Nena by Ann Boelter (digital book reader txt) 📕

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 molested 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