Chapter 18

  They passed through the outer palisade, and Francis immediately started checking on the pack.

  "Vornak, let me see that arm," he said.

  The stocky barbarian pulled back his furs, revealing a deep gash that ran from elbow to wrist. Blood still seeped from it, though slower now that they were out of the cold.

  "Healers," Francis said, pointing toward the medical tents. "You too, Eirik. That leg needs looking at."

  "I'm fine," Eirik protested.

  "No, you're limping," Francis replied. "Go. All of you. Get patched up."

  Harald touched the cuts on his face gingerly. "What about you?"

  "I'm good. My chain mail did its job." Francis turned to Hroden. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

  The pack leader frowned but nodded, gesturing for the others to head toward the healers. Selka lingered for a moment, her eyes on Francis, before following the rest.

  Once they were alone, Francis spoke. "I'll be back. I need you to stay here."

  Hroden's eyebrows rose. "What?"

  "The bodies. We need pelts, and the only way we're getting them is if we drag the corpses back."

  "That wasn't our goal or job," Hroden said, his voice not hiding the way he felt about Francis’s idea. "We went out to test you, to see how you'd do. That mission's done. I cannot let you go out there alone. Glitvall would be upset with me if something happened to you."

  "So you don't want your share of any of the pelts that I bring back?" Francis asked. “Besides you and I both know that Glitvall wouldn’t blame you for me taking this course of action. You’re a good leader. I can see it. But I also know that a prize like those pelts would do much for you and the rest.”

  Hroden opened his mouth, then closed it. Francis could see the conflict on his face. Pelts were valuable, especially Lynxkin ones. The fur was thick, warm, and could be traded for other supplies. Plus, their ability to help camouflage someone only added to their worth.

  "It's your life," Hroden said finally. "You'll so casually toss it away?"

  "If I die, then I did," Francis replied. "If I don't, then you'll understand, as will everyone else."

  Hroden stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "You're insane. Perhaps you are like some of my people."

  "Probably," Francis admitted, chuckling. "But I made a promise. Everyone came back alive. Now I'm going to make sure it was worth it."

  He turned and headed back toward the palisade gate.

  "Francis," Hroden called out.

  He paused.

  "Try not to die," the pack leader said.

  Francis smiled slightly. "I'll do my best."

  ---

  The first trip went without any problems.

  Francis retraced their path, found the nearest Lynxkin corpse, and grabbed it by the legs. The body was already starting to freeze, the blood on its fur turning to ice crystals. He dragged it back across the snow, one sword in his free hand, his eyes constantly scanning.

  Just me out here now. It sounds bad if I had to admit it, but with no one to protect, I can actually fight without having to hold back.

  When he passed through the outermost palisade, he saw Hroden and Nessa standing near the entrance. Both pack leaders watched as Francis deposited the corpse and immediately turned back.

  "He's actually doing it," Nessa muttered.

  "Told you," Hroden replied.

  Francis didn't stop to chat. He headed back out.

  The second trip drew more attention.

  A few warriors had gathered near the palisade, watching as Francis dragged another body through the entrance. Whispers followed him, but no one approached. No one tried to claim the corpses or question what he was doing.

  By the third trip, a small crowd had formed.

  "That's the southerner," someone said.

  "Look at him go. Doesn't even look tired."

  "How many is he bringing back?"

  Francis ignored them all. He dropped the third body, pretended to wipe sweat from his forehead despite the cold, and headed back out.

  Fourth trip. Fifth. Sixth.

  Each time, the crowd grew larger. Warriors, smiths, even a few clan leaders appeared, drawn by the spectacle of a southerner dragging Lynxkin corpses back alone.

  Francis's onlookers commented about how he was able to keep going. He wasn’t sure if they would be tired or wore out, but he felt great. The cold was there, yet the constant movement held it at bay. All he could do was smile as he headed back out, knowing his actions were doing more than just gathering pelts.

  Six down. At least six more from our fight, plus whatever Nessa's pack killed. I can do this.

  On the seventh trip, Francis had ventured farther out to retrieve one of the corpses from Nessa's fight. He grabbed the Lynxkin by its hind legs and started dragging it back.

  That's when his Battle Sense warned him of what he had wondered might come.

  Four of them.

  Francis didn't hesitate the moment he sensed them approaching. He hurled the corpse forward, directly at the shape he had seen emerging. The body crashed into the materializing Lynxkin, knocking it to one side.

  Three more appeared, surrounding him.

  Francis grinned.

  Finally! A real fight.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The first Lynxkin lunged at him from the left. Francis sidestepped, his body moving with the ease of someone who'd done this hundreds of times. His right sword came around in a lazy arc that caught the beast across its throat.

  Blood sprayed. The Lynxkin collapsed, gurgling.

  The second one tried to attack from behind. Francis spun, both swords now in his hands, crossing to catch its claws. He twisted his wrists, redirecting the force, and kicked the beast in the chest. It flew backward, crashing into the snow.

  Before it could recover, Francis was on it.

  [ Power Strike ]

  His sword came down with enough force to cleave through the Lynxkin's neck. The head separated cleanly, rolling a few feet away.

  Two down.

  The third and fourth attacked together, trying to overwhelm him with coordinated strikes. Francis's perception tracked both easily. He ducked under the third one's swipe, drove his left sword into its belly, and used the dying beast as a shield against the fourth's attack.

  Claws scraped against the beastkin Francis held between them. He shoved it forward, forcing the fourth Lynxkin back, then finished the third with a quick slash across its throat.

  With the third one defeated, the last Lynxkin tried to flee.

  Not this time.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  Francis closed the distance in seconds. His right sword came around in a slash that took the Lynxkin's head off mid-stride. The body ran a few more steps before collapsing.

  Four dead beastkin, two of them headless, lay on the ice, the wind suddenly gone as were their lives..

  Francis stood there, breathing easily, not a scratch on him. He looked down at the corpses scattered around him and picked the best one—one of the headless bodies, still mostly intact.

  This one's mine.

  He grabbed it by the legs and started dragging it back.

  ---

  The crowd at the palisade had grown significantly.

  Francis could see at least fifty warriors gathered, maybe more. Among them stood Glitvall, his massive frame impossible to miss. Several clan leaders flanked him, their expressions ranging from curious to impressed.

  Francis dragged the headless Lynxkin through the entrance and tossed it to the side, separate from the other corpses he'd retrieved. He turned to face Hroden.

  He pointed a sword at the fresh corpse. "That one's mine."

  Silence.

  Then someone in the crowd started laughing. Others joined in, not with mocking laughter, but with the kind that came from a mix of respect and disbelief.

  Glitvall stepped forward, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp. "You killed four more out there. Alone."

  "They ambushed me," Francis replied. "Seemed rude not to fight back."

  More laughter from the crowd.

  "How many more are you bringing back?" Glitvall asked.

  Francis looked toward the battlefield. "At least thirteen more. Maybe twenty total if I can find all of Nessa's kills."

  "Twenty," one of the clan leaders muttered. "Twenty Lynxkin pelts."

  "The southerner works fast," another commented.

  Glitvall studied Francis for a moment longer, then nodded once. "Finish your work. No one will touch your spoils or dishonor what you've claimed."

  Francis inclined his head in thanks and turned back toward the gate.

  Hroden appeared beside him. "You're really going to drag all of them back?"

  "Already committed," Francis said. "Might as well finish."

  "You're insane," Hroden repeated.

  "So you've said," Francis replied with a slight smile.

  ---

  The remaining trips were uneventful.

  Francis moved methodically across the battlefield, finding each corpse, dragging it back. Eighth trip. Ninth. Tenth.

  The crowd remained, watching in silence now. Some had brought stools or crates to sit on. Others stood, arms crossed, expressions thoughtful.

  Eleventh. Twelfth. Thirteenth.

  Francis found three of Nessa's kills farther out, partially buried in snow. He dug them out and brought them back, one by one.

  Sixteenth. Seventeenth. Eighteenth.

  Almost done. Just a few more.

  Nineteenth. Twentieth.

  Francis dragged the final corpse through the palisade and let it drop with the others. He stood there, staring at what he had just done.

  Twenty Lynxkin corpses lay in three piles. The crowd stared at them, at him, processing what they'd just witnessed.

  Glitvall stepped forward again. "Twenty corpses. Twelve from your packs' fights, four from your solo encounter, and four more you went back for."

  "Twenty," Francis confirmed, wiping his face with a hand.

  "The pelts are yours to claim or distribute as you see fit," Glitvall said. "But I'm curious—why did you do this? The fight was over. You'd proven yourself. Why risk going back out alone?"

  Francis looked at the pile of corpses, then at Hroden's pack, who had returned from the healers and were now standing at the edge of the crowd.

  "Because promises mean something," Francis said. "I told the Jarl everyone would come back alive. They did. But I also told Hroden his pack would get their share of pelts. That means bringing them back."

  He pointed at the pile. "Twelve of those belong to the pack. Four are mine. The rest go to Nessa's warriors, since they killed them."

  Nessa pushed through the crowd, her expression a mix of surprise and something else. "You brought back our kills?"

  "Your warriors earned them," Francis replied. "Seemed wrong to leave them out there."

  Silence again.

  Then Glitvall started laughing. Deep, genuine laughter that echoed across the gathered crowd. "Stenson was right about you. You're either the bravest fool I've ever met or the wisest warrior. Perhaps both."

  The warchief clapped Francis on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble slightly. "Rest. You've earned it. Tomorrow, we'll discuss what comes next."

  Francis nodded, suddenly feeling like he was starting to figure out this nation.

  As he walked toward his tent, passing through the crowd that parted for him, Francis caught sight of Selka.

  She stood near the back, her forehead bandaged from the healer's work. Their eyes met for just a moment.

  She nodded once. Just once.

  Francis returned the gesture and kept walking.

  Maybe that changes things. Or perhaps it doesn't. Either way, today was a good day.

  He made it to his tent, acknowledging those who called out, not bothering to stop. Every step felt like a small victory. One of many he would have to do countless times. Even if it didn’t last long, it felt almost like making the poker. It felt like it had been forever since he started fostering relationships that might last a while.

  ?