Nena, Ann Boelter [novels in english TXT] 📗

Her own spear and sword useless, Nena picked up the dead man’s sword. It was too big for her to wield for any length of time, but it would have to do until she could find another. She turned toward the sounds of the loudest cries. Channeling her grief and rage, she forced her mind to focus on one directive.

Kill the enemy until there are none left to kill.

The last of the sun had just dipped below the horizon when Jarl reined in his stallion. The mahogany bay tossed his head impatiently, but obeyed. The fighting was all but over; only a few native warriors remained to be subdued. Jarl remained astride to watch one of the final skirmishes playing out before him—his eyes taking in the woman with long bronze legs wielding a sword too big for her. Two of his men circled her warily, while a third—a mountain of a man with flame-colored hair, sat off to one side on a bundle of furs. Jarl easily recognized his second in command, Tryggr, and made a quick concerned assessment of his injuries. Tryggr held one hand pressed tightly against the side of his head. Fresh bright blood seeped from between his fingers and down into his thick red beard.

Jarl dismissed it. The blood was not pulsing, and head wounds always bled worse than others. Far more concerning was the deep battle-axe cleft that had penetrated Tryggr’s leather chest plate and another gash on the side of his left thigh. Both of them were ugly wounds, but they hadn’t come from the woman. The blood was darker. Older. Jarl took only a second to appreciate the significance. Clearly Tryggr had felt well enough with them to attack her, so maybe they were not as bad as they looked.

“No sense standing there fretting over me like an old woman, Jarl. I’m fine,” Tryggr said. “I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, but it’s a long way from my heart. And when the day comes that a woman can take me in open battle, then I’ll expect you to just put me out of my misery anyway. Today is not that day.”

Relief flooded through him, mixing with Jarl’s frustration and anger. The battle had already proven far more costly than expected. This was to have been an easy victory according to his scouts. A rich, basically unarmed village preoccupied with some celebration, but from the fighting he’d seen and the earliest casualty tallies, Jarl now knew that was far from the case.

He turned back to the woman. Her hair had come unbraided and cascaded around her shoulders and down her back in a tangled mane of brown so dark it was almost black. She wore the common dress of the Dor female warriors, a supple tan hide tied around her neck, the thigh-length skirt slit on both sides. Her eyes were also typical Dor, large and dark and almond shaped. He glanced at the small black tattoos on her upper arms. He knew each signified something specific to other Dor, but the symbols were foreign to him, and he had no recognition of their meaning. There was blood on her, too, but upon closer inspection, it did not appear to be hers, and there was far too much of it for it all to have come from Tryggr.

“What’s going on here?” Jarl asked the other two men, though their intent was clear. They were the victors. They had fought, bled, lost brothers, and now the flame of battle fever would be extinguished with a woman. “Have my men grown so soft that it requires three of them to conquer a single maid?”

The two men stopped and acknowledged him with a salute. They actually seemed to welcome the respite. “She ain’t no ordinary wench, sir. She fights like a she-devil,” one said.

Jarl shook his head to indicate how foolish he found their words.

“Look at Tryggr.” They pointed to his burly, second in command as further proof. “She took his own dagger away from him and cut off his ear.”

“Only part of my ear,” the red-haired giant protested.

“I thought the intent was for you to do the poking with your other dagger, my friend.” Jarl addressed his bloodied second. “Or did you decide to play the woman this time?”

“You’re funny,” Tryggr responded. The jest, coming from any other man, would have been poorly received, but from Jarl it only brought a tired smile. They had fought many battles together and consumed much bonding wine after. “She’s mine by first claim, but I forgo it and offer her to you, if you think you can get the job done.” Tryggr slid sideways and patted the spot next to him. “But I’ll save you a place here, where you can rest when she cuts off some part of you. Hopefully it will only be something as unimportant as your ear.”

Jarl looked back to the woman. She was stunning in a savage way. A way that very much appealed to him. His own blood ran hot from the battle, though he never participated in the raping. Willing women suited him much better, and he would have plenty of opportunity to work out his tensions when he returned to camp. There was no shortage of women there. But this one...this one was different. Standing there so defiant, so raw, so beautiful. Jarl felt his blood do more than stir as his eyes took in every inch of her. He swung a leg over the neck of his horse and dropped lightly to the ground.

“You should go find the healer and have your wounds tended to, my friend,” he said to Tryggr as he passed by.

“There’ll be time for that once I’m sure I won’t be needing to haul you there as well. My coin is on that we’ll soon both be needing to see the healer together,” Tryggr retorted.

The two other men hooted, thrilled that their leader was joining the fun. “You’re