Nena Ann Boelter (english books to improve english .TXT) 📖

The guard shifted his weight at the entrance at the delay.

“Do you want me to stay?” Tryggr asked hopefully.

“No. I’ll be fine,” Jarl said.

“Just try not to insult him like you did last time,” were Tryggr’s parting words under his breath.

Nena’s eyes were riveted on the tent opening. In a cloud of red swirling silks and cloying fragrance, the slaver made his entrance. Her hopes were dashed as soon as she saw his face. He was a Worick.

“Liars, murderers, thieves and poisoners.” Her father had described them. “They are cunning and cruel, but cowards to a one. Never trust a Worick.” He had counseled her and her brothers repeatedly. “They will not fight like men, but are equally as dangerous as the most skilled Teclan warrior. Never forget it.” Nena never had.

Woricks’ skin color was only a few shades darker than the Dor, yet they were easily distinguished from any other people of the region. Their custom of binding the sides of the heads of their children produced a characteristic oblong skull, further accentuated by their naturally long narrow faces. If the bulging back of their heads were not enough, the Woricks’ fascination with body piercing truly set them apart. They did not wear their jewelry as others did around their necks or on their fingers and arms. They attached it to themselves permanently, and they believed more was better. Though only his face and hands were exposed, it was enough to see this Worick was no exception.

On his face were three nearly solid lines of penetrating gold rings. Some were so thick and heavy they left sagging dark holes in his skin. The first line began at the top of both of his ears, ran across his temples and along the full length of both of his eyebrows. The gold arches met in the middle between his eyes, joined there by a single gold-rimmed ruby. The second line started mid-ear and coursed across his cheekbones, meeting on the bridge of his nose, then running in a single line down to the tip. The final lines started at the base of both ears and traveled along his lower jaw, stopping just shy of his chin. From there, his thin black beard was greased stiff and pulled to a long point. Even it was adorned at the bottom with a large gold nugget woven into the tip.

The Worick hadn’t seen her. His eyes were on Jarl. A false smile covered his thin elongated face as if he were greeting a long lost friend. With Tryggr’s words fresh in his ears, Jarl attempted to smile back, but managed only a grimace. His lips parted in the normal fashion, but no depressions formed in his cheeks, and there was no crinkling around his eyes. His eyes were hard. Nena had never seen him this way. Not even when he was freshly returned from battle. She could feel the open hostility simmering just beneath his surface.

“Greetings, Piltor,” Jarl acknowledged the stranger and waved him toward the table.

“Greetings, Jarl,” the Worick replied. “I must thank you for your most appreciated and generous gift of Altene. I understand she is your most often chosen, and I can see why. As a man in my position, I did not think I could be surprised by a woman’s talents, but she is a gem, and a varied one at that. My appetites tend to be…shall we say…unique, and I found her to be most accommodating.”

Jarl scowled and Nena cringed.

After the initial pleasantries, for what they were, were exchanged, the Worick continued, “I hear you have a tiger skin. Is it here? May I see it?”

A tiger skin? Her tournament gift from Dorac? It seemed a lifetime ago and she had not seen it since, but of course the Northmen would have recognized its value and taken it.

Piltor glanced around the tent, his eyes seeking the hide, but finding Nena. “And what have we here?” he murmured in appreciation and moved toward her before Jarl could respond. His eyes were like clammy hands touching her everywhere, leaving cold slimy trails on her skin. Nena shuddered. The Worick was close now, circling her, taking in every inch of her. His eyes discovered the Teclan star, the lightning bolt, and the open circle on her arm. He sucked in his breath.

“Unbelievable,” he whispered. “I see you have saved the most valuable for last, Jarl. She is splendorous,” he said, drawing out the final “s” to a soft hiss.

Nena stared at his thin wet lips, fully expecting to see a forked tongue slither from between them. He turned to look toward Jarl, giving her a full close up view of his profile and the freakish egg-shaped bulging back of his head. He was the most revolting human being she had ever seen.

“She is not for sale,” Jarl said.

Piltor laughed. “You’re negotiating has improved, my friend. That is one of my favorite and most successful tactics when I see a customer openly covets one of my treasures. First, frighten him with it being unavailable, then the price will not matter. But everything is for sale.” His voice trailed off. “I must admit, she so took me by surprise that I have shown you my desire, and know I will now have to pay dearly for it. What is the price?”

“I said she’s not for sale,” Jarl repeated, his voice tight.

Piltor laughed again. “That is not how this works, Jarl. Now you are to pretend to consider to sell her, as if it had only just crossed your mind. Then make up some lie about how maybe you could do it, but only for a good friend, such as I. I’m sure you must think you know what she’s worth, but I doubt you truly do. The pleasure houses in Anbai will pay more for her than everything else you have here combined. And not because she’s beautiful—though she is that. You have many beautiful captives. She is Teclan. And not only