by Ann Boelter
“I don’t know.” Tryggr shook his head, his face reddened from the wine. “These gates have a reputation for a reason. Perhaps there is more beyond that we cannot see, some obstacle that would prevent such a charge—a blockade further inside to slow or even stop us. If that was the case we’d be sitting ducks. Their archers would wreak havoc on us, double shields or no.
“And say we made it past the first round of their defenses, then what?” Tryggr continued. “Do you think that’s all they have? Do you think we’ll just march in and take their village? We’ll be advancing blind, and they’ll most likely have traps. These Teclan are not to be underestimated. They’ve known we were here from the beginning. They’ll be ready for us. And they don’t fight like any of the other Dor we’ve encountered. Hell, look at what one woman did to my ear.”
“I disagree.” The scout interrupted, shaking his head. “There would be no reason for them to have significant reinforcements beyond the cliffs. No army has ever made it past them before. And while I’m not saying they won’t fight, they’ll be disorganized, and we’ll have the advantage. They’re set up to repel an attack coming from in front of them—from outside the cliff walls. Once we are inside, they lose that advantage. Everything becomes equal. And unlike Tryggr, I’m not afraid to fight a woman.” He raised his cup to Tryggr while the other men laughed. Tryggr’s encounter with Nena was still a sore spot they loved to poke, but only when Jarl was present for protection.
“Why you little fuck. I’ll show you afraid,” Tryggr roared.
“That’s enough. Everyone settle down,” Jarl intervened. He turned to the scout. “Gratitude for your report and your opinions on the matter. I agree with you and Tryggr both. No matter what area we choose, some would make it through, but for the rest it would be a slaughter.” Jarl’s voice was filled with resignation. He had come to the same conclusion many times. “You may go now. Get some rest. And there’s no need to send out more scouts in the morning. I’ve seen enough.”
Thankful that Jarl had finally come to his senses, Tryggr breathed a sigh of relief. He drained the last of the wine from his cup and waved Altene off from refilling it, as all of the other men, except for Gunnar, stood and filed away. Leaning back, he waited for Jarl’s next words, fully expecting for them to be instructions to break camp in the morning and return to the ships.
Jarl picked up his own cup and took his first drink of the night, then looked up at the three of them.
“Tomorrow morning, I go in alone,” he said.
ALTENE GASPED.
Tryggr and Gunnar both stared at Jarl dumbfounded for many seconds before Tryggr exploded. “Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s madness! These Teclan are not to be trifled with, Jarl.”
Gunnar nodded in agreement.
“I know,” Jarl said.
“You know? You know?” Tryggr spluttered. “That’s all you can say? You would risk your life for this woman? Hell—not risk, there would be no risk. You would throw away your life for her? It’s suicide, Jarl. Do I need to remind you, you didn’t fall for some peaceful river tribe lass—one that we could go take back without receiving so much as a scratch. These are Teclan—the most brutal fighters in the land. What is your plan? You’ll just go in and ask them to hand her over?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I’ll let you know when I get back.” Jarl smiled a small smile.
“You won’t get back,” Tryggr countered. “And if you did, it would likely be without a tongue, so I’d still never hear your tale.”
“She’s carrying my child.” Jarl attempted to justify his rash decision.
“Oh, fuck that. You don’t even know that for sure. And even if it were true, do you have any idea how many red-haired bastards I’ve left in our camp’s wake? You don’t see me chasing after their mother’s skirts, do you? If you want a child so badly, live and make another. And if it must be a part Dor child—make one with her,” he thumbed his hand at Altene. “She pleased you for a long time.”
“She doesn’t please me now,” Jarl said.
“Fuck that,” Tryggr repeated, grumbling under his breath.
“If I don’t make it back, you’ll have the helm of The Huntress,” Jarl said to Tryggr.
“I don’t want the fucking helm, Jarl. I’ve actually been thinking for some time now, it may be time to retire—to enjoy my golden years. A man can only fight, fuck and loot for so long and I think I’ve finally reached that point—well, at least for the fighting and looting,” he corrected himself. “I used to laugh at those old bastards we left at pretty places along the way, but now I see their point. It might not be so bad to settle down in one place, drink pints of mead and have a woman look after me.” He darted a quick glance at Altene. “No more saddle sores. No more wounds to heal. The only reason I’ve kept at it this long is to keep your bloody ass safe, and now you want to piss it away?”
“What do you think, Gunnar?” Jarl asked.
“I don’t like it, but I don’t have a better plan.”
“I thought you liked the bull rush plan?” Tryggr turned his attack on Gunnar. “I had my own doubts about it, but it beats the hell out of this.”
“The bull rush is still the best plan to get the army, or as much of it as possible, through their defenses, but that does not achieve Jarl’s goal.” Gunnar had come to Jarl’s earlier conclusion. “In accomplishing that and taking their village, we might very well kill her in the process, or at the very least, kill those she knows and loves. Either way, Jarl loses.”
“And what exactly do you think he’ll win when he’s dead?” Tryggr demanded, hurling his empty cup into the fire, sending up a spray of sparks.
“Peace,” Gunnar said. The word hung on the air for several seconds before Gunnar continued. “Jarl will either succeed and have his woman back, or be in Valhalla. One way or the other, he will have peace.”
“Don’t do this,” Altene whispered feverishly to Jarl after Gunnar and Tryggr had left. She clutched his arm. “Nena was not pregnant. I only said that because I thought you would not follow her. I lied to you.”
“Or are you lying now?” Jarl asked quietly. “Can you swear to me with certainty she is not carrying my child?” It was still the only thing that made sense to him. The only thing that could have spooked her and made her change so suddenly. His heart could not accept anything else. Tryggr was wrong about it being false. He had felt it. He had felt their bond.
Altene paused while she recounted her last conversation with Nena, how she had withheld the herb, and her flippant words about Nena’s last night with Jarl being unprotected.
“I thought not,” Jarl answered for her.
“Then take me with you,” Altene said.
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
“You will need a translator.”
“No,” Jarl repeated. “Besides you already told me they understand my language, and you were right.”
“That is true, but you will not understand theirs, and you might need someone to explain their beliefs and laws. That is why you brought me along, isn’t it?” she asked.
“That all sounds good, but I’m not anticipating this being a civilized affair where they allow me to represent myself and consult my counsel. I think it’s going to be pretty straightforward. Besides, if they killed me, they would kill you, too. Would they not?”
“Yes, but…”
“The answer is no. You have helped enough.”
The next morning Gunnar and Tryggr watched Jarl strip off his armor and pile it next to his sleeping furs. “Want it to be quick death, do you?” Tryggr asked.
“I want them to know I don’t come to fight,” Jarl replied.
“Oh, that’s rich, Jarl. I hardly think they’ll care. One man—even one fighting his ass off, will hardly worry them. And even if they do wait long enough to ask you your intentions before they kill you—which I doubt, what will you say? I didn’t come to fight, just to take your princess, who I already mo
lested and planted with my illegitimate child? That will be sure to sway them.”
“This is all your fault, you know.” Jarl turned to him.
“My fault?” Tryggr was incredulous. “How is any of this my fault? I’ve been the only one with the voice of reason since we started out on this whole thing. Hell, since you took her in the first place. I knew she was trouble.”
“If you hadn’t fought like a girl and allowed her to take your dagger and cut off half your ear, she would be yours, and I wouldn’t be in this position.” Jarl smiled and placed his hand on Tryggr’s shoulder.
“Aye.” Tryggr nodded, beaten. “And then maybe it would be me going willingly to my own death. Maybe then I would understand it.”
“Gunnar?” Jarl turned to the other man. “You’ve been quiet.”
“There is nothing I can say. I understand you have no choice. If I thought taking all the men would make a difference, I would argue. But I agree. Your plan has the greatest chance of success.”
“And what chance do you think that is?” Jarl asked.
“Slim,” Gunnar admitted. “Very slim.”
“The Dor wench gives you only a fifty-fifty chance of them even taking you to the village alive. I give you less than thirty,” Tryggr interjected.
“You’re confidence is inspiring, Tryggr. Gratitude,” Jarl joked.
“I’m not trying to inspire you, you damn fool, I’m trying one last time to talk some sense into you and save your ass.”
“You can save your breath. My mind is made up.”
Jarl could still hear Tryggr muttering behind him as he exited the tent. Standing in the full sunlight, he felt naked without the hard leather plate over his chest and back. It had saved him in many a battle. How would the gods see his act? As reckless? Would they view it as a taunt? That he felt himself more powerful than they? Would he even make it to the cliffs? Or would a winged death pierce him as he drew near. Jarl forced himself to stop thinking about it. He had made his decision. It was the only way. He turned to Altene who was waiting outside. “Any last advice?” he asked.
“The Teclan respect bravery and courage above all else,” she said. “Show no fear. It is your only hope.”
Jarl smiled wryly. “I’ll try to remember that when they’re tearing off my toes.”
Jarl debated taking another horse instead of his stallion. If they did kill him, which he accepted was highly likely, he didn’t want them to be better mounted for it. With his stallion and the mare he’d given Nena, the Teclan could produce a breed of horse that would only further escalate their dominance. He saddled the bay anyway. Maybe she was on the cliffs and would recognize the horse. Maybe it would stay her hand. Or maybe he just wanted his last minutes to be on a great warhorse. He was already naked without his armor; not having his horse would be too much.
Jarl mounted and rode through the silent group of men who had assembled to see him off. Some nodded, some saluted, but no one spoke. Jarl was disturbed to realize that was probably exactly how they would watch his funeral procession. He pushed the thought from his mind and rode the short distance through the no-man’s land—the area between the two forces where neither could reach with their archers, except perhaps Bjorg with his new longbow.
When he reached the edge of the Teclan bow range, Jarl dropped the reins around the horse’s neck. Raising his hands out to both sides to show he was unarmed, he guided the stallion forward with his legs. The last distance to the cliffs was agony. His skin tingled with the expectation of piercing pain with every step. His ears strained to hear the whir of arrow fletching on the wind. He could see the warriors on the ridge clearly now. Some were moving quickly. Others remained poised with their bows drawn on him.
As he entered the shadows of the narrow canyon, the temperature dropped several degrees. Jarl appreciated the fact that he was alive to feel the coolness. His senses were stretched. Everything was amplified. The gurgling of the gentle stream to his left seemed a roar. His stallion’s soft footfalls pounded in the dust.
Within minutes he was surrounded by mounted Teclan warriors shouting in the Dor tongue. Jarl could not understand them, but their meaning was clear enough. He recognized the Teclan star on all of their arms and tried to look for other symbols Altene had taught him. But unlike the women who bore only a few life-identifying marks, these warriors’ arms were covered with tattoos, documenting their battle prowess. His stallion screamed in warning at the jostling from the other horses. The animal was unaccustomed to being restrained from attacking any who came close in combat, but he obeyed Jarl’s command and remained steady.
Jarl quickly evaluated his opponents out of habit, though he knew he would not fight. One heavier-muscled warrior was clearly trouble. He seemed more agitated than the others and continued shouting in their guttural tongue as he circled him. Jarl hoped he wasn’t in command. As he passed behind him, Jarl focused on those he could still see in front of him. His eyes lingered on one in particular. This one was calmer, though his eyes were possibly even more fierce. His tattoos were the most extensive. Both arms were completely filled well up onto his shoulders. He was still trying to focus on them when he saw the shadow of the club swinging through the air behind him. Too late, he ducked.
When Jarl awoke, his first thought was to be thankful he was still alive. The throbbing in the back of his head soon made him question that. He tried to gather his wits. He was still in the canyon, lying on his side where he must have fallen after being struck from his horse. A Teclan warrior held the bay stallion off to one side. Jarl tried to sit up, but his hands were tied behind his back. Seeing his movement, one of the warriors jerked him to his knees and held him facing the calmer warrior with the extensive tattoos.
The warrior eyed him in silence while the others continued to shout words in Dor. It was clear they wanted to kill him, but required the approval of this man. That was when Jarl saw the symbol below the Teclan star on his arm. The symbol he had seen many times and knew so well. The lightning bolt. This warrior was the blood of Meln. Then he had to be Nena’s brother, Lothor. Now that he was looking for it, Jarl could see the family likeness in their cheekbones and the shape of their eyes. From Altene’s accounts, Lothor’s reputation as a fighter was known far and wide—a fact supported by the extensiveness of his tattoos. Lothor held up his hand for silence. When it was quiet, he spoke in Jarl’s tongue, though his face remained ruthless. “We’ll take him to my father. He will decide how he dies.”
Jarl was sure the change in language was not done out of any favor to him. It was to make sure he understood he was to die and could be terrified. But Jarl focused only on the fact that he had avoided death yet again. By his count, that was three times so far since he had left his camp. No arrow had pierced him. Being clubbed from his horse hadn’t killed him, and now Lothor had chosen not to kill him here. While part of him was thrilled, another part cautioned against being too excited. Lothor had said “father.” So Meln yet lived. While Jarl had never heard of Lothor before meeting Nena and Altene, he’d heard plenty of Meln, and they were not stories of Meln The Merciful. When combined with the fact that the others readily accepted Lothor’s decision, and seemed only mildly displeased with the delay, Jarl knew it did not bode well for him. The chief must have other, more spectacular ways to kill a man.
A length of rope was attached to his lashed-together hands and then handed off to the large loud warrior, who Jarl had mentally nicknamed, Club. Jarl stood and moved closer to Club’s horse, so as not to be jerked off his feet when the animal moved. With his stallion being led somewhere behind him, Jarl began the trek to the Teclan village on foot. His head was ringing, and he concentrated on placing every step carefully so as not to stumble. He knew that if he fell, they would not stop.
A small crowd met them at the outskirts of the village. No one spoke or made a sound. Jarl expected to be pelted with rotten food and stones amidst catcalls and spitting, but they only stared at him. He searched every face, but Nena was not amon
g them. The procession stopped outside a large tent. Club dismounted and shoved Jarl through the doorway. The air inside was thick with smoke, and Jarl struggled to focus in the darkness. The walls were lined with warriors. He was led to the center before being forced to his knees facing an older man on a dais.
By their extent and shape, Jarl recognized the hideous sunken scars across Meln’s temple and right eye to be the work of a battle-axe. The fact that the scars were still reddened and fresh led him to assume the wounds had come from one of his men when Nena had been captured and her younger brother killed. Yet another thing not in his favor. Lothor stepped up and stood before his father, then began to speak in Dor, but the chief stopped him and ordered him to use the Northman’s tongue. They were at least polite about their mock trials, Jarl acknowledged. It was more than he had expected.
“We have captured this Northman trying to pass through the cliff gates,” Lothor reported.
“And the others?” Meln asked.
“At the time we left, they remained in their camp. I have increased the guard again, just in case,” Lothor said.
“Good,” Meln acknowledged.
“We brought him to you for you to decide how he is to be killed.”
Meln nodded.
“I would speak with Nena,” Jarl interrupted their interchange.
Angry shouts filled the room, and even Meln’s face twitched with rage. A blow to the side of his head knocked Jarl to the dirt floor. It disoriented him for a moment, but he was thankful to discover it had missed the back of his head and the previous injury.
“You do not speak her name, northern dog,” Club spat.
“I would speak with Nena,” Jarl repeated as he slowly regained his kneeling position.“Show no fear,” Altene had warned.