Nena by Ann Boelter (digital book reader txt) 📕

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