“Yes, I imagine you would. But know that I will tame you. There has never been anything in my life that I wanted that I could not win.” He paused and exhaled slowly as his eyes gave her one final admiring exploration. “Though I must admit, you are turning out to be a far greater challenge than I had anticipated.”
The next morning a messenger arrived from the healer, bringing word of a sickness spreading among the prisoners. The cases were few, he reported, so Nena was surprised at the level of Jarl’s concern—even more surprised when he postponed the attack on the second target within their range. As the number of cases grew, the senior healer became a frequent visitor to Jarl’s tent. Each of his reports were more grim than the last.
“It’s the Curse, my lord, worse than I’ve ever seen in years past, but it is definitely the Northman’s Curse,” he announced one evening.
“How many have we lost so far?” Jarl asked.
“Twenty, with more every day.”
“And still none of our men sick?”
The healer nodded.
Jarl stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ve had this every trip; why is it so much worse this time? And so close to port? I thought we had avoided it.”
“I don’t know, my lord. In many ways it is the same as before, but in others it’s different. Instead of infecting blocks of prisoners, it will affect only one out of a small group that share a tent, then skip the rest and affect another somewhere else. Quarantine has been ineffective, as unfortunately has treatment. Unlike before, when many would be sickened but few would die, this time fewer contract the disease, but death is certain. I’ve tried leeches, sandalwood, ratfish oil, arsenic, burning wormwood, even trepanned a few, to no avail. I also attempted some native remedies received from a captured medicine man, but nothing has worked.”
“Keep trying,” Jarl said.
“Of course.”
“And none of our men are affected, you’re sure?”
“Not a one, sir. Just as before.”
Jarl nodded. “If there is anything you need—anything special, send word to me and you shall have it. Whatever you require.”
“Yes, my lord.” The healer excused himself and left the tent.
As the news from the prisoner compound continued to grow worse, men worked around the clock, digging pits for the bodies. Under normal circumstances, they would have constructed great pyres to burn the dead, but Jarl feared the smoke from such large fires would alert the next villages to their presence.
Each day Jarl’s face grew more drawn. His men were also disturbed, but Nena knew from listening to their conversations, that their concern centered only on the amount of wealth they were losing per day. They even raised the suggestion of making one extra sweep to the east instead of going straight to port, to replenish the slave population before they made sail. Jarl agreed to consider the proposal and make a decision—once these quit dying.
After the last of his higher ranking men had left for the evening, Jarl drained his cup and pushed his chair back from the table. Altene remained. She moved to stand behind him and began massaging his broad shoulders. He closed his eyes as her nimble fingers unknotted the tension from deep within his muscles. “Shall I pleasure you tonight, my lord?” Altene whispered in his ear and pressed her breasts against his back.
Nena grimaced. It had been quite a while since Jarl had taken Altene to his furs, a fact that clearly disturbed Altene. Jarl did not respond. Altene traced her fingers along Jarl’s neck just inside his collar, then unlaced the front of his tunic and moved her caresses to his chest. Still he made no move to stop her or take her to the furs. Becoming more bold, she reached down and unlaced the front of his trousers, then extended her hand inside, stroking and pulling.
It was what she did next that shocked Nena, who thought she could no longer be shocked by anything Altene and Jarl did. Keeping one hand engaged inside his trousers, she unclasped her dress with the other. After it fell to the floor, she moved around in front of him, then knelt before him naked. Slipping her upper body between his legs, she spread them slightly, then lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Jarl’s face tightened in immediate response. He groaned.
Nena closed her eyes and tried to go far away, but the image remained vivid in her mind’s eye, kept there by the sounds of his pleasure. She had never heard of such a thing, even from the boldest of the older Teclan women. She took a deep breath and tried once again to go to her warrior’s tranquil place, but was overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea. She thrust out her hands and grabbed the pole to steady herself.
The sudden jangling of Nena’s chain set off Jarl’s alarms. He shoved Altene aside and stood to gain clear view of the center of the tent. His first thoughts were split evenly on responding to Nena’s escape and her attack. But Nena remained standing like a statue—her shackled hands gripping the pole—her eyes staring at him, unfocussed.
Nena didn’t know what was the matter with her. Three blurry Jarls edged toward her with three Altenes close behind him. All six wore horrified expressions on their faces. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision. The motion caused her to lose her balance. She clawed at the pole for support, but her fingernails were unable to find purchase on the smooth wood. As her hands fell away, the last thing she was aware of was Altene’s terrified whisper.
“It’s the Northman’s Curse.”
“NENA,” JARL SHOUTED as he jumped forward to keep her suddenly limp body from crashing to the floor. He gently laid her down
