been blindfolded and dropped at any point along the way and known exactly where she was within seconds of opening her eyes. So how, though she recognized it all, did it somehow still feel foreign to her?
Her father was waiting for them outside of his tent with her brother, Lothor, standing slightly behind him. As her father stepped forward to greet her, Nena slid from her horse, struggling to hide her emotions and to not react to the hideous scars that covered what had been his right eye and the upper right half of his face. Even the bones of his skull beneath them were sunken and misshapen. How had he survived such an injury? Perhaps Altene had not been lying after all when she reported a man saw Meln fall to a battle-axe. That would explain so much—why the other six fallen Teclan warriors had not been placed in sky graves. How had he possibly managed even one for her brother, Ruga?
Nena knelt before him, and Meln placed his hand on the back of her head in an uncharacteristic emotional gesture.
“Nena, my child. It is good to see you well.”
“And you, Father,” she acknowledged. She stood then, but they did not embrace.
“And who is this child?” Meln nodded to the girl who had also dismounted and stood behind her.
“This is Exanthia.” Nena reached back and pulled her forward, then stood with her hand protectively on the girl’s shoulder. Her father had been fearsome to strangers before, but Nena was sure his mangled, scarred countenance had to be truly terrifying now. “She is brave and strong, and I bring her as my ward to join the Teclan.”
Meln’s brow furrowed. It was an extremely unusual request. Very few outsiders were ever accepted into the tribe, and usually only then as the result of marriage.
Sensing his indecision, Nena continued. “I was bloodsworn to her by another Dor when I was held prisoner. I could not escape and leave her to suffer the penalty for my actions. But she is more than that. She is strong deep within. Teclan strong, and I make this a formal request.”
Her father paused for a moment, then nodded his acceptance. Nena breathed a sigh of relief. The chief’s blessing was required for any outsider to join the tribe.
“The gods have chosen for you?” her father asked.
Nena was caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Yes, Father,” she answered.
Lothor scowled.
Her father nodded, seeming disappointed but not surprised. He knew the circumstances under which he had last seen his daughter. He knew only capture by the Northmen, or an injury such as his, would have kept her away from home for so long. She was clearly not so injured.
“With the gods’ choice behind you, there is no reason for you to delay choosing a warrior from among the tribe.”
“Yes, Father,” Nena replied, biting back all the things she wanted to say. After thinking she was dead, that was his first concern?
“And you have used the Taymen?” he asked, shifting the conversation again suddenly, as direct as ever.
Her brother looked away, his scowl deepening. Lothor had yet to say a word, which was not unusual, but something about his demeanor was off—something more than his normal stern manner. Nena sensed disapproval when he looked at her. She tried to read his face to pinpoint the source, but he would not meet her eyes. Was it the girl? Or that she had used the Taymen? She couldn’t be sure. In her current wrung out state, she couldn’t even be sure that what she was feeling was real.
“Yes, Father. It was a long journey home, and I feared pursuit. To avoid recapture, I used the Taymen to stay awake. We have just come all the way from the Great Sea. While we were there, Darna provided me with a small piece,” Nena explained. She hoped the mention of her strict aunt would alleviate any concerns he had about her being a habituate.
Her father nodded. “Then you will need rest. We will talk more later.”
Her aunt, Jalla, rushed forward and hugged her, then held her at arm’s length to take in her whole appearance. “Nena. It is true. You live, and you are well. Come. Both of you. You must eat and rest. You will both share my tent from now on. It will be so nice to have female company and the fresh energy of youth,” her aunt babbled without waiting for a single response. “What a beautiful girl,” Jalla said as she turned to Exanthia and stroked her hair. “And if Nena says you are brave, then you must be nigh as brave as Meln himself. Nena does not speak such words readily.”
Exanthia seemed to melt before Nena’s eyes, responding to Jalla’s soft comforting words. She looked to Nena, awaiting her approval before she followed this new woman. Nena had given no thought to where they would live when they arrived. Her focus had been only on reaching their destination. Though her father’s youngest sister, Jalla, had always been her favorite, and had practically raised her and her brothers after their mother died, Nena balked at the idea of living with her. Her father had asked no questions about her time as a prisoner, but she knew her aunt would have no such reservations. She would expect to hear details of the last few months.
Nena had shared her father’s tent with Ruga before the tournament, but how could she ask that now of Exanthia? Or her father? She glanced back at the young girl who was awaiting her decision, her eyes filled with hope. After everything Exanthia had endured—losing her mother, their hell-bent travel pace, Baldor’s terrifying welcome and then seeing her frightful new chief, Nena knew she could not deny her this. She nodded and they followed Jalla back to her tent.
Jalla dished them each a bowl of rabbit stew. Nena could feel her aunt’s eyes on the circle on her arm as she fluttered around them, but she made no mention of it. Nena knew that would not last. “And did I hear you say you saw Darna?” Jalla asked. “How is she? Is she well?”
“She was when we left. The Sea Tribe was preparing for an impending attack.”
“An attack? From who?” Jalla asked.
“The Northmen,” Exanthia volunteered. “The same ones who held us as prisoners. We delivered a warning to the Sea Tribe to save them.”
Jalla looked to Nena to elaborate, but she was eating mechanically, staring unfocussed into her bowl. “It is early. Would you like to go to the baths when you have finished eating?” Jalla asked.
“I need to sleep,” Nena declined, her response clipped. Even though she knew she would sleep better without the layers of travel grime on her skin, she could not face other women right now. Could not answer their questions or feel their probing eyes on her. Coul
d not see their pity as they imagined her treatment at the hands of the Northmen. Could not hear their suggestions about who she should choose. “I used the root of the Taymen,” she said to excuse her behavior and her absence.
Her aunt nodded. “Of course. And how about you?” Jalla turned to Exanthia. “Are you also too tired? Or would you like to have a nice relaxing bath with me and see some of the village?”
“I am not too tired. I was able to sleep while we rode. Nena let me ride behind her on her horse and held my hands so I would not fall while I slept.” It was clear Exanthia had no intentions of letting Jalla escape from her sight.
“Very good then. You and I will go, and we will let Nena rest,” Jalla said. “And on the way back, we’ll gather more sleeping furs so there are enough for the three of us.”
After the two had left and Nena heard their voices becoming fainter as they moved away, she looked around the tent. It was filled with things she had known since she was a child. Colorful carpets, hand woven in intricate patterns, covered the walls and floor. Large clay pots, filled with grains and herbs, lined the walls along the floor. A tall rack for drying meat stood folded and empty in the corner next to the shelves that held Jalla’s many assorted jars and vials of medicinal ointments and powders. Her survey faltered as it passed over the tent flap. There were the three small red hand prints she and her two brothers had made with war paint on the inside of the flap when they were young.
Her eyes welled with tears. She dashed them away with the back of her hand and shook her head, but they continued to flow. What was wrong with her? She had not cried since she was a child. And she would not cry now. She was home. It had to be the Taymen root that was making her irritable and emotional. She just needed to sleep. Without undressing, Nena curled up on top of her aunt’s furs and closed her eyes.