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

Sigurd wasn’t listening. He was staring at the ship. “I thought it would be impossible for me to see her go,” he murmured.

For a moment Jarl wasn’t sure which her Sigurd was referring to—the ship or his late wife. He realized it was probably both.

“Leila put every last bit of her strength into this ship, and I know she’s a part of it. I must admit that after she died, I wasn’t sure I could do it—to give up that last piece of her, but...,” He smiled a small smile. “It is not so painful as I imagined it would be. I understand now. Her spirit is in there, and she wants to be free. She was trapped in her weak body for so long, but now she’s strong again. She’ll protect it, you know—and you and the captains who follow you. Of that I have no doubt. She was a ferocious fighter...and an amazing lover.” His voice trailed off. “But a word of advice—don’t ever cross her. You do not wish to feel her wrath.”

Jarl nodded. “I shall return tomorrow with a crew to sail her.”

“There’s no need. The two of us can take her to Grimstad. I’ll return home from there on foot,” Sigurd said as he jumped from the dock onto the deck of the boat.

“But we have to pass through the rocks outside the harbor,” Jarl protested. “The channel is narrow there, and the winds unpredictable. Two men cannot maneuver a ship this large. I would hate to have her damaged—or worse.”

Sigurd only looked at him as if his concerns were foolish. “She’s large, but she’ll handle nimble like a fox. You’ll see. I know the ship, Jarl, and you must learn to trust her.”

Jarl was torn. He did not wish to deny Sigurd, but the ship was far too valuable to risk on what seemed like a whim. He glanced up at the golden dragon’s eye and swore that it was measuring him. He shook his head and took a deep breath.

“Very well then,” he muttered. “Off to Grimstad.” As Jarl stepped on board, he had the odd impression that he and Sigurd were, in fact, not alone. He dashed the thoughts from his mind. All that talk of Leila’s spirit had gotten inside his head.

“You take the helm,” Sigurd said as he moved quickly around the ship, tightening lines, loosening sails. “She’s yours now.”

Jarl took hold of the rudder. It felt warm to the touch. From the sun, he chastised himself—nothing more. Yet still he could not shake the feeling the ship had a spirit of its own—not necessarily the spirit of Leila as Sigurd had claimed, but a spirit all the same. Jarl shook his head and gripped the handle tighter. It felt good in his hand.

“To our first of many adventures, Huntress,” he murmured. “May the gods bless us with good fortune.” At his words, the front smaller sail dropped under Sigurd’s masterful care, catching a breeze that Jarl swore had not been there before. The great ship glided out into the fjord.

South of the Caspian Sea - Circa 905 AD

NENA PULLED HER long thick braid over her bare shoulder, thankful she had insisted on the simple hairstyle and plain leather dress of a Dor female warrior instead of more formal garb. She glanced to the opposite end of the curved dais and the host chief’s wife. Though the sun was far from high, the sweat trickling down the woman’s fleshy neck was clear indication she was already sweltering under her silk robes and bejeweled, tiered hair.

Her scrutiny of the woman was interrupted by the final arrivals. The host chief, with Nena’s father and younger brother, Ruga, close behind, climbed to their positions of honor in the center of the dais. Though younger than her father by several years, the host chief strained to hold in his paunch as he walked. Disturbed, Nena looked away from him. The wife she could possibly understand, but how did a man allow himself to get so soft? Ruga split off from behind the two older men and took the seat next to her without saying a word.

Nena took a deep breath and looked out over the assembled crowd. It seemed as if the entire host tribe was pressed against the colored flags around the tournament area, each anxious to catch a glimpse of her. She tried to ignore them. Their collective tension only added to her own nervous anticipation, and she could not let that show—could not disgrace herself or her family in front of these people by showing emotion. She knew the one question that was on the crowd’s singular mind. It was the same question on hers and probably her father’s and brother’s as well. The question that had prompted their whole journey here to the Eastern Plains. Would she choose today?

It wasn’t as if it were really her choice. The gods had already chosen, and through her would reveal their decision when they were ready. It was one of the few responsibilities the gods bestowed upon women. If all today failed to move her, no one in this village would blame her, though they would be disappointed; a marriage alliance with her Teclan tribe, the most powerful of the Dor, would ensure their future prosperity.

Part of her hoped she did choose, that she could choose. That a man here would stand out above all others, and she would finally proceed with the next step in life—becoming a wife and sharing a man’s bed. At nineteen summers, she was well past the normal age of choosing, though there were no set rules on age, and no one questioned the gods’ will.

An equally large part of her wanted never to choose. If the gods revealed a man for her here today, then she would be forced to say good-bye to the rugged mountains of her birth and take up life here as a migratory