Nena by Ann Boelter (red white royal blue txt) 📗

hide, setting it aside with no more care than the carved antler dagger she had received before it. Dorac’s eyes narrowed with suppressed fury. Nena dismissed him with a curt nod and looked to the next. Instead of returning to the line of warriors, Dorac took up a position near her, standing on the side of the dais, as if his being chosen were a foregone conclusion. Though Nena’s face remained impassive, inside she churned. A great warrior he might very well be, but she prayed the gods had chosen another for her. Thankfully she felt no stirring to choose him—in fact, felt nothing other than irritation toward him.

“I do not care for Dorac, Sister,” her younger brother leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Hopefully I can defeat him early in the matches so the gods will not consider him for you.” It was a sharp contrast to his earlier boasts of certain tournament victory during their long ride here. His confidence was not near so high after seeing his latest opponent. He leaned closer. “And it would be a terrible thing if your drink were to spill on the tiger.” His eyes laughed, though his face remained as expressionless as her own.

Nena fought back a smile; she dare not encourage him. Her brother was irreverent! “You should not speak of such things,” Nena whispered, afraid for him, though she knew she should have been angry and disciplined him herself. Men, even powerful men, were forbidden to interfere with a choosing. To do so risked angering the gods. Thankfully her father had not overheard him.

Rondor was the last to approach. His name was probably the second most mentioned by the local women. He was nearly as tall as Dorac, but his muscles rippled instead of bulged beneath his oiled dark skin. His brown eyes were warm and intelligent, and he moved with a confident, athletic grace that appealed to her—the opposite of Dorac’s brash swagger.

His gift was a plush sheepskin warrior saddle trimmed in the black and white hide of the small, striped horses that roamed the distant wild lands far to the south. The animals were too slow and disagreeable to ride, but their uniquely-colored hide and meat were prized. Nena lingered over Rondor’s saddle, admiring the craftsmanship in the ivory handhold and the well-placed loops to carry her provisions and weapons. Other than the antler dagger, it was the only gift that recognized her own significant achievements as a warrior.

The extra time she spent on the gift did not go unnoticed. Nena felt the heat of Dorac’s baleful glare on her cheek. Rondor must have felt it, too, because he turned and locked eyes with Dorac. The air between the two men seemed to crackle with intensity—neither giving quarter until the chief ended the standoff by signaling for the tournament to begin.

The remaining competitors, including Nena’s brother, entered the arena, and dull wooden tournament weapons were distributed among them. As warriors of all ages prepared for their matches, Nena found herself watching and comparing Rondor and Dorac. Rondor could win the tournament, of that she was becoming more confident. The women had said he was the most skilled at horse, and his agility would lend itself to sword and knife. Dorac would dominate in the battle-axe, a heavy weapon, and possibly the spear, but those were only two events.

And what if Rondor did win? Would she choose him? She definitely preferred that he win, but couldn’t say she felt any more than that. The women from her village had told her she would know; there would be no uncertainty. Maybe the gods were waiting until after the tournament was over....

Matches were met with shrieks and wails as favored contestants won and lost. Gambling was a favorite past time of all Dor, and the Eastern Plains tribe was no exception. Many gems, furs, and even horses would change hands this day, and they were not quiet in expressing how they felt about it. By mid-afternoon, Nena’s brother was still undefeated, as were Dorac and Rondor.

Currently, all attention was focused on a particularly heated battle between Dorac and a wisp of a man who refused to be beaten. The crowd screamed with glee as the lopsided match continued well past all expectations. In his eagerness to dispatch his unworthy opponent, a frustrated and embarrassed Dorac made mistakes, each one only serving to keep the smaller man in it.

Dorac closed on his opponent again, seeming to finally have him cornered. In a bold move, the smaller man rushed forward and scurried beneath Dorac’s outstretched arms. He tapped Dorac on the back with his tournament sword, adding insult and gaining a point. The crowd’s screams swelled to a roar. Nena laughed out loud and looked to her father. He was smiling, too. The slight man’s status would climb considerably this day.

When she looked back, the match had turned to utter confusion. People were spilling into the arena, interfering with the contestants. It was unheard of. No one interrupted a match, no matter who the contestants were, or how well or poorly they were doing. What were they thinking? From her raised seat on the dais, it soon became clear that the front observers were being pushed forward by the surging crowd behind. She assumed people from the rear were trying to gain a better view of the match. Until she saw their faces. The desperate terror in their eyes.

It was then that she saw them.

Northmen! Huge, hairy man-beasts, with pale skin and shaggy beards. Their round, painted shields were unmistakable. They advanced from behind, hacking down the villagers in a great wave of death, forming a nearly impenetrable wall between the unarmed Dor and the weapons they had left in their tents. The dull tournament weapons, though present in abundance, were useless.

Nena pawed through her pile of gifts and grabbed the antler dagger. The gift that had seemed so plain in comparison to all the others, was now by