Chapter 19

  The summons came for Francis after he had finished eating breakfast.

  The same young warrior who had brought him to the tent to meet with the clan elders stood outside his tent with the message that Glitvall wanted to see him. Francis grabbed his weapons, threw on his furs, and followed the messenger through the camp.

  The warchief's tent was exactly as Francis remembered. Warm, with a fire burning in the center and the smell of pine smoke heavy in the air. Glitvall sat in his chair, a cup of something steaming in his hand.

  "Francis," the warchief said, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Sit. We have things to discuss."

  Francis sat, noting the serious expression on Glitvall's face.

  This feels different than before. More formal.

  "The council of clan leaders is impressed," Glitvall began. "Twenty Lynxkin pelts were brought back in a single afternoon. Not just that, but four more were killed by you alone while you worked. And every member of both packs returned alive, just as you promised." He paused, taking a sip from his cup. "They're trying to figure out just who you are."

  "And what have they concluded?" Francis asked, unable to hold back his grin.

  "That you're either exceptionally skilled, exceptionally lucky, or exceptionally foolish," Glitvall replied with a slight smile. "Some think all three. But the important thing is that they're open to seeing what more you can accomplish."

  "That's good, right?"

  "It can be," Glitvall said. "But it also means you've caught attention. Not all of it is friendly."

  Francis frowned. "What do you mean?"

  The warchief set his cup down. "Jarl Keara is vying for my position as warchief. She has been for some time. Now that you've proven yourself valuable, she may seek ways to earn your favor. To bring you to her side."

  "Why would she need me on her side?” Francis asked. “Isn’t the fact I’m here to help all of you good enough?”

  "Because if you continue to prove yourself, you'll have influence," Glitvall explained. "The warriors respect strength and results. You've shown both. If she can claim you as her supporter, it strengthens her position against me."

  Politics. Even up here in the frozen north, there's always politics.

  "How would she try to earn my favor?" Francis asked.

  Glitvall smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "She's known for using the cabbage or a hammer."

  Francis blinked. "The... what?"

  "The cabbage or a hammer," Glitvall repeated. "Rewards or threats. Gifts or violence. She'll offer you things—better equipment, training, even her daughter's hand in marriage if it serves her purpose. And if you refuse, she'll find ways to make your life difficult."

  "You mean the carrot or the stick?" Francis asked.

  "Sure, but here it's a hammer and cabbage," Glitvall said. "She will continue to try to get you on her side the more fame you gain. As you endure more loops, you might experience both sides of her methods. For my people, it’s not so much of problem as it involves clans. You are loyal to your clan first, and that is where the leaders play the game of who to back."

  Francis leaned back in his chair, processing another problem to overcome. "So what do I do?"

  "Stay focused on your goals," Glitvall advised. "You came here to learn how to fight these beastkin, to help both our kingdoms. Don't get pulled into clan politics unless you have to. And if Keara approaches you, be polite but noncommittal."

  "Understood," Francis said. “And if she doesn’t want to accept that? I did mention that she visited me at night on one of my previous loops. She was very upset that Kerhi had taken up most of the evening.”

  “You did… and I can only imagine the things she might have offered you that evening,” the warchief said. “Her tact is sometimes… lacking. She is a strong warrior, but there is more to leading a nation in times of war than just being a good fighter.”

  Francis studied the way the warchief was sitting. He could see that this problem bothered him; his shoulders pulled tighter than usual. “I’ll do what I can.”

  "Good." Glitvall picked up his cup again. "Now, as for your next steps. This afternoon, return to Tormund at the forges. Continue your training there."

  "More smithing?" Francis asked, surprised.

  "More smithing," Glitvall confirmed. "In a few days, we'll do another excursion to the battlefield. I’m sure I can convince the leaders to let you try to bring back more pelts. Perhaps we'll eventually draw out some of the stronger beastkin."

  "The Ursaloths?"

  "Or worse," Glitvall said. "If we can provoke them into showing themselves, I'll need to put you with a different pack. One that can help face them. Hroden's warriors are skilled, but they're not equipped for that level of threat."

  A different pack. That means leaving Hroden, Helga, and the others. And Selka.

  "What about my current pack?" Francis asked.

  "They'll continue their regular patrols," Glitvall replied. "But you'll need warriors who specialize in fighting the larger threats. Ones who've faced Ursaloths before and lived."

  Francis nodded slowly. "That makes sense. I just thought… that this was a group… I might get to know over some of my loops."

  The warchief nodded, a slight frown forming. "I can see how you might think that. If you desire, ask it of me in another loop. But you didn’t come here to make friends, did you?”

  “Not really,” Francis replied. “But after my time with Tormund and the pack, I’ve kind of realized how alone I’ve been.”

  “Then tell me so in your next life. For now, focus on your smithing," Glitvall said. "Tormund has more to teach you than just metalwork. Pay attention to what he says. The man's wisdom goes deeper than most realize."

  "I've noticed," Francis admitted.

  Glitvall smiled. "Good. Then go. Learn what you can. We'll talk again in a few days. I must return to the tent and deal with my responsibilities. One of them, which is preparing you for why you have come."

  “So you’re doing all this to help me acquire the Legendary skill I’m seeking?” Francis asked.

  “I am… part of what is required is more than just enduring pain or even dying. You must learn who we are, how we live and what drives us. In those moments, you will learn about yourself as well. When that time comes, we will be ready to pursue the next path that leads to what you seek.”

  Francis stood, nodded respectfully, and left the tent.

  ---

  The forges were busy when Francis arrived.

  Hammers rang out against anvils, fires roared, and the heat hit him like a wall the moment he stepped inside. Tormund stood at his usual station, working on what looked like a spearhead. He glanced up as Francis approached and nodded in greeting.

  "Back already," Tormund said. "I heard about yesterday. Twenty pelts. Impressive work."

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Word travels fast," Francis replied.

  "It always does." Tormund set down his hammer and studied Francis. "It appears you've learned the importance of the join. Bringing back pelts for your pack, for Nessa's warriors. That's what holds people together."

  "Seemed like the right thing to do," Francis said, shrugging.

  "It was." Tormund gestured to the forge. "Today, you're going to make as many pokers as you can before sunset."

  Francis blinked. "How many?"

  "As many as you can," Tormund repeated. "It takes practice to do the same thing over and over. I'm certain that if you continue the same path you're on, you're going to have to learn how to do that."

  I know there’s no way he can know about my loops and yet... It feels like he does. I’ll have to ask Glitvall if he told him.

  "You're a wise man, Tormund," Francis said carefully.

  "I've lived long enough to see patterns," the blacksmith replied with a slight smile. "Now get to work. Iron doesn't shape itself."

  Francis tied on his leather apron and got started.

  ---

  The first poker took him about forty minutes.

  He heated the iron until it glowed yellow, hammered it into the proper length, bent the hook carefully, reinforced the join, and shaped the handle. When he quenched it in oil, the poker hissed and steamed before cooling into a functional tool.

  Once again, what he had created wasn’t perfect, but it was usable.

  As he worked on the second one, Francis's mind wandered to yesterday. To the crowd that had gathered at the palisade. All those warriors watching him drag corpses back, one by one. The whispers, the respect in their eyes.

  I proved something to them. But what exactly? That I'm strong? That I'm dedicated? Or just that I'm willing to do what others won't?

  His hammer rang against the iron, shaping it with steady, measured strikes.

  He thought about the pack. Hroden's leadership, Harald's enthusiasm, Eirik and Vornak's solid reliability. Helga's sharp observations.

  And Selka.

  That single nod she'd given him. It was brief, almost reluctant, but it had been given. A possible acknowledgment that something might have changed between them.

  I saved her life. Does that matter to someone who hates southerners? Or does it just make her angrier that she might feel she owes me a debt?

  Francis finished the second poker and started on the third. This one went faster, maybe thirty-five minutes. His hands were learning the rhythm, the patterns. Heat, hammer, shape, quench.

  He remembered Tormund's words from before. About bending the hook carefully, about not rushing it or the metal would crack.

  That's how I need to approach Selka. Like bending the hook. Carefully and slowly. If I push too hard and try to force it, I may end up ruining everything. But if I'm patient, if I give her time and space, maybe she'll come around. Then again… if every loop starts me at the same spot, is that something I need to worry about?

  The third poker took shape under his hammer. The hook curved properly, the join was solid, and the handle felt right in his grip.

  "Better," Tormund commented, appearing beside him to inspect the work. "You're learning. Each one's a little faster, a little cleaner."

  "How many more life lessons do you have to teach me?" Francis asked.

  Tormund chuckled. "The only way to find that out is to learn to craft better. I can't teach you everything in a day. It takes a lifetime to learn how to forge as well as to understand the barbarian clans."

  "A lifetime," Francis repeated. “I’m not sure I’ll have one to give.”

  Tormund smiled, giving him a strange look. "Depending on how long you're willing to keep learning, you might just find out."

  Francis nodded and went back to work.

  ---

  By the time the sun started setting, Francis had made seven pokers.

  Each one was better than the last. The seventh took him only twenty-five minutes, and when he held it up to examine, he could barely see any flaws.

  "Good work," Tormund said, inspecting the row of completed pokers. "You're getting faster without sacrificing quality. That's the mark of someone who's actually learning, not just repeating motions."

  "It helps having a good teacher," Francis replied.

  "It helps being a good student," Tormund countered. "Some people I could teach for years and they'd never understand what you've grasped in days."

  [ Blacksmithing Increased - 7 ]

  [ Metal Working Increased - 7 ]

  It feels weird… those skills improve so fast, and the others that I use to stay alive are slowing down. Even the stat gains aren’t as fast as before.

  Francis removed his leather apron and hung it on the hook. His arms ached in that good way, the kind that came from honest work. His hands had new blisters forming, though not as bad as the first time.

  "Tomorrow?" Francis asked.

  "Tomorrow you rest," Tormund said. "Let your body recover. The day after, come back. We'll work on something different."

  "What?"

  "You'll see." Tormund smiled. "Now go. Get some food, get some sleep. You've earned it."

  Francis nodded and headed out of the forge into the cold evening air. The temperature drop was immediate, almost nipping at his exposed skin after hours near the heat.

  As he walked back toward his tent, he passed groups of warriors. Some nodded to him in greeting. Others whispered as he went by. Francis caught fragments of conversation.

  "That's him."

  "The southerner who brought back twenty pelts."

  "Heard he killed four more while he worked."

  Fame… Glitvall was right about that. I've caught their attention now. For better or worse.

  He reached his tent and ducked inside, grateful for the relative warmth. A small fire burned in the center, and someone had left a covered plate of food near his cot.

  Francis sat down and uncovered the plate. Roasted meat, some kind of root vegetable, and a chunk of dark bread. Simple but filling.

  As he ate, his mind kept turning over everything that had happened. The fight with the Lynxkin. Saving Selka.

  Retrieving all of the corpses and the crowd that stood there watching him.

  Francis also spent some time trying to understand Glitvall's warning about Jarl Keara. He had known she was predatory in some ways that first night. Part of him also knew he was listening to one side of the story.

  Politics, combat, smithing, and pack dynamics. It's like… juggling knives while walking on ice. One wrong move and everything falls apart.

  Francis let out a sigh. So far, he'd managed not to drop the knives. Everyone had come back alive, just like he'd promised. The pack was starting to accept him, even Selka in her own grudging way. And he was learning things that would help not just in this loop, but in the ones to come.

  Tormund's right. It takes a lifetime to understand all this. Good thing I have plenty of those.

  Francis finished eating, he added a log to the fire, and lay down on his cot. Tomorrow, he'd rest, maybe spend time with the pack. Then the day after, head back to the forge.

  And eventually, back to the battlefield.

  Francis smiled, staring up at the ceiling of his tent. Tonight, he could rest knowing he'd done well.

  The connections were forming. The joins were holding.

  That's what mattered.

  ?