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

Northmen. This one was larger than the last and many new prisoners were taken. It was a good start in replacing the numbers that had been lost to the Curse, Jarl thought, as he finished putting his stallion away. Perhaps they would not need to lengthen their trip after all. He was walking past Gunnar’s tent on his way to his own when Gunnar and Tryggr hailed him. “Come, Jarl, have a drink.”

Jarl hadn’t noticed them. Though he was in a hurry to get back to his own tent and Nena, he stopped and took a seat. Tryggr handed him a cup filled with wine while Gunnar stood to retrieve something from inside his tent. He came back out carrying a sword and offered it up for both men to see. “Have you ever seen its like?” he asked.

Jarl looked at the golden hilt encrusted with fine jewels that sparkled and winked in the sunlight. The scabbard itself even appeared to be woven from gold metal thread. He shook his head. “I have not,” he admitted.

“And wait,” Gunnar said. He pulled the blade from its sheath.

The light bounced and danced on the silver as Gunnar rolled it with his wrist. Jarl had never seen such a blade either. Sharpened to a razor’s edge, the steel was perfectly smooth, free of any flaw.

“I’ve never seen such fine workmanship, not in adornment or blade,” Jarl confessed.

“You must have a feel.” Gunnar turned the sword, holding the blade in his hands as he offered Jarl the hilt. “You would expect it to be heavy with the extra gold, but feel how light and well balanced it is.”

Jarl took it and made several practice slashes through the air. “It is remarkable,” he concurred and handed it back to Gunnar.

“Tryggr, would you like to have a feel?” Gunnar offered.

“No, it’s a bit too fancy for my tastes,” Tryggr declined. “Looks like something a woman would carry.”

“And you got this from the last village?” Jarl asked.

“Yes, and I would keep it as part of my share. That is, of course, if you do not wish it for yourself.” Gunnar said, offering the sword back to Jarl but clearly hoping he would refuse it.

“The sword is yours,” Jarl declined. “That was not the point of my question. I saw nothing else there today to indicate they were capable of this level of craftsmanship. I cannot imagine that they forged it, so where do you think it came from? I truly have never seen its like. If we could find its creator, a man such as that making weapons for us would be of great value.”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s anywhere near here. See this stone?” Gunnar pointed to a small olive green stone in the hilt that Jarl hadn’t noticed. This stone is from the far, far East. I have only seen it come from traders who ventured there. They call it jade. It is possible the stone was brought west and used by the maker, but more likely since we have never seen anything similar, the whole thing was made there.”

“I thought you reserved such close inspections for women, my friend. And yet even after this battle, I see none here. Are you so enamored with this beauty that you will go to cold furs tonight?” Jarl asked with a smile.

Gunnar flushed and nodded at the truth in Jarl’s words. “Aye, I must admit, I’ve had a hard time taking my eyes from her,” he agreed.

“And does she have a name?” Jarl asked.

“Not yet.”

“Call it Maid’s Plaything,” Tryggr suggested, then laughed out loud. “That’s what it looks like to me.”

“I would, but that name’s already taken,” Gunnar replied without a moment’s hesitation. “That’s what the men call you now, behind your back, after Jarl’s woman cut off your ear.”

Jarl snorted into his cup, shocked at Gunnar’s boldness. He struggled to keep from laughing so as not to fan Tryggr’s fury any further, but it didn’t help. Tryggr’s face lost all trace of amusement and turned beet red.

“Why you little fuck,” Tryggr roared. “I’ll show you a maid’s plaything.” He stood to his full towering height and glared at Gunnar. Gunnar held his ground and stood with an easy smile, his hand casually resting on the golden hilt. He was no small man himself, and he still held the sword.

“That’s enough, you two. Save your hostility for the enemy. We’ve had great success today, and I’ll not have it spoiled with blood spilled now.” Jarl intervened without taking sides.

Both men took their seats with Trygrr still grumbling under his breath.

“In line with Tryggr’s suggestion, I could call it Maid’s Dream, although I’d probably forever be getting it confused with my other blade that should naturally go by that name.” Gunnar grinned and took a swallow of wine.

“No fear of that,” Tryggr disagreed. “There’s nothing so special about your tiny cock that maids would ever dream about it, unless it was the nightmare of being unsatisfied.”

“Maid’s Dream, it is then,” Gunnar said, as he lifted the sword and scabbard once more to admire them.

“Do you have the final tally, Tryggr?” Jarl shook his head with a smile and changed the subject.

“Close enough.” Tryggr relayed the number of horses and prisoners they had acquired that day. It was higher than Jarl had expected. The talk of their increasing wealth improved Tryggr’s mood. “The men were getting a little worried about you, but I have to say, this success will put their minds at ease,” Tryggr confessed.

“Worried about what?” Jarl asked.

“Worried that woman had put some kind of a spell on you. You’ve been acting like a man possessed.”

“And they were worried about what exactly?” Jarl repeated. “My leadership?”

“Your sanity,” Tryggr responded.

“Were any worried enough to pick up a sword and confront me with their fears?” Jarl’s smile had faded.

Tryggr shook his head. “No, none were quite that worried. And when you put it that way, I guess you’d call it more of an unease. I won’t