by Ann Boelter
As she sat on the cliff edge staring out over the Northmen camp on her final day, only one answer had become clear to her. She could affect the outcome of the trial, but nothing she could do was going to prevent it. What Jarl wanted, what Lothor wanted, what her father wanted, and her own responsibilities and obligations outweighed what she wanted—especially when she couldn’t even pinpoint what that was. What did she want? To be with Jarl? How could she want that? It was impossible. They were lion and wolf.
She had promised Jarl she would return for the trial but wasn’t sure now that she could do it. How could she watch two men she loved trying to kill each other without doing something she would regret? But she had given him her word. She had to be there.
If she was not of clear mind and purpose, which Nena accepted that she was not, the only way to successfully get through it, would be to steel herself against her swirling emotions and bury them deep inside until it was over. She’d been tested so many times before and had always passed; she could not be weak now, and she could not act in a manner that would shame her family. She was the daughter of Meln. She would attend the trial and accept her fate with dignity. She had no choice. She had to trust that the gods had a plan—and that it was more than just to punish her for defying them.
Just before dawn, without a word to her replacement or Gentok, Nena grabbed a handful of gray mane and swung aboard the mare, kicking her into a gallop for home.
AFTER PUTTING THE mare away, Nena went to the baths. She fought the urge to go straight to the cell, reminding herself she would not have done so if she were normal. Since she could not trust her own judgment, the only reliable way she had come up with to ensure she did nothing regrettable, was to measure her every action through the eyes of someone who had never left the village. After days of mental searching, she was no closer to understanding or resolution. What she felt was still in clear conflict with what she knew was right.
She returned to Jalla’s tent and asked her to prepare her hair, as she would have before any other trial. Jalla looked at her curiously, then pulled up a stool beside her and began to separate her long dark hair into sections. Today she chose not the single utilitarian braid of a warrior, but a more feminine style with multiple smaller braids. Normally Nena found her touch relaxing, but this morning the quill brush raked across her scalp. Sitting still while the tension inside her continued to build became nearly unbearable. She felt as if she would explode. As the minutes ticked by, Nena couldn’t help but think of the upcoming battle, despite her strong earlier resolutions not to do so.
Her brother would have no mercy when it came to killing Jarl. And even if she could convince Jarl to be merciful—to offer her brother the chance to submit if it came to that, Lothor would never take it. He would not submit to the enemy. He couldn’t submit to the enemy without losing the respect of his people. And Jarl was the enemy.
“Did you know your father was not chosen by your mother the first time he competed for her?” Jalla interrupted her thoughts. “Even though he won the Southern Plains tournament, she did not choose him.”
“Then how did they come to be together?” Nena asked.
“Have I never told you this story?” Jalla paused. “It is a good story. The word of your mother’s beauty and bravery on the battlefield was legend. She and her brother’s raiding achievements were elevating the Southern Plains tribe to one to be reckoned with. You take after her, you know. I see it in you, and I’m sure your father does, too.
“Your grandfather was hoping for a match between his son, your father, and a daughter of the Sea Tribe to the North. Which as you know, was later satisfied when the gods revealed their match there for my sister, Darna. But the legend of your mother and the upcoming Southern Plains tournament beckoned your father like a flame calls to the moth. One night he sneaked off in disguise to steal a look at your mother and judge for himself. And even though he did not meet her then, he decided she was the one for him.”
“But he does not decide,” Nena protested.
Jalla chuckled, glad she had at least temporarily diverted Nena’s attention. “As he was soon to discover. He persuaded your grandfather to allow him to compete in their tournament and upon his arrival was soon the favorite. His gift to her was some poorly thought out thing; I do not even recall now what it was. He was sure all he needed to do was offer himself and win the tournament, and of course the gods would choose him for her. He was Teclan, after all, and next in line to be chief. He was cocky back then, your father.” Her aunt smiled. “I can still see it so clearly.
“But his gift left your mother and the gods cold, or perhaps it was his attitude. When he vanquished his last foe and looked to the dais for the words he so expected to hear, your mother stood and left, leaving her father to announce that the gods had chosen none for her that day.
“Your father was in shock, I think, but he was stubborn. After he returned home, he petitioned your grandfather to have a tournament here, and to invite her, much as you were invited to the Eastern Plains village. But this time was different. Victory in the tournament for him was a given, inasmuch as such things can be, so this time he prepared for the gift more than the events. He carved her a bow from mountain black cedar. And when he presented it to her, he knelt with the greatest respect and vowed to win the tournament, not for himself, but for her, to show the gods his worthiness of her and their union. That she was meant to be Teclan and should have the finest Teclan bow.” Her aunt paused and smiled at the memory. “He had quite a speech, which as you know, for your father and his normal shortness of words, was no small wonder in itself.
“The gods must have liked this gift better, or his words—or perhaps it was only then the right time. Who knows with the gods?” Jalla shrugged. “The final round was between your father and your mother’s brother, your uncle. They had not met in the previous tournament, because her brother had been recovering from a battle wound. But now he was fully returned to form and gave your father fierce competition.
“Ultimately your father got the upper hand. While he was still crouched over your uncle’s prone body in the tournament arena, your mother stood on the dais. She was in such a hurry, she did not even wait for her brother to signal yield before she announced that she had chosen your father. It is a good story, no? It is hard to imagine your father, so young and full of folly.”
“Yes. It is a good story.” But Nena’s thoughts were again back to her own plight. Someone she cared deeply for would die this day. She had no more time for childish stories now.
“You are finished. Go to your Northman, Nena. May the gods have mercy on us all today.”
Nena stepped past the four armed guards outside the cell door. When she entered, she understood their increased presence. Jarl was standing alone, unshackled and half-dressed in Dor armor.
“You are well,” Nena murmured as she took in his tall frame and the wave of energy she felt from him.
“You seem relieved. Did you not have the confidence in your aunt that you professed?” Jarl asked.
“I did at the time, but when I arrived at the cliffs, Gentok swore he did not have anything to do with it. Then I wasn’t sure.”
“He was there?” Jarl’s jaw tightened, and a small muscle in his cheek ticked. “And you spent the four days with him?”
“Yes.” Nena recognized his anger and jealousy. “Though we did not speak after my initial arrival.”
“But you believed him?”
Nena hesitated. “I think so. Gentok has never lied to me, but honestly, I don’t know who to believe anymore.” Not even myself. She stepped toward him and adjusted the laces on the sides of the Dor armor. She watched as Jarl flexed and twisted inside the plates of hardened leather, testing the fit and range of motion. He nodded, seeming satisfied. “Why do you help me and not your brother?” he asked.
“No one else will help you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Why do you help me? Do you want me to win?” He smiled at her,
his battle fever already spiking in anticipation of the upcoming fight. There was no fear, no hesitation, no consideration for loss on his handsome face.
“My brother wants this to be a fair fight,” she murmured.
“So you do it for your brother? Is that the only reason?” he pressed.
Nena did not answer, but her eyes were troubled.
Jarl’s expression grew suddenly serious. “I was worried you would not return.”
“I told you I would.”
“I know, but being here among your family, your people, I realize this must be very hard for you.”
How did he always know what to say? How did he always know what she felt, when people she had known her whole life did not?
“Nena, why did you leave me before? If you weren’t pregnant, why did you run? Your aunt said you dream of terrible pain. Did something happen to you that I don’t know of? Did someone hurt you while I was away?” The fury he felt at the thought was unmistakable in his clenched jaw.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said.
“It does to me, and I have risked my life to be here. Doesn’t that qualify me to know the truth? If everyone else is correct and I am soon to die….”
Nena took a deep breath. He was right. He did deserve to know the truth. And being so close to him now—feeling their connection, she knew what the truth was. After so many hours and days of soul searching, she knew. She hadn’t escaped to return to her family, to her people. She hadn’t escaped to return home to the mountain. While all of those things had factored into her decision, what had truly driven her away was clear. It was what her dream had showed her almost every night—what she had admitted to Jalla. “I could not bear to become to you as Altene was. For you to one day tire of me and hand me off to another as you did her.”
“Altene,” Jarl exhaled with a whistle. “Altene is nothing to me—was never anything more to me than a companion. You, on the other hand, are everything. Can you not see that? I don’t understand how or why, but you have become such a part of me, that without you I am no longer whole. I could no more leave you than I could leave my leg or my hand. I cannot explain what I feel for you—how complete I am when we are together, how empty I feel when we are apart. When I returned from battle and you were gone...” He shook his head. “Words cannot describe the depth of what I felt,” he repeated. “I never knew it was even possible to feel that way.”
They were close now. He could smell the floral-imbued oil in her braids. “I like your hair like this,” he said as he ran his fingers through the multiple smaller braids. “But I like it better loose around you, spread out over my furs.” He grinned.
How could he joke? He could be about to die. How could he not take it seriously? Her brother had never been defeated, and today would fight with their younger brother’s death spirit behind him. He was sure to be a formidable adversary.
Jarl reached his hand up to the back of her neck beneath her braids and pulled her closer. “Kiss me,” he said.
“No,” she said, but she did not pull away.
“Would you be so stingy as to withhold the one thing a man is willing to die for? A kiss, so that if I go to the afterlife now, it will be satisfied?”
Nena leaned into him and pulled his head down toward her. She felt him groan with pleasure as their lips met. His arms were around her waist, pulling her tight against him. She pressed herself against his armor, her body answering his desire. She would have lain with him at that moment if he had asked—would have given him more than a kiss to take to the afterlife. But he pulled away.
His eyes blazed and his handsome face bore a confident smile. “I will come back for the rest of that when I am victorious. With the taste of you on my lips, I cannot be defeated. The gods will wield my sword.”
Breathless, Nena did not doubt him. How could she have been so foolish to not see it before? There was no more question. No more doubt. The gods truly had chosen him for her. She felt it now with every fiber of her being.
But now it was too late.
THE CONTEST AREA was a cleared circle of flat ground on the edge of the village. Surrounded by open land, there were no trees or brush to offer the contestants or the spectators any shade. Only the dais and the chief’s lone banner threw any shadow. The area had been used for tournaments, to settle differences and dispense punishment for more years than anyone, even the eldest in the village, could remember. Though it had not been used in many months, the bare ground remained devoid of even a sprig of foliage. The dry earth was so hard packed from countless feet and bodies and blood, that even after months of rest, seedlings could not break its unforgiving surface. Unforgiving. In more ways than one. Not only would the thin surface layer of dust offer no cushion to a fallen competitor, the tribe would offer no mercy.
For a tournament the dais would have been covered with a brightly colored shade, and gay banners would have been set up around the entire area. But not today. Today was no celebration. The crowd would suffer along with the combatants. There would be celebrating when Lothor won, but even that would be subdued in recognition of the avenging of Ruga’s death. It would be more of a putting right of the world than a festival.
After today, Nena’s world would never be put right. She knew that now. The death of Lothor would not only be her loss, it would be the entire tribe’s loss, and what it would do to her father would be irreparable. It would break the strength left in Meln. Nena knew it—and knew it was all her fault.
But if Jarl were killed today, part of her would die with him, and she feared the rest of her would soon follow. She knew now she could not go on—could never marry Gentok and have a normal life. The spirit sickness would overcome her. How had Jarl worded it—that she had become a part of him, and without her he was no longer whole? She understood it now, and knew that it was the same for her.
That thought brought her even more anguish. Not the fact that she would die, but what would happen when she did. Could they be together in the afterlife? If so, would it be in the sky with her ancestors, or in Jarl’s Valhalla? Or would their separation extend beyond this life into the next? Was her father right about them? Were they lion and wolf? Would they be denied being together for eternity?
Nena took her seat on the end of the dais and waited for the gods to reveal her fate.
Jarl was offered his choice of the previously captured Northmen’s swords. After testing them both in the air, he chose one and nodded, seeming satisfied.
The two men circled each other, balancing lightly on the balls of their feet. With intense concentration and focus, they sparred, each measuring their opponent’s responses. Lothor’s moves were very familiar to Nena. She had practiced with him or watched him fight with others from as early as she could remember. She knew all of his strengths. His ability to switch hands with his sword and fight almost equally as well was his most effective. That threw many an opponent off their stride. Even if it was only for a second, that was often all Lothor needed to deliver a decisive final blow. She had wanted to warn Jarl of that, but could not. Could not betray her brother, could not interfere with the gods’ will again.
Other than when he had captured her, Nena had never seen Jarl fight, and even then he had only briefly handled a weapon against her. Watching him now, she realized he possessed a mastery of the sword she had never seen before. After not falling for Lothor’s tricks, Jarl instead drew him in to two near misses. Only Lothor’s catlike reflexes managed to save him from Jarl’s blade. The crowd drew in a collective sharp gasp each time Jarl’s sword sliced through the air. They cheered every blow Lothor was able to land, and groaned at every one he received.
At one point when they stood close, their swords locked at the hilts in a battle of sheer strength, Jarl dove between the crossed blades in an attempt to headbutt Lothor and knock him unconscious. Lothor feinted to the side at the last second, and the blow glanced off the side of his forehead just above his left eyebrow. It was still enough to split the skin, and blood b
egan to trickle down his left cheek.
Nena could see the grim determination in the set of Lothor’s jaw as he realized this would not be the quick decisive victory he had expected. But there was still no fear in him—no doubt of the outcome. Jarl’s handsome face was a stony mask of cold hard savagery. Nena had never seen this side of him, but now she understood what his men said about him. Why they feared him, and felt the gods favored him. He fought like a man possessed by a god. Neither man allowed his opponent to rest, keeping the other hard pressed. Each so proficient, so dexterous, and so calculating in their movements. Each so confident in their ability to win.
Nena flinched, feeling every blow, no matter who sustained it, as if they fell upon her own flesh. The two men were equally matched in strength and skill, and it was soon to become apparent, matched in determination as well. After an hour of fighting, neither showed any hint of weakening resolve. Never had a contest been known to go on for so long, and never in the blazing midday sun. The pace was slower now as their bodies labored in the heat, but still they battled on. She knew them both so well, knew what they were feeling, knew the fire that burned in their muscles from the exertion—knew the fire that burned in their hearts that overcame it.
Nena wondered if her mother had sat in this very spot and watched the young Meln fighting her own brother. How had she done it? Had she sat in silence as Nena herself did, unable to cheer for either competitor? Had fear for two men she loved tore at her heart while it left her mute? But her mother had only to fear injury to pride, not mortal injury. Tournament weapons were blunted to prevent that. Not like today, where the steel was sharpened to a razor’s edge.
A sudden clashing of swords, louder than before, jolted Nena back to the present and the two men before her. Jarl had gone on the offensive, pressing her brother much harder now, drawing on a reserve of strength from deep within. Lothor blocked, parried and stepped away, but Jarl’s blade flashed in the sunlight, each strike coming faster and harder—keeping Lothor off balance and on the defensive. Lothor continued to fall back, struggling to match and block each deadly blow.