Chapter 14

  The summons came just after dawn. A bowl of food was delivered with the message that Francis’s presence was requested… or expected at the clan leader's tent. As he got ready, Francis couldn’t help but wonder what was in the poultice the healer Hilde had given him. The skin on his hands was in better condition than he had expected.

  Tormund hadn’t let him use the poultice until last night, mentioning that one of the lessons every blacksmith needed to learn was pain. Each strike of the hammer cost something. At first it was their skin. Then it would be a matter of mental fortitude to push through the pain.

  Francis had been surprised that his skin had even blistered, but he had lost count of the thousands of swings he had taken.

  A young barbarian, barely older than Francis, waited outside his tent to take him to the Jarl and clan leaders.

  Here we go.

  Francis followed the messenger through the camp, noting how the other barbarians watched him pass. Some with curiosity, others with suspicion. A few nodded in what might have been respect.

  Word really does travel fast up here.

  The tent was exactly as he remembered. The clan leaders all sat in the same positions they had been, the first time he had come. Glitvall was standing off to the side. Jarl Keara occupied the seat of honor, her weathered face unreadable as Francis entered.

  "Francis Lancaster," the Jarl said. "Glitvall has spoken on your behalf. He tells us you wish to join one of our raiding parties."

  "That's correct," Francis replied.

  "Why?" one of the clan leaders asked. An older man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. "What purpose does a southerner have risking our warriors?"

  Francis met his gaze. "Because in order to help your people and mine find victory, I need to learn how to fight beside you. I've fought alone. I've survived. But that's not enough. If we're going to win this war, I need to understand how your warriors work together."

  "Pretty words," a woman with iron-gray braids said. "But words don't keep our warriors alive."

  "No," Francis agreed. "They don't. Which is why I’ll make you a promise."

  Jarl Keara leaned forward slightly. "What promise?"

  "That no matter what happens out there, every warrior who goes with me will return alive." Francis let the words hang in the air. "The next time I stand before all of you, each one of them will be here. Or you can kill me."

  Silence filled the tent.

  "You can't promise that," the scarred man said. "No one can promise that."

  "I just did," Francis said.

  And if I have to die on the battlefield to make sure that promise holds, so be it.

  Glitvall's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. The warchief understood, even if the others didn't.

  The clan leaders murmured among themselves. Some looked skeptical, others intrigued. Jarl Keara studied Francis for a long moment before nodding once.

  "Very well. You may join the raiding party Glitvall has selected. But know this, southerner—if you break your promise, if even one of our warriors falls because of you, your life is forfeit. No second chances."

  If only you knew.

  "Understood," Francis said, fighting back a smile.

  Glitvall moved toward the tent entrance. "Come. The pack is waiting."

  As they turned to leave, Jarl Keara's voice stopped them.

  "Glitvall."

  The warchief paused.

  "Your sudden interest in this southerner is... unusual," the Jarl said. "You've trained many warriors, but I've never seen you take such personal interest in an outsider. Why him?"

  Glitvall turned to face her, his expression calm. "If you wish to know my mind, Jarl Keara, you have two choices. You can wait for the results and judge me by them. Or you can trust me."

  He paused, then added, "If neither of those works for you, then you're welcome to pick up the axes and bring them to the center of the tent. Challenge me as Warchief. See if you can take my place."

  The tent went silent.

  Francis saw Jarl Keara's jaw tighten, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. For a moment, he thought she might actually accept the challenge. But then she took a slow breath and steadied herself.

  "I will trust your judgment," she said slowly. "For now."

  Glitvall nodded once and walked out of the tent. Francis followed quickly, very aware of the eyes boring into his back.

  ---

  They walked in silence for a few moments before Glitvall spoke.

  "That was bold. Making a promise like that."

  "I meant it," Francis said.

  "I know you did," Glitvall replied, glancing at him. "How did things go with Tormund?"

  Francis considered the question. "Better than expected. I gained six points in both Blacksmithing and Metal Working."

  The warchief's eyebrows rose. "Six points in three days? That's... significant."

  "Tormund's a good teacher," Francis said. "Though I have a question about him."

  "Ask it."

  "He has this way of talking… about smithing that makes it sound like he's talking about life. Is that intentional, or am I reading too much into it?"

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  Glitvall chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. "Tormund is one of the wisest men in this camp. He could have pursued power. In fact, he could have challenged for leadership in his clan. But he stays at the forge, knowing his ability to equip and provide for all these people is worth more than any title."

  "So it was intentional," Francis said.

  "Everything Tormund does is intentional," Glitvall replied. "The fact that you picked up on it means you were listening. That's good. You'll need that skill where we're going."

  They approached the Commons—a large open area where warriors trained, slept, and gathered. Francis could see a group of six barbarians waiting near the edge, their breath misting in the cold air.

  Here we go.

  As they drew closer, Francis could make out more details. Four men, two women. All of them looked like they'd been fighting since they could walk.

  "Warriors," Glitvall called out. "This is Francis Lancaster. He'll be joining your pack for the next raid."

  One of the men stepped forward. He was tall, even for a barbarian, with a thick black beard braided with small bones. A massive axe hung across his back. His eyes were sharp, assessing Francis with the same intensity Francis had seen in Stenson when they first met.

  "I'm Hroden," he said. "I lead this pack. You follow my orders out there, no questions. Understood?"

  "Understood," Francis replied.

  Hroden nodded, then gestured to the others. "That's Vornak." A stocky man with a war hammer and a face that looked like it had stopped a few too many fists. "Eirik." Lean and wiry, with twin hand axes and scars running down both arms. "Harald." The youngest of the group, maybe only a few years older than Francis, was carrying a spear and shield.

  "The women are Selka and Helga," Hroden continued. Selka was built like she could snap Francis in half—broad shoulders, arms thick with muscle, and a two-handed axe strapped to her back. Helga was smaller, quicker-looking, with a bow and a quiver of arrows.

  "A southerner," Selka said, her voice flat. "With swords."

  The way she said it made it clear what she thought of both him and his weapons.

  "Is that a problem?" Francis asked.

  "Swords are for dancing," Selka replied. "Axes are for killing. You want to fight beside us, you should learn to use a real weapon."

  "I'll stick with what I know," Francis said evenly.

  "Then you'll die with what you know," Selka shot back.

  "Enough," Hroden said, his voice cutting through the tension. "He's part of the pack now. We test him, we train him, and if he can't keep up, he stays behind. That's how it works."

  Selka glared at Francis but said nothing.

  Eirik, the lean one with the twin axes, spoke up. "What's your story, Southerner? Why are you really here? Most of your people aren’t willing to endure the cold."

  "I’ve come here to learn about the army that you face," Francis said. "And to help."

  "Help," Vornak rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "Right. Because we need a southerner to save us."

  "I didn't say that," Francis replied. "I said I want to help. There's a difference."

  Harald, the young one with the spear, looked curious rather than hostile. "There’s a rumor that you’ve been learning to smith? That's what people are saying."

  "I did," Francis admitted.

  "Why?" Harald asked. “How does smithing help us? Especially when rumors are you wasted more metal than most can count.

  Francis smiled and motioned to Glitvall standing next to him. “Your Warchief told me I should learn from Tormund. So I did. If I’ve learned anything in the short time I’ve been here, it’s that I should obey him.”

  Helga, the archer, hadn't said anything yet. She just watched Francis with dark, calculating eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but sharp. "Can you follow orders?"

  "Yes," Francis said.

  "Even when they don't make sense?"

  He chuckled and nodded. “Oh, I’ve thought many of the orders I’ve been given don’t make sense, but I’ve followed them.”

  Helga nodded slowly. "Good. Because out there, hesitation kills. You don't have time to question, only to act. If Hroden says to strip naked and run through the commons, just do it."

  Grins appeared on everyone’s face except Selka at those words.

  Glitvall cleared his throat. "You have two days before the raid. Use them to learn how each other fights. Test him, see what he can do. If he's not ready, tell me. I'll keep him back."

  "He'll be ready," Hroden said, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "Or he won't be coming with us."

  Glitvall nodded and turned to leave, then paused and looked at Francis. "Remember what Tormund taught you. The connections matter more than the individual pieces."

  Francis nodded, understanding the message.

  This pack. I need to earn their trust. I have to work with them, not just alongside them.

  As Glitvall walked away, Hroden crossed his arms and studied Francis. "Alright, southerner. Let's see what you've got. We're going to run through some basics. How you move, how you fight, how you react."

  "Now?" Francis asked.

  "Right now," Hroden confirmed. "Eirik, Vornak, you're with me. We'll test his defense. Harald, you watch and learn. Selka, Helga, you two set up on the flanks. We're going to see if this southerner can handle being surrounded."

  Selka grinned, and it wasn't friendly. "This should be fun."

  “Are we going to use weapons?” Francis asked.

  Hroden frowned, his eyes darting between him and the others. “Not real ones.”

  He whistled and a teenager ran up.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need practice weapons and shields,” Hroden replied, pausing. “And… find me two sticks that might work for swords.”

  A disgusted look appeared on the teen's face but he nodded, running off.

  Soon the boy returned with his arms full of practice weapons, their edges hammered to a flat point and two sticks that were different lengths.

  “These will do,” Hroden said as the boy dropped the collection.

  Francis picked up the two sticks, seeing that at least they appeared like they wouldn’t break.

  Alright. Let's see what these warriors can do.

  Hroden gestured to a clear area of the Commons. "Take position. We start in thirty seconds."

  Francis moved to the center, watching as the barbarians spread out around him. Three in front, two on the sides. A classic encirclement test.

  I've died to worse. Let's see what they've got.

  Hroden raised his hand.

  "Begin."

  ?