Chapter 21

  The healing tent smelled of herbs and smoke, a combination that Francis was growing used to sooner than he expected. Hilda, the healer who had been assigned to him, worked with practiced efficiency as she cleaned another wound along his ribs. One of the shamans had come through earlier, her hands glowing with power as she reset the rib that had punctured his lung. That sensation had been unlike anything Francis had experienced from the healers back home.

  Different, but not bad. Just... more raw, more direct.

  The shamans here didn't have the gentle touch of Claudius or the clinical precision of the other healers from his kingdom. Their magic felt wilder, like it came from the land itself rather than from careful study and practice. It worked, though. His lung no longer gurgled with each breath, and the pain that had accompanied every movement was gone.

  "I'm surprised you made it back alive," Hilda said, her voice sounding like an upset mother. "The amount of injuries you have, and the lack of complaining from you, proves you're strong."

  She paused in her work, her eyes studying him with the kind of knowing look that made Francis wonder what she saw. "But strength alone doesn't explain it. Some of the berserker warriors possess a skill that helps alleviate pain. One that negates it or at least makes it bearable. The cost to acquire it, though, is one many don't pursue. Tell me, do you have such a skill?"

  Francis nodded slowly, not seeing any reason to hide it. Pain Resistance wasn't exactly a secret, and if she'd already guessed, denying it would only make him seem like he had something to hide.

  Hilda grunted and went back to her work, threading a needle with practiced ease. "Thought so. Not many your age would have it, though. Most who acquire it do so after years of battle. You must have started young, or you've been through more fights than your face suggests."

  She began sewing up a particularly deep gash along his shoulder, the one where the serpent's ice dagger had pierced through his armor. Francis watched her work, letting the silence stretch between them.

  After a moment, Hilda reached for a clay jar and began applying a thick, greenish salve to the newly stitched wound. The smell was pungent, like pine and something else Francis couldn't identify, but the cooling sensation was immediate and welcome.

  "I also heard," she said, her tone shifting to something more conversational, "that you returned with a Frost Serpentskin. And that you defeated it all on your own."

  That caused a stir in the healing tent. Francis hadn't noticed how many others were present, scattered across various cots and bedrolls, but now he could feel their attention shift toward him. A few of the wounded warriors propped themselves up on their elbows, their eyes fixed on him. Even the other healers paused in their work, glancing his way.

  Francis sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "Are you wanting to hear a story or confirmation?"

  Hilda laughed, a sound that was surprisingly warm and genuine. She gestured at his wounds with the hand holding the salve jar. "Look at you. The whole camp knows what you did. I didn't bring it up to hear you say that you had done it. These wounds tell their own tale well enough."

  She settled back on her stool, her expression shifting to something almost eager. "But it's been a while since I've heard a good story, and you aren't going anywhere until I finish. So why don't you humor an old woman and tell us how it happened?"

  Francis opened his eyes and looked around the tent. Every face was turned toward him now, waiting. Some were young warriors, probably on their first campaign, their eyes bright with curiosity. Others were older, scarred veterans who had likely seen their share of impossible fights. All of them wanted to hear what he had to say.

  Well, at least they're honest about wanting entertainment.

  "Fine," Francis said, shifting slightly on the cot to find a more comfortable position. Every movement sent small jolts of pain through his body, but his Pain Resistance skill kept it manageable. "We were out on the ice field, three packs and myself. We'd been hunting for smaller groups, trying to thin their numbers without taking unnecessary risks."

  He paused, gathering his thoughts, trying to decide how much detail to include and how much to leave out. "The Ursaloths we expected. Three of them, each one a challenge for a full pack. But the Serpentskin was different. It appeared from the mist like it had been waiting for us, and the moment I saw it, I knew things were going to get complicated."

  Hilda made an approving sound and went back to applying salve to his other wounds, but Francis could tell she was listening. Everyone was.

  "It had four arms," Francis continued, "and scales that looked like ice itself. When it moved, it didn't walk or run. It glided across the frozen ground as if the ice were made for it. And the cold it could summon wasn't like anything I'd faced before. It tried to freeze me from the inside out."

  One of the younger warriors spoke up. "And you killed it? By yourself?"

  Francis glanced at the young man. "I did, but not because I was stronger or faster. The serpent had the advantage in that terrain. Every step I took was calculated, every movement had to be precise or I'd slip and fall. Meanwhile, it moved like the ice was part of it."

  He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "So I changed the terrain. Started breaking the ice beneath it, shattering the smooth surface until it couldn't glide anymore. Once I took away its advantage, the fight became more even. But even then, it nearly killed me. Cost me a few ribs, this shoulder, and more blood than I'd like to admit."

  Hilda chuckled and patted his good shoulder. "And yet here you are, alive and whole enough to heal. That's more than most can say after facing such a creature."

  Francis grunted, letting his head rest back against the rolled-up furs that served as a pillow. "The fight with the serpent was one thing. But by the time I finished with it, one of the packs had already fallen. Three good warriors are dead, and two more are wounded so badly they might not survive. That's the part of the story that matters more than how I killed the beast."

  The tent fell quiet at that, the earlier excitement dimming. Everyone in this tent had most likely lost someone, Francis knew. That's how war worked. You celebrated the victories, but the cost was always there, waiting in the shadows.

  "Rest now," Hilda said, her voice softer than before. "I'll finish these bandages, and then you need sleep. The body heals faster when you give it the chance."

  Francis didn't argue.

  ---

  Francis was in his tent, resting on the pile of furs that served as his bed, when a knock came at the entrance. His eyes had been closed, but he wasn't sleeping. Sleep had been hard to come by lately, his mind too active with thoughts of the fight, the losses, and what would come next.

  "Enter," he called out, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

  The tent flap opened, and Jarl Keara stepped inside. She was dressed in her usual combination of leather and furs, but her hair was braided in an intricate pattern that must have taken considerable time to create. Francis also noticed, as he had during her previous visits, that she smelled better than most in the camp. It wasn't overpowering, but there was definitely a scent of something floral, likely a perfume or oil she had used. He couldn't identify what kind of flower it was, but it was pleasant enough.

  "Jarl Keara," Francis said, gesturing to the small stool near his bed. "Please, sit."

  She accepted the offer without hesitation, settling onto the stool with the kind of grace that spoke of confidence and practice. Her eyes studied him for a moment, taking in the fresh bandages that covered most of his upper body.

  "I heard about the fight," she said, getting straight to the point. "Three Ursaloths and a Frost Serpentskin. That's no small feat, Francis Lancaster."

  Francis shrugged, then immediately regretted it as his shoulder felt like it wanted to pop. "It was necessary. The packs needed support, and someone had to deal with the serpent."

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  "Three dead, though," Keara said, her tone thoughtful rather than accusatory. "That's a heavy price. Tell me, how do you feel about that? About the cost of the victory?"

  Francis met her eyes, seeing genuine curiosity there. She wasn't trying to trap him or judge him. She wanted to know what kind of person he was, how he thought about these things.

  "I think it cost more lives than it might have been worth," Francis said honestly. "We killed three Ursaloths and a serpent, gained some valuable materials, but three warriors died, and two more might not survive their injuries. If I had to make that trade again, knowing what I know now, I'm not sure I would."

  Keara nodded slowly, something like approval flickering across her face. "That's a more thoughtful answer than most would give. Many warriors here would count it a great victory, especially bringing back the serpent's body. But you see the weight of it, the real cost. That's good."

  She shifted on the stool, her posture relaxing slightly. "So tell me, how long are you planning on staying with us? Surely your kingdom will want you back at some point, and this war of ours could drag on for quite some time."

  "Until we defeat the enemy," Francis said simply.

  Keara laughed at that, a genuine sound of amusement. "That could be years, you know. These beastkin aren't going to just roll over and die. We've been fighting them for months now, and they show no signs of weakening."

  "Then that's how long it takes," Francis replied. "My kingdom is fighting the same enemy on a different front. If I can help here, by learning how you fight and sharing what I know, then that's time well spent. When I go back, I'll be stronger and more knowledgeable than when I left."

  The Jarl studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. "Glitvall mentioned you've been spending time with Tormund. Learning to work metal, getting put into packs to fight alongside our warriors. What do you think of our ways so far?"

  Francis considered the question carefully. "Most of what I'm doing now is proving myself and learning your culture. The blacksmithing teaches me patience and precision. The packs teach me how you fight as a unit, how you trust each other in battle. It's a little different from my kingdom, but not so much."

  Keara smiled at that, and there was something playful in the expression. "And if you wanted to learn more about our ways? Perhaps something less focused on warfare and smithing? There are other aspects of our culture that might interest you."

  The implication was clear enough, and Francis felt heat rise to his face despite his best efforts to remain neutral. He gestured at the bandages covering his torso, at his shoulder, and at the careful way he had to breathe to avoid aggravating his ribs.

  "At the moment," Francis said, keeping his voice even, "I'm not sure I would be able to handle any kind of fun. These wounds need time to heal properly, and I don't think I could do justice to whatever you might have in mind."

  Keara didn't seem offended by the deflection. If anything, her smile widened slightly. "Fair enough. The offer stands for when you're feeling better, though. We northerners know how to celebrate life, especially after brushing so close to death."

  She settled back on the stool and shifted to other topics, asking about his kingdom, the war there, and how their armies were organized, as well as the strategies they employed. Francis answered as best he could, giving her information that wasn't exactly secret but wasn't common knowledge either. He talked about the different types of beastkin they faced, about the way the battles were structured, and about the challenges of fighting an enemy that seemed endless.

  This is going to get old fast if she's like this every time.

  The questions kept coming, one after another, and while Francis understood that she was trying to gather information about a potential ally, part of him wondered if this was how every conversation with her would go. Probing, testing, always looking for angles and advantages.

  ---

  Two days later, Francis found himself standing in the forge, watching as Tormund worked with several of the younger blacksmiths.

  Tormund was demonstrating how to fold metal properly, his hammer striking the glowing metal with rhythmic precision. Each blow was measured, controlled, shaping the metal into something stronger than it had been before. The younger smiths watched with the kind of focus that Francis recognized from his own training sessions with various instructors. This was knowledge being passed down, the continuation of a craft that had been in existence for generations.

  After finishing the demonstration, Tormund handed the work to one of his apprentices and made his way over to where Francis stood. The older man's face was streaked with soot, and sweat dripped from his brow despite the cold air that seeped in through the forge's entrance.

  "You earned more honor by bringing back the bodies of the three who died," Tormund said without preamble. "Most would consider it a waste to leave the Ursaloth corpses rather than to focus on carrying back the fallen. They'd say the pelts and meat were more valuable, especially with how lean our supplies are."

  Francis shrugged, the movement easier now after having gotten some rest. "We couldn't have carried an Ursaloth back in that condition. The survivors were exhausted, wounded, and we had two more who needed to be carried on litters. Taking the time to butcher one of those beasts would have left us exposed to the beastkin who were already moving to reclaim the battlefield."

  Tormund shook his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He reached out and tapped Francis's chest with one thick finger, the gesture surprisingly gentle despite the man's obvious strength.

  "That's the reason you tell others," Tormund said. "But I know the real reason why you did it. I can see something in your eyes, Francis Lancaster. There's a longing there, and it's not the battle lust that many show. You don't just want to kill well. You want to live well, and you want others to live well too."

  Francis opened his mouth to respond, but Tormund held up a hand to stop him.

  "It's like a blacksmith who only makes weapons," the older man continued. "Eventually, the knowledge that all he does is create instruments of death will be too heavy for him to continue. That's why we also make tools, pots, hinges, nails, and other things. We need balance, or the weight of what we do will crush us."

  Francis felt something settle in his chest at those words. Tormund had put into words something Francis had been feeling but hadn't quite been able to articulate. The weight of all the deaths, all the loops, all the killing. It accumulated, and if he weren't careful, it would become too much to bear.

  He sees it. Somehow, he sees what I've been carrying.

  "But," Francis said slowly, working through the thought even as he spoke it, "don't some times, like right now, require a lot of weapons to be made? So that there might be another time when you can make tools again? When the war is over, you can go back to making pots and hinges. But right now, the warriors need axes and armor. Isn't that balance too? Knowing when to focus on one thing so that you can eventually return to the other?"

  Tormund's smile widened into something genuine and warm. He clapped Francis on the shoulder, the good one.

  "Glitvall said you were wise," Tormund said. "Each day you prove that more true. Yes, you're right. There's a balance in knowing when to focus on one thing and when to return to another. The key is not losing sight of what comes after. Not letting the weapons become all you know."

  He gestured toward the forge, where the apprentices were now working on their own pieces, their hammers creating a symphony of metallic strikes. "These young ones, they're learning to make weapons now because that's what we need. But I also teach them to make horseshoes, to forge hinges, to create beauty when they can. So that when the war ends, they remember how to do more than kill."

  Francis nodded, watching the apprentices work. One of them was struggling with the angle of his hammer strikes, and Tormund moved to correct him, showing the proper technique with patient hands. It was a small thing, teaching someone how to strike metal properly, but Francis understood its importance. Every skill learned, every piece of knowledge passed down, was a thread connecting the past to the future.

  "When I get some free time," Francis said, "I'd like to continue learning from you. Not just about weapons, but about the other things too. The balance you mentioned."

  Tormund turned back to him, his expression serious but pleased. "Good. You'll be welcome here whenever you wish. Just don't push yourself too hard, too fast. Hilda would have my head if I let you injure yourself further, and that woman is terrifying when she's angry."

  Francis laughed at that, a genuine sound that felt good after the weight of the conversation. "I'll keep that in mind."

  He stayed in the forge for another hour, watching the work, asking questions when something caught his interest, and slowly beginning to understand the deeper meaning behind what Tormund had said. It wasn't just about smithing. It was about finding purpose beyond immediate needs, about maintaining one's humanity even when surrounded by war and death.

  As Francis finally made his way back to his tent, he found himself thinking about loops to come. About the deaths he would experience, the battles he would fight, the knowledge he would gain. But also about the moments like this, where someone saw him as more than just a weapon, more than just a means to an end.

  Tormund was right. Balance was key. And Francis was beginning to understand what that truly meant.

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