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

reacquaint yourself with your friends, and not waste any more of your first day home sitting here with me. There will be many who are pleased to see you.”

Nena nodded and stood. As she left the Meadow of the Idols, she saw Lothor approaching and paused to wait for him. He looked up, then turned suddenly and walked in a different direction. That was odd. She was sure he’d seen her. She followed him, adjusting her own course to head him off in the trees. Maybe he had just recalled something else he had to do, and she was being overly sensitive, but even upon her return, she had felt his attitude toward her had been strange. She quickened her step. She would know the truth soon enough.

“Lothor, may we speak?” she asked when she caught up to him.

He stiffened but nodded.

“I fear you are angry with me. Have I done something to offend you?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Then what is it?” she asked.

“There is nothing, Nena.” He shook his head and turned to leave.

“I have never known my brother to be a coward,” she said to his back.

He stopped and turned back to face her, his eyes blazing, but his mouth set in a firm tight line.

“Yet that is the only explanation I can find for why he is afraid to confront his sister.”

“You wish to know why I am angry?” he seethed. “There are too many reasons to count. I am angry that the gods did not choose for you here—that the trip to the Eastern Plains tribe was ever made. I am angry that I was stuck here and could do nothing. I am angry that Ruga is dead. I am angry that our father, a great warrior, is now a shadow of his former self. I am angry that the Northmen responsible will sail away and possibly never return for me to have my revenge.

“I am angry that these things happened and you did not stop them. Instead you allowed yourself to be taken prisoner. At first, I was also angry for you, fearing your unimaginable torture at their hands. Yet here you return, months later, your circle filled in, your body unscathed. No scars from even so much as a scratch that I can see. Did you fight at all? Did you fight when our brother was being killed or our father’s head bashed in? Or could you not wait to offer up your first union to save yourself?”

“How dare you!” Nena hissed. She had been so taken aback by his initial attack, it was the first she could gather her thoughts and retaliate. “How dare you question the gods without fear of their reprisal. And how dare you question me! I am the daughter of Meln! The fighting blood that flows through your veins, flows equally through mine! I had eight kills that day. Eight!” she repeated, her voice nearing a shout. “How many battles can you ever claim the same?”

Lothor only stared at her.

“Answer me!” she demanded.

“In no battle have I had eight kills,” he admitted, his voice still choked with rage.

“Had the other warriors present averaged but a single kill each, the Northmen would have walked this earth no more. And no, I did not look for Ruga or Father in the fighting. Had I done so, maybe I would have killed only seven, and the last one would not have bashed in Father’s head, but cut it off instead. To suggest you would have done differently is a lie. You know that, and yet you shame yourself with this outburst and these accusations. Luckily for Father, he could not hear you, or it would have wounded him deeper than the enemy’s battle-axe ever did.”

Lothor took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Eight kills is an impressive feat. But then what? How many did you kill after you were captured?”

Nena didn’t answer.

“Any?” he prodded. He could tell by her expression and silence the answer was no. “How is that possible? How is it possible that you killed eight within hours, but then managed not to kill even a single one in months? Were you chained the whole time? Your arms do not show evidence of shackles. And when you escaped—could you not even kill one then?”

At his reference to being chained, Nena’s mind skimmed back to the special fur-lined cuffs Jarl had the forger craft to not mar her skin. She could not tell Lothor of those. Her mind moved to her escape and Jarl’s guard outside the tent or the wounded guard by the horses. She could have easily killed either one of them.

Lothor stared at her, his face twisted with pain and disbelief at her silent pondering. “How could you become soft to them, Nena? They killed Ruga! They almost killed Father! I, unlike you, Sister, have a hatred for the Northmen that burns so hot in my chest, I fear it can never be quenched. I pray to the gods every day for the opportunity to kill them—to avenge Ruga’s death, my father’s injuries, and my sister’s dishonor.”

“Do not speak to me of dishonor! Or criticize how I fought, when you’ve been sitting here safe on the mountain, doing nothing,” she spat. Lothor winced. Nena knew her brother—knew pointing out his inaction would wound him deeper than anything else she could say. She didn’t care. His words had cut her deeply and, in her own pain, she lashed back. “The day I escaped, I could have easily killed several of their warriors, but to do so would not only have jeopardized my escape, the discovery of their bodies could have led to my absence being noted too early. I could not afford that—could not afford to lose even a single moment. Because when I escaped, Lothor, I was thinking beyond selfish revenge and my own desire to return home. I was thinking of saving a fellow tribe—our blood. Had I killed a few Northmen