Nena by Ann Boelter (digital book reader txt) 📕

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 began 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.

He stumbled.

The crowd gasped.

Jarl’s sword struck just above the hilt of Lothor’s, ripping it from his grasp and sending it flying through the air. In the same second, Jarl reared back and kicked Lothor hard in the center of his chest plate. Lothor staggered, his arms flailing before he slammed to the ground on his back. Before he could roll away, Jarl was on him. Straddling his chest and pinning him to the ground, Jarl leveled his sword on Lothor’s neck.

A hush fell over the stunned tribe. Only the sounds of the two men’s harsh labored breathing could be heard. Nena wondered how many in the crowd were holding their breath, as she was. Her father’s banner flapped gently in the breeze above the dais.

“Yield,” Jarl commanded, as he pressed the blade tighter against Lothor’s throat.

Lothor looked up at him with acceptance of his fate, but no defeat in his stubborn eyes.

“I have no wish to kill you,” Jarl said. “Yield, damn you.”

Lothor remained stoically silent.

Jarl looked to Meln for an alternative to this end, but the chief only looked on, his face an impassive mask.

Jarl was in an impossible position. He knew he could not release Lothor. If he stood and allowed Lothor to rise, the battle would continue until one of them was dead—meaning it would either be him on the ground, or they would be back in this position again. Yet how could he kill him and expect to gain Nena’s hand? But that concern would no longer be valid if he himself were dead. He had to do it. He had to kill him. Teclan respected strength and bravery. It was the only way. He had known it would come down to this before he ever entered the arena, so why was it difficult? Why did he hesitate?

Nena’s heart pounded in her chest, but she was thankful for the momentary reprieve in the blows. She had longed for it to be at an end, not sure how much more she could take, but now that the end was imminent, she knew she could not take this either. Yield, she prayed silently to her brother, though she knew he would not. Not ever.

Jarl looked first to her father, then to her. Was he asking for an answer, or forgiveness—or both? He had waited to deliver the final blow, was still waiting for mercy to be ordered from her father, but that was not their way. Nena saw Jarl’s face change as he recognized it. She read the disappointment, then determination as they spread across his features as clearly as if he had spoken words out loud. He looked back to her brother, and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Flashes of her aunt’s story blurred with the scene before her—her youthful father crouched over her uncle in a death blow stance, while Jarl’s words echoed in her mind. “In what ways am I not Teclan?” Years ago, it had been her mother’s brother; now it was her own. But unlike years ago, her mother’s brother would yield—could yield with no shame, because he was yielding to another Dor.