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

still trying to focus on them when he saw the shadow of the club swinging through the air behind him. Too late, he ducked.

When Jarl awoke, his first thought was to be thankful he was still alive. The throbbing in the back of his head soon made him question that. He tried to gather his wits. He was still in the canyon, lying on his side where he must have fallen after being struck from his horse. A Teclan warrior held the bay stallion off to one side. Jarl tried to sit up, but his hands were tied behind his back. Seeing his movement, one of the warriors jerked him to his knees and held him facing the calmer warrior with the extensive tattoos.

The warrior eyed him in silence while the others continued to shout words in Dor. It was clear they wanted to kill him, but required the approval of this man. That was when Jarl saw the symbol below the Teclan star on his arm. The symbol he had seen many times and knew so well. The lightning bolt. This warrior was the blood of Meln. Then he had to be Nena’s brother, Lothor. Now that he was looking for it, Jarl could see the family likeness in their cheekbones and the shape of their eyes. From Altene’s accounts, Lothor’s reputation as a fighter was known far and wide—a fact supported by the extensiveness of his tattoos. Lothor held up his hand for silence. When it was quiet, he spoke in Jarl’s tongue, though his face remained ruthless. “We’ll take him to my father. He will decide how he dies.”

Jarl was sure the change in language was not done out of any favor to him. It was to make sure he understood he was to die and could be terrified. But Jarl focused only on the fact that he had avoided death yet again. By his count, that was three times so far since he had left his camp. No arrow had pierced him. Being clubbed from his horse hadn’t killed him, and now Lothor had chosen not to kill him here. While part of him was thrilled, another part cautioned against being too excited. Lothor had said “father.” So Meln yet lived. While Jarl had never heard of Lothor before meeting Nena and Altene, he’d heard plenty of Meln, and they were not stories of Meln The Merciful. When combined with the fact that the others readily accepted Lothor’s decision, and seemed only mildly displeased with the delay, Jarl knew it did not bode well for him. The chief must have other, more spectacular ways to kill a man.

A length of rope was attached to his lashed-together hands and then handed off to the large loud warrior, who Jarl had mentally nicknamed, Club. Jarl stood and moved closer to Club’s horse, so as not to be jerked off his feet when the animal moved. With his stallion being led somewhere behind him, Jarl began the trek to the Teclan village on foot. His head was ringing, and he concentrated on placing every step carefully so as not to stumble. He knew that if he fell, they would not stop.

A small crowd met them at the outskirts of the village. No one spoke or made a sound. Jarl expected to be pelted with rotten food and stones amidst catcalls and spitting, but they only stared at him. He searched every face, but Nena was not among them. The procession stopped outside a large tent. Club dismounted and shoved Jarl through the doorway. The air inside was thick with smoke, and Jarl struggled to focus in the darkness. The walls were lined with warriors. He was led to the center before being forced to his knees facing an older man on a dais.

By their extent and shape, Jarl recognized the hideous sunken scars across Meln’s temple and right eye to be the work of a battle-axe. The fact that the scars were still reddened and fresh led him to assume the wounds had come from one of his men when Nena had been captured and her younger brother killed. Yet another thing not in his favor. Lothor stepped up and stood before his father, then began to speak in Dor, but the chief stopped him and ordered him to use the Northman’s tongue. They were at least polite about their mock trials, Jarl acknowledged. It was more than he had expected.

“We have captured this Northman trying to pass through the cliff gates,” Lothor reported.

“And the others?” Meln asked.

“At the time we left, they remained in their camp. I have increased the guard again, just in case,” Lothor said.

“Good,” Meln acknowledged.

“We brought him to you for you to decide how he is to be killed.”

Meln nodded.

“I would speak with Nena,” Jarl interrupted their interchange.

Angry shouts filled the room, and even Meln’s face twitched with rage. A blow to the side of his head knocked Jarl to the dirt floor. It disoriented him for a moment, but he was thankful to discover it had missed the back of his head and the previous injury.

“You do not speak her name, northern dog,” Club spat.

“I would speak with Nena,” Jarl repeated as he slowly regained his kneeling position.“Show no fear,” Altene had warned.

The chief raised his hand for silence and studied him with his single shrewd eye. “Nena should be here for this,” he said. “Someone find her.”

“I will go.” A tall warrior who had been in the group that met him in the canyon, volunteered, then left the tent.

“Until Nena arrives, I would hear suggestions on the manner of his death,” Meln said and looked to the crowd.

The room came alive with suggestions as to what would be the most appropriate. As a viking, Jarl was no stranger to torturous deaths, but even he was surprised by their creativity on the subject. No mention was made as to whether or not he was guilty, or even what his crime actually was, but