Chapter 4

  “It appears we have a visitor,” Kerhi’s voice said as Francis appeared in the building of ice. “Tell me, what are you here for?

  Francis studied the woman, ignoring the temptation to laugh as he recalled the words Michael had spoken a day ago.

  She is attractive… especially if you like them able to crush you.

  Pulling the two sealed letters out, Francis smiled. “I have come to offer aid and help with the fight your people are currently caught in.” She began to speak, but he raised a hand. “No, we are not requesting aid, and I would prefer to see Warchief Glitvall sooner rather than later.”

  Kerhi scoffed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Tell me, who is it that comes to see the chieftain and is so full of himself?”

  “I am afraid you have not earned the honor of knowing my name yet,” Francis said. “Perhaps if you carry out your duty in a timely manner, I will share it with you.”

  Her laughter echoed off the walls as she motioned to the door made of pelts. “Well at least you know enough to respond as one should and to wear clothes fitting of our home.”

  Francis nodded, thankful that Stenson had been able to produce a set of furs that stopped the cold from reaching him. It had been awfully hot as he waited for Pricilla to open the portal to here, but he would gladly endure that little bit of suffering over the alternative.

  As they moved out of the building, Francis made sure to walk beside her, partially leading the way.

  Kerhi slowed, not coming to a full stop and Francis turned after getting a few strides ahead.

  “Are you not going to take me to the chieftain?” Francis asked.

  “I would, but you appear to be leading us instead. Is there a reason why?”

  Francis reflected on what had transpired when he was here last time.

  Was she taking me to Glitvall? Or was it some other path?

  “Ahh, forgive me,” Francis said. “I figured someone would want to take me to where you craft weapons and heal your injured, to show me a different section of the camp.”

  Her blue eyes seemed to darken, and Francis watched as she grinned just slightly. “What kind of barbarian would do such a thing?” she asked, her voice sweeter than he had ever heard before.

  “Yes,” Francis said, smiling. “What kind of barbarian indeed? Surely not one who is part of the shaman sect.”

  Her face froze and Francis wondered if he had pushed too hard, too fast.

  Well… what’s another death?

  As they stood there in silence for a few seconds, neither flinched, the cold air blowing over them both.

  “You speak about things most would not know, and yet I sense a knowledge you should not have,” Kerhi said slowly. “You come with letters, wearing the right clothing, giving the right greeting, and walking a path… some might be led down. I am curious to know what I must do to learn your name.”

  “Take me to the warchief,” Francis replied. “But I don’t mind if we take this path. It will give us a chance for every barbarian we pass to wonder whose child I am.”

  Kerhi snorted and then held a hand to her face. A hint of red made her face go flush, but having learned a few things in a thousand deaths, Francis said nothing.

  “Come, let us go,” Kerhi stated, walking in the direction Francis had been heading.

  Not much time had passed before the first joke at his expense came, and Francis laughed, earning a chuckle from the barbarian beside him.

  “You do not get embarrassed as some would,” Kerhi said. “Have the men from your kingdom finally grown a spine?”

  “Some do, while others don’t,” Francis replied. “But…” he waited, knowing what was about to happen as they arrived at the spot and he saw the shirtless barbarian approaching.

  “Do not call out her name or ask if you can watch over me!” Francis shouted, stopping the barbarian with his mouth open.

  Kerhi’s eyes widened and once again, the space around them went silent.

  “I… I–” Dravik stuttered.

  “You were going to give away her name, not knowing if I had earned it,” Francis repeated. “And if the stories I have heard are true… You must be Dravik Frostbane.”

  The barbarian grunted and stood there, glancing at Kerhi who shook her head. “I have told him no stories,” she said.

  “She has not dishonored you as you would have her,” Francis said, seizing the moment and moving closer to the barbarian. “Do you deny that I am wrong?”

  Once again, Dravik stood there, his mouth open, words seeming impossible for the large warrior to utter. Finally, he shook his head after a few seconds. “No…. you are right. I was going to say exactly what you just said.”

  Murmurs came from those watching, the onlookers drawing closer with each passing second.

  “Dravik… you… did not dishonor me but were going to,” Kerhi said, her voice carrying a hint of anger. “Seek out those whom you should and let them determine the price.”

  The warrior nodded, stealing one last glance at Francis before turning and jogging away.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Francis turned and saw the way that his escort was studying him.

  “Are you… some kind of mystic… a mage I believe they call them?” Kerhi asked.

  “Do I look like one?” Francis replied, twirling once.

  She chuckled and shook her head. “No… the stories say they are like branches that snap in half if the wind is too strong. You are not like that.” Kerhi paused, slowly nodding. “You… have earned the right to my name. Just my first thought. I am Kerhi.”

  I guess I will owe Stenson for sharing this one thing.

  Francis gave a slight bow, sensing the reaction of those who were still watching and listening. “Then I am honored to learn it. I wish to share that honor, and share mine. I am called Francis.”

  A few barbarians near them coughed and went silent once more.

  “Not a mage, yet you know the words and about honor,” Kerhi almost whispered. “Whoever has sent you must have taught you well. That means what you carry must be important.”

  “I didn’t lie,” Francis stated. “I am here to help. If you'd like, we can continue walking this path and pass by the blacksmiths. Perhaps one will have a dagger their baby has outgrown.”

  Laughter came from all of those still listening, but when Kerhi gave them a look, each one went back to whatever they had been doing before, soon leaving just her and Francis on the path alone.

  “We will not waste time,” Kerhi said. “I will take you straight to him.”

  ---

  Francis found himself outside a circular tent that was covered in mammoth hides. He could see the large bones that helped frame the structure. Besides the entrance, two of Glitvall Stormrend’s banners snapped in the cold wind.

  What is it with people in charge wanting to have wolves as their image?

  A wolf’s skull, split with an axe, was etched in red on a faded piece of tan cloth. Six barbarians stood in the snow on each side of the entrance. One barbarian on each side had a large snow-wolf, easily four feet tall, lounging on the ground beside them.

  Probably elite warriors if I had to guess .

  The wolves didn’t move, their silver eyes resting upon Francis for a moment before closing them.

  “It is good that they didn’t protest,” Kerhi said as she led the way up the path. “Sometimes they do not like someone and if they block your path, that is seen as a sign from the gods you shouldn’t be allowed in.”

  “Perhaps I should make sure to always carry some meat with me, just in case,” Francis joked.

  She frowned, and Francis lodged that look away, certain he would find out what mistake he had just made.

  None of the guards stopped them as they came; a single glance at Kerhi was all it took to get them past. One reached over and pulled away a thick mammoth hide, and warmth immediately began to come from the entrance to the low tent.

  Kerhi didn’t pause and neither did Francis, stepping over the cord that was circling the tent.

  The darkness inside was heavy, but with his ability to sense and see in the dark, Francis didn’t have a problem noticing the thirteen individuals seated around a large fire in the center.

  Benches surrounded the fire, and every man and woman present turned, looking in their direction.

  “Sister, why have you come and who is this child that comes with you?” a woman sitting beside Glitvall called out.

  “A messenger and one who walks in our ways,” Kerhi replied. “He has earned my name and just arrived.”

  Grunts came, as those who hadn’t paid much attention at first, turned to get a real look at him.

  “A messenger? From where?” the woman asked again.

  “Reevorort,” Kerhi replied. “He has a letter from both their King and General.”

  “We will not come to help them,” one of the men around the fire blurted out.

  “Aye, they can–” another man started.

  “Silence!” the woman shouted, cutting off the group. “We are dishonoring ourselves before we know what the letters say. Let us read them and then make our decision.”

  Francis produced them both, moving closer to where the gathered group was. “I was given instructions to give them to Warchief Glitvall Stormrend. If he decides to share them with his Jarls, that is his choice.”

  None of those on the benches spoke, and finally, the woman who had done all the talking rose. “You say you have been given letters for the Warchief. Then give them to him.” She gestured at all those gathered around the fire on a bench.

  There were thirteen total, six women and seven men. Francis assumed that the person talking was the Jarl Stenson had mentioned. Anyone else speaking with the authority she did had to mean that.

  Smiling, Francis took the bait, sensing the test that was before him.

  Of the seven men gathered, four of them matched Glitvall in size and stature. Each one held the air of a man who could easily be considered the warchief.

  Part of him wanted to play and have fun, yet not knowing the rules or etiquette, he also didn’t want to end up dead and having to repeat this process again. So he simply moved toward the woman who had been speaking and bowed.

  “I thank you for letting me give the letters to the Warchief. From what I know, and have been told, you most likely are the Jarl.”

  She said nothing, but her blue eyes widened enough to let Francis know he was right.

  “But since time is important, I will just go ahead and hand these to Glitvall Stormrend,” Francis said, turning and holding out the two letters to the man he knew was the warchief.

  A grunt came from the man as he looked at the two letters and the seals upon them. “You are certain that I am the one you are seeking?”

  “While I am not completely aware of all the etiquette your people follow in how you live and speak, I will speak freely about General Stenson,” Francis stated. “He’s not the kind of man to tell me anything, making me learn it myself, suffering and enduring pain to do so. I didn’t choose you because he gave me a description and you match it. The truth is, others around this fire carry the air of someone who might be the warchief, but the truth is, you are Glitvall Stormren, Warchief of Tules and I am Francis Lancaster, here to help in your fight against the army you face.”

  The sound of wood popping as the fire ignited sap inside was all that came as he locked eyes with the large barbarian. Seconds passed and finally Glitvall reached out with a scarred hand and took the two letters.

  “You have earned the right to know my name, Francis Lancaster,” the man said. “I am Glitvall Stormren, and I agree, General Stenson is an ass.”

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