by Ann Boelter
“You’re one to be talking about following orders,” Tryggr snapped. “He ordered you to take the army to port and yet here you stand. And Jarl hasn’t exactly been himself lately, now has he?”
“I think he’s seeing things more clearly than he ever has,” Gunnar said.
“Oh, you and that ‘woman in your blood’ crap. You’re as much to blame in this as anyone. Filling Jarl’s head with that nonsense. Does a clear-thinking man take off his armor and ride straight into the hands of the enemy?”
“A clear-thinking man evaluates all his options and chooses the best. That was the best option Jarl had. If you had a better one, I sure didn’t hear it.” Gunnar spoke calmly, refusing to be drawn into a heated debate.
“The best option was to pack up and leave this gods-forsaken place and go home. How’s that for an option?”
“I can tell you from my own experience, for Jarl that was never an option at all,” Gunnar said.
“So how long do you think we should wait?” Tryggr grumbled. “If it’s too much longer, we might as well make plans for it to be a long time. The rivers in Rusland will be frozen, and we’ll be far better off being stuck here for the winter than somewhere along the way.”
“I don’t know. They haven’t produced his body, or his head on a spike. I haven’t seen any smoke from a great fire like they had burned him or were celebrating. But I’m not really sure what they would do with him if they killed him. One thing I do know, with us camped here, it will be difficult for them to move their own forces to go raiding, and even if they have other ways out, they won’t want to leave their village unprotected. I would think they would want us to move on as soon as possible. Surely they will give us some sign if he is dead.”
Nena stopped at the base of the great cliffs, just outside the entrance to the canyon and reined in the mare. Though the temperature was warmer here in the full sun, she shivered. The Northmen camp sprawled before her in all directions. She’d seen it many times before, but here, so close to her home, their numbers were even more intimidating. She felt exposed, even though she hadn’t yet ventured far enough beyond the canyon that she could not easily retreat back to the safety of its walls. From here she was still protected by Teclan warriors above, but that would not be for long.
She pushed the mare forward and did not stop again until she was well outside the Teclan bow range. She halted the mare once more and sat perfectly still, holding the tall three-split, white banner. The blanched fabric rippled and flowed above her on the breeze. It was the only movement. The only sound.
Nena doubted the Northmen would know its significance, but she was counting on them to consult Altene. She prayed Altene had not been taken from her tribe too young to know what it meant. She would know. She had to. Altene seemed to know everything, Nena reassured herself as she stood alone in the open.
Tryggr handed the scope to Gunnar and waited for him to focus before asking, “That’s her, isn’t it? Jarl’s woman? What does she want? Why is she just sitting there? Do you see any sign of Jarl?”
“No,” Gunnar replied, his voice grim.
They’d been watching her ever since a scout had first reported her exit from the canyon. It had been ten minutes with no change. “What do you think that flag means? Do you think he’s dead?” Tryggr wondered out loud.
“I don’t know,” Gunnar replied.
“Have you ever seen a flag like that?” Tryggr asked.
“No.”
“It could be some sort of trap to lure us closer.”
“I might agree, but she has stopped well outside her archers’ range. They couldn’t reach us there.”
“I’ll go get Altene; maybe she’ll know.” Tryggr left and returned with her shortly.
Gunnar handed her the scope and the two men waited impatiently as Altene struggled to familiarize herself with the strange tube. As her untrained eye bounced up and down over the target, bit by bit, she was able to take in her rival and the three-layered split white flag. Her next words were cryptic. “She has a message.”
“About what?” Tryggr asked.
“I don’t know, but that’s a safety banner, to exchange messages unharmed, even in battle,” Altene explained.
“It could be a trick,” Tryggr muttered.
“I will go. I’m not afraid,” Altene offered, her voice flat. “It will be a message about Jarl.” Her lack of enthusiasm and the fact that Jarl wasn’t bringing it himself, told both men what she feared the message was.
“Bullshit. I’m not afraid. I’ll go,” Tryggr said. He paused and looked at Altene before adding, “and I guess it might be good if you came, too.” He lowered his voice to a menace. “But I can tell you right now, safety flag or no safety flag, if Jarl is dead—so is she.”
AFTER JALLA WATCHED Nena ride out with the white banner, she returned to her tent and dragged a stool over in front of her shelves. Climbing up on it, she retrieved the heavy wooden box from the back of the top shelf. She knew what had to be done. She understood the reasoning behind Lothor’s delaying the fight, but only Jalla could see what it was doing to Nena. Her niece was clearly tortured by the Northman’s presence. Since his arrival, she had barely eaten and her sleep was wracked by nightmares. It had to be the constant reminder of what she had endured at their hands. Though she had never spoken of it, Nena’s reaction now told Jalla how terrible it must have been. To make matters worse, Nena insisted on tending to the prisoner herself. Jalla respected that Nena was following her warrior training and confronting her fears head on, but the toll it was taking on her was too high.
When the Northman was dead, it would no longer be an issue. Lothor would most likely take care of it, but Jalla was old enough and had seen enough, to know not to believe in certainties. Especially after seeing what the Northman was doing to Nena—a female equivalent to Lothor in strength as far as Jalla was concerned. What if, by some fluke, Lothor failed and was killed? Meln would be destroyed. The tribal leadership would be in disarray. And Nena? What would it do to her? Jalla could not allow that to happen. This needed to be over once and for all.
How and when she was going to accomplish the feat of dispatching the Northman had proven to be quite problematic. That was, until Nena had announced her decision to personally deliver the message that morning. She had actually requested that Jalla take over providing for him. Everything had fallen into place. Jalla was certain the gods were behind it; they were happy with her plan.
She lifted the heavy wooden lid and gently sorted through the tiny vials inside. Smiling, she withdrew one from the box and stepped down off of the stool. She pulled the cork stopper and carefully tipped it over the tray of food, watching with satisfaction as the clear droplets fell, one by one, and disappeared as they made contact. Invisible. Odorless. Tasteless. She replaced the cork and washed her hands thoroughly, careful not to touch any part of her body or face with her fingertips before they were rinsed, even though she was sure none of the liquid had touched her. One could not be too careful; it was not worth the risk.
By the time Nena returned, it would be too late. The Northman would be dead—or perhaps still dying. The poison she had chosen was not overly quick, but there would be no saving him. He would die painfully—as he should. Lothor and Meln would both be furious with her, and there would be punishment, of course. For anyone, even the chief’s sister, to go against his direct order would mandate that, but Jalla knew she would survive it. It was for the good of the family and the good of the tribe.
Jarl tried to remain calm. His strength was returning rapidly, and he chafed at the restraints now more than ever. Nena would be delivering the message to his men. He could only pray that Tryggr would seek Altene’s counsel and not do something stupid. Over and over he played out different scenarios in his mind. In many of them, Nena ended up dead at Tryggr’s hand. He berated himself for ever suggesting that a message be taken in the first place—but he had never dreamed it would be her who went. And once she had it in her head, there
had been no changing her mind. He’d expressed his concerns repeatedly, but she’d dismissed them. She was going, regardless of anything he said, and he was powerless to stop her. Being in such a subordinate and helpless position when it came to making decisions was unfamiliar to him, and it was harder in many ways than the physical shackles.
The creak of the door and the sudden shaft of bright light from outside surprised him. He’d heard no footfalls approaching and no words exchanged with the outside guards. With Nena gone, he expected to do without anything until she returned. He’d been surprised her father had ever agreed for her to be the one to go, and suddenly realized he may have done so to take her away. He squinted, trying to identify the threat, now somehow sure in his gut that there was one. Relief flooded through him to see the form in the doorway was female and she was alone.
She said something to the guard who was seated inside. Jarl could not understand their words, but the guard shook his head declining her request, though he looked away uncomfortably as he did so. The woman said something else, her tone low and even. The guard looked backed at her, his eyes widened slightly with fear. He hesitated, then gave a brief nod and hurried for the door. Jarl’s inner alarms clamored. Who was this woman who was able to do in a few words what Nena, daughter of the chief, had been unable to? And Nena had said only Meln could be alone with him. So had he sent this woman? Is that what she had told the guard? She carried no weapon that he could see, only a tray of food and a small blue jar of ointment. He eyed the container warily; the jar Nena always brought with her was brown.
From everything Nena had told him, her brother longed for this match, and Lothor himself had insisted that it be fair, but Jarl realized Meln might not share in that desire. But would he actually send someone to kill him? If he did, both he and Lothor would lose face. Jarl discounted it. Far more likely was that Meln would have someone wound him in some small way, or poison him with something that would hinder him. He would still be able to fight, but the outcome would be assured. Lothor’s victory could be guaranteed without the tribe ever being the wiser.
With that in mind, Jarl realized, the order could just as easily have come from Lothor himself. Perhaps he was not as confident as he professed. Perhaps that was why he had insisted on the delay, to make sure there was time for this to happen. It was genius really. Lothor would win on two fronts. The first for being honorable and fearless by insisting on the delay. The second for being victorious against a powerful enemy. Jarl wondered if the other Northmen prisoners had met their fates in a similar manner.
But why would whoever was behind it, choose a woman? Was that also part of the plan—to allay any suspicions he might have? Though his guard was up, Jarl was still curious about her. Had she volunteered? Had she been hand-picked by Meln or Lothor? Like Nena, she was tall, but her face was wider and her features flatter. She set down the tray and looked him over with distrustful eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Jalla, Nena’s aunt. I have brought ointment for your wounds.” She picked up the unfamiliar blue jar.
“No offense, Jalla, but that would make you Lothor’s aunt, too, so I think I’ll skip the ointment today.”
She set the container back on the tray. “Then I suppose you’ll not want any of the food I brought either?”
“Probably not,” he said.
“As you wish,” she said but did not leave.
“Why are you really here, Jalla?” Jarl asked. “Have you come to kill me?”
She examined him for a long moment, seeming to be debating whether or not to answer him. “I haven’t decided yet,” she answered truthfully. “Nena asked me to come. I accepted her request to finally see the man who so tortured my warrior niece that she still has nightmares every night like a child. I have come to ask with what methods you tortured her, to better help her overcome it. Not knowing what she endured at your hands makes it difficult for me to aid her.”
“Did she tell you I tortured her?” Jarl asked, his tone curious and hurt.
“No. She does not speak of it. A warrior would never speak of such things. Clearly with her circle filled in, you raped her. Did you share her with other Northmen? Were there many?” she asked, and gave him a withering look.
“No. Nothing like that ever happened—I swear to you. I never harmed her, and would never harm her. In fact, I would kill anyone who dared try. It is true she was my captive, but she was never mistreated.”
“Then of what does she dream that makes her cry out in the night?” Jalla accused.
“I don’t know,” Jarl said and frowned, truly disturbed. “Perhaps you should ask her. I care deeply for her. It is why I am here.”
“You cannot possibly think she returns your affection,” Jalla snorted. The idea was clearly ludicrous to her.
“Yes, I do,” Jarl said quietly. “But you should ask her that, too.”
Jalla sat evaluating him as she absorbed his words in silence. “I did come to kill you today,” she admitted. “I was expecting to find a brutish savage monster. You are not what I was expecting,” she conceded. “I will speak to Nena when she returns from delivering the message to your men. But know this, Northman, if I find out you are lying, you will have no need to fear Lothor’s sword.”
“Understood,” Jarl said.
She picked up the tray. “I will take this with me. I don’t think you’d have found the food to your liking.”
Jarl nodded and watched her leave. He prayed for Nena to return unharmed, and soon.
The two riders halted facing Nena under the rippling triple white banner. Altene’s eyes were swollen and red from crying. Tryggr looked little better. Deep lines creased his haggard face, and his red hair was even more tangled than usual.
“Does he yet live?” Altene whispered.
“Yes,” Nena replied.
“Is he still…” Altene could hardly say the words, “…whole?”
“Yes. Jarl has sent me to bring you a message. He is recuperating and will fight my brother in trial by combat on the next new moon. The battle shall decide his fate.”
“Which brother?” Altene paused. “Not Lothor?”
“Yes, Lothor.”
Altene paled.
“Jarl can take any man so long as there’s no trickery involved,” Tryggr snapped and eyed her suspiciously.
“My brother insists Jarl be healthy and strong for the trial. That is the reason for the delay. He wants there to be no question of his victory.” Her voice trailed off.
“How is he injured? You said he’s recuperating,” Tryggr asked, still suspicious.
“He took several blows to the back of his head when he was first brought to the village.”
“The head, you say?” Tryggr smiled with relief. “I’ve never known a man more hardheaded than Jarl. I was worried it would be something that might slow him down, like his leg or his sword arm.” Tryggr nodded and seemed satisfied. “He will win. I have seen him fight too many battles to think otherwise. The gods favor him. Prepare to lose a brother, woman.”
“I came only to deliver that message. I must return now.” Nena turned the mare around and ended the meeting. She tried not to show how Tryggr’s words had upset her. She’d been over the same thoughts too many times. The gods favor Jarl. Was it true? And prepare to lose a brother? Could she do that? For all their recent differences, Lothor was still her blood. They had been close once, and Lothor was an honorable man. And what would it do to her father? To lose Lothor so soon after losing Ruga would kill him. But even knowing that, and how devastating Lothor’s death would be to the tribe, she could not bear the thought of Jarl being killed.
Nena rode directly to her father’s tent to inform him that the message was delivered, and that she had returned safely.
“Good.” He nodded, satisfied.
She turned to leave.
“You are to report to the cliffs tonight to begin your shift there,” he said.
“What?” Nena asked, incredulous
.
“With the increased guard for such an extended period of time, we are rotating warriors at the cliffs in four day shifts now.”
“But...” Four days would be until the day of the trial!
“You’ve had enough time to recover from your journey home. There is no reason for you not to resume your responsibilities as a warrior. At least until you choose....”
Was this his way to strong arm her into choosing? Or was it something else? “But who will attend to the Northman? Lothor wishes for this to be a fair fight,” she reminded him, trying to make it seem like her concern was based on Lothor’s request and not her own desires.
“Someone else,” he said with finality.
She opened her mouth to plead her case further, then closed it and bowed her head. “Yes, Father,” she said and left the tent, stunned by his command. Jalla was waiting for her when she stepped outside. Nena groaned inwardly.
“Nena, come straight to my tent when you have put your horse away.”
“I must give message to J..., the Northman,” she corrected herself.
“I have already sent word to his guard that you have returned. Your full accounting can wait until you take his next meal. I would have important words with you.”
Nena wanted to refuse, but her aunt stood waiting with a stubborn look that indicated she was not going to accept no for an answer. “Very well,” Nena acquiesced. “I will join you shortly.”
As she fed and watered the mare, Nena wondered what Jalla had to say that was so important. Perhaps she had information about her father’s sudden decision to send her to the cliffs. After a quick, cursory brushing to remove the mare’s sweat marks, Nena hurried back to Jalla’s tent. She found her aunt sitting inside alone.
“Where is Exanthia?” Nena asked.
“She is off with her new friend. Sit down and I will redo your braid for you. It’s a mess. I can see you’re in a hurry, so I won’t keep you for long.”