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

flat-lands dweller. She would also say good-bye to her days as a warrior, never again to feel a strong horse beneath her and the wind in her face. This part of her could not imagine being content to languish in these flat grasslands, with a baby on her hip, while the warriors rode away to glory.

That’s because the gods have not yet chosen for you. Once they do, you will no longer yearn for such things.

Nena’s reassuring inner voice was interrupted by the deep pulsing beat of the tribal drums. Her blood stirred, her bounding heartbeat answering the rumble call on a primal level.

The tournament had begun.

The first warriors to enter were those available to be chosen. Twelve in all, they walked in single file and stood before her, their oiled, bronze bodies glistening in the sun. Nena’s eyes took in every detail. These would be the best the village had to offer—the smartest, the strongest, the most successful. Black tattoos, chronicling their victories and achievements, covered their arms. Though she was not close enough to read the specifics in the intricate symbols, the extensiveness of the marks told her who was most accomplished.

She couldn’t help but be disappointed. Even the most decorated here paled in comparison to the warriors of her own tribe. Her younger brother’s marks already reached his shoulders, and her father’s tattoos extended far beyond his arms, covering his entire torso front and back. But that was to be expected, she reminded herself. No other tribe equaled the Teclan in battle.

After a nod from the host chief, an ancient looking man with a hunched back and long white braid that reached almost to the ground, stepped forward from the far side of the dais. His golden robe had no adornments other than a scarlet wheat ear, the symbol of the Eastern Plains tribe, emblazoned across the front. Nena knew the red was not dye, nor paint. The edges were already turning darker. It would be fresh blood from a recent sacrifice to the gods to invite their favor. The meat from the animal would later be shared with the tribe in the great feast at the tournament’s conclusion. The elderly herald limped to the center of the line of men, then turned to face the dais before announcing the name and family lineage of the first candidate.

One by one, after their names were called, the warriors approached the dais with a single gift, in hopes of capturing her eye and impressing the gods even before the tournament began. Nena bowed her head respectfully as she accepted each gift, then laid it beside her, trying to show no apparent favor. It was easy to do. She had no interest in the gifts, only the men. She evaluated each one closely, rejecting them in her mind for some reason or another almost immediately. Too short. Too soft. Beady unintelligent eyes. The worst were those who seemed hesitant and approached the dais with trepidation. She understood that her tribe was feared, but still it baffled her. How could a man possibly hope to be chosen if he was intimidated? The gods would never choose a weak man for her mate.

After delivering their gifts, the men returned to the line and stood, legs apart and arms crossed, while the next approached. Most of the gifts were gems—some large, some rare. As a Teclan, Nena already had more jewels than she could ever spend. Generations of successful raiding and hording had seen to that. But as each precious gem was unwrapped and displayed for her, she understood that these people had no such caches, and far different values because of it.

Her mind drifted. Many of the jewels in her tribe could have easily come from these people in earlier raids. She wondered if they ever gave thought to revenge. Now would be the best and probably only opportunity for them to have it. Her group totaled only nine: herself, her father, Ruga and their six escort warriors—and they were far from the fortifications of their mountain stronghold. Even as she thought it, Nena knew their safety was never in doubt.

Her older brother, Lothor, remained at home with the rest of the Teclan tribe. Lothor, whose growing reputation of being even more formidable than their father, Meln, was well-deserved. Should any tragedy befall them on this trip, Lothor wouldn’t hesitate to hunt down and kill every person even remotely associated with the deed. Men, women, children—none would be spared. The Eastern Plains tribe would cease to exist. Their vengeance would be brief.

The announcement by the herald of the second to the last candidate, Dorac, pulled Nena’s focus back to the present. She recognized the name. He was one of the favorites of the local women who had helped to bathe and prepare her that morning. She could see why. He cut a strong figure. Taller than most by a full hand’s width, his muscles bulged and gleamed in the sunlight. Where many of the men had seemed nervous approaching her, Dorac swaggered to the dais with a large bundle. He pulled the ties that bound the outer wrap, then paused before slowly peeling back the cover to reveal the tiger skin.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd at the extravagance of his gift. From the corner of her eye, Nena saw her father stiffen; even he was impressed. They had heard of the tiger skin in their distant mountain home, but none of her people had ever beheld it—the striped hide of the great cat larger than two men. Dorac stood basking in the furor his gift had caused.

It was a bold move, but one Nena found arrogant. The tiger hide was probably the single most valuable possession in this village. She knew no man would give such a gift unless he had every expectation of owning it again. He was staking his claim—giving her the tiger for holding until it was his again by marriage.

She sniffed, annoyed by his presumptuousness, and took the