Chapter 5
Francis felt the gazes of everyone on him as Glitvall read the letter from Stenson. To his credit the warchief didn’t react at all, simply rolling the paper up, tucking both into his clothes.
“It would appear that the General has sent us someone to assist in our war,” Glitvall said. “He will be given all respect and honor as if he were a fourth rank.”
A couple of those gathered around the fire coughed.
“Are you certain?” the Jarl asked. “To give an untested–”
“I have spoken. For me to do anything less is an insult to the trust I have placed in the rare few outside of our kingdom,” Glitvall said. “Francis has earned the honor to know my name and by default all will honor him with theirs when asked.”
Doing his best to appear strong and yet not concerned about the fact they were speaking about him right in front of him, Francis saw Kerhi looking at him from the other side of the tent. Her blue eyes were bright enough that he could tell she was using magic.
“I will not go against the Warchief,” the Jarl said. She turned toward Francis and gave a slight nod of her head. “I am Jarl Keara. For now I would suggest that all questions and needs you might have come to me. In time you may find the other clan leaders and seek their specific aid.”
“I am honored,” Francis replied. “Thank you for yours.”
He watched as Keara looked him up and down, her lip curling up on one side. She too had blond hair and blue eyes like many of the barbarians he had seen. In fact most were either brown or blond with very few red headed ones or black.
I guess that might stand out a little too much in the snow.
The sound of bench being granted mercy came from beside him and Francis turned to see Glitvall rising from his seat.
“I shall return to my tent, taking Francis with me. There are things that I must discuss with him.”
“Alone?” one of the men around the fire asked.
“Alone,” Glitvall replied. “One day if you hold my position, you can determine who is worthy of a visit in your tent alone. Until then tread carefully upon questioning mine, lest you dishonor us both.”
Francis saw the large man with blond hair frown but not say another word.
Without asking or telling him to come, Glitvall turned and moved toward the entrance to the tent. Francis gave a slight bow to the others and quickly fell in next to the large man, feeling so tiny.
He’s like three feet taller than me.
Glitvall stopped as they drew near Kerhi.
“Sister… this one earned your name, you said.”
“He did,” Kerhi replied.
“Then he is yours to watch after when we are done. Follow behind but say nothing.”
Francis smiled as she moved behind them and they made their way outside.
Once the tent flap was open, cold air assaulted Francis’s face.
“Just two,” Glitvall informed the guard who moved forward. “To my tent.”
No reply came as a pair of guards fell in behind, neither men saying a word as they followed.
“You are young… too young to be what Stenson wrote,” Glitvall said as they moved along a brown path of snow. “Yet I pray he is right. Something must change and soon.”
“I wish I knew what he said about me,” Francis replied, “But I am serious when I say I have come to help.”
“For a price,” Glitvall muttered. “Always a price.”
Unsure how to respond, Francis remained silent.
Everywhere they went, the barbarians who saw Glitvall and him walking together stared. None said a word, simply pausing whatever task they were doing for a moment before returning to it.
“I guess they must think I am your child,” Francis joked, trying to break the silence.
A single chuckle was all Glitvall let out, but his face softened. “They would feel sorry for me if that were the case.”
“And why is that?” Francis asked.
“Because your mother would be extremely ugly, and short,” the warchief replied.
Francis felt his temper rising but behind him came a trio of laughter.
Obviously talking about one’s mother isn’t against the rules… or maybe it’s allowed if you’re the warchief.
Choosing to not let his temper go uncheck, Francis smiled, saying nothing at all.
---
Sitting in the small tent, much similar to Stensons, Francis watched as the older man began to undo the bundle of furs that he wore.
A fire was stoked and Glitvall motioned at Francis. “Take your furs off before you sweat and then freeze later. We have much to discuss and I need to know what I have in my tent.”
Francis quickly undid the top layer of furs, setting them down near his seat and then waited until Glitvall motioned for him to take it.
“Read this,” the warchief said, holding out the letter Stenson had sent.
-----
Glitvall,
You’re an ugly bastard with an ugly mother.
This one is a gift. He can help us find victory if you help him learn what he must.
- S
-----
“Uh… that’s way less than I expected,” Francis said. “And this top line?”
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“A way I know it’s him,” Glitvall replied, shifting on his chair. “So tell me, Francis, how can you help us find victory? I sense… power, yet I’m not sure how to measure it.”
Francis studied the large man before him. It felt like it would be such an easy thing for the warchief to grab him with both hands and snap him like a twig. There was a sense of power similar to Stenson or Baxter and yet almost a reluctance of some kind.
“Do you want the honest answer or simply what I’m here for?”
“So you do want something,” Glitvall said. “Give me the truth and then I’ll see if you're worth whatever it is you want.”
Francis smiled and nodded. He didn’t pull any punches. He just told the truth. “When I die, I wake up at the same place and day. I’ve died thousands of times and have gained multiple skills. Stenson sent me here because I need to learn how to heal from my injuries and he said you’re my only hope.”
He waited, watching as Glitvall stared at him with brown eyes that gave no hint of what the man was thinking. The popping of sap and the scent it gave off filled the silent tent. Minutes passed and Francis wondered if he needed to say more or do something.
“You swear by that? On your life?” Glitvall finally asked.
“I do.”
The warchief nodded. “Remember Grok.”
“Grok?” Francis asked. “What–”
Those were the only two words Francis got out before the world went black.
---
The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay there in shock.
"It's earlier than usual," Michael grunted as he sat up. "What gives?"
“Uh…” it took a moment for Francis’s brain to work, still trying to remember what had happened.
Did he kill me? I mean he did, but how?
“You okay?” Michael asked. “You sound… stupider?”
“Fuck you,” Francis said, climbing out of bed.
“What the hell happened to you?!” Michael exclaimed.
Sighing, Francis shook his head. “It’s a long story. But don’t worry, we've got all the time in the world.”
---
Days later, Francis found himself in Glitvall’s tent, sitting in the same chair he had before.
“You don’t want to read the letter?” the warchief asked, waving it once more before Francis.
“No,” Francis replied. “I can tell you what it says and I can also say something I believe you want me to tell you, which will make what I say next make you believe I’m telling you the truth.”
“And what is that?” Glitvall asked.
“When I die, I wake up at the same place and day. I’ve died thousands of times and have gained multiple skills. Stenson sent me here because I need to learn how to heal from my injuries and he said you’re my only hope. Then you’re going to sit there and try to make sure I’m telling the truth and will finally tell me to remember Grok before you kill me.”
Glitvall’s eyes widened and the man leaned back in his chair. “Is your memory good?”
“What?” Francis asked. “That’s the question you ask me?”
Nodding, the warchief leaned forward. “Remember Grok, Rok, Mua.”
Sighing, Francis glared, feeling the rage inside him rise. “Grok, Rok, Mua.”
---
The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay there in shock.
"It's earlier than usual," Michael grunted as he sat up. "What gives?"
Resisting the urge to punch the wall, Francis sat up. “I know, I’m bigger, no, you can’t have any, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What the–”
“Later,” Francis said. “I need to talk to Phillip.”
---
Once again, Francis found himself inside Glitvall’s tent, unable to hold back the scowl that appeared the moment they were alone.
“You do realize that you are being dishonorable,” the warchief said. “I have invited you into my tent and you–”
“Listen,” Francis growled, moving close enough he could lift an arm and poke Glitvall’s stomach. “I don’t want to read Stenson’s letter, I know what it says and I swear to my gods, your gods and any other fucking gods that if you kill me again I will make your life miserable.”
Glitvall looked down at Francis’ finger that was poking him and shook his head. “You’re crazy, boy. I haven’t–”
“Grok, Rok, Mua,” Francis said, freezing the older man mid-sentence.
“What… you… how…”
“I’ve told you twice, and each time you’ve killed me to prove that I’m being honest,” Francis growled. “When I die, I always come back on the same day and place. I remember everything, and keep my skills and grow stronger. You’ve killed me twice! The first time, I said just 'Grok,' and the second time, I said 'Grok, Rok, Mua.' Now sit down, and help me become what I came for!”
Francis was a little surprised when the warchief reached for the chair behind him and plopped down into it. Huffing, Francis moved to his and mimicked the older man.
“What have you come for?” Glitvall asked.
“Wait, that’s it?” Francis replied, feeling angrier than he had before. “You’ve killed me twice, making me remember three stupid words and you just–”
Before Francis knew what happened, he was in the air, a single hand holding him by the collar. Glitvall’s eyes glowed in a way that seemed impossible, red fire of sorts in the middle of his iris.
“Two people, both dead, now with the spirits know those three words in that order,” the warchief said slowly, his voice somehow calm. “I will kill you a third time and wait for you to come again if you ever call those words stupid or foolish. Do you understand?”
Grabbing the massive wrist that was connected to the hand that had ahold of him, Francis pulled himself up, nodding after he got some air. “Forgive me, I didn’t–”
Glitvall let go of him, and Francis twisted mid-air, barely managing to land in a crouch position.
“You have spirit and coordination,” Glitvall said, studying him. “Now you know how to get my attention when you come here. Say those words, with respect, and I will believe what you just said.”
Francis took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He moved to the chair that had been overturned and put it back into position, and then sat.
He wanted to ask why the warchief had done what he did, but Francis knew the answer. The only real way to prove his ability was to say what he had been told. It worked with Stenson and Captain Vella.
Maybe I avoided a few dozen deaths by figuring that out on my own last time.
“I mean no dishonor to those you loved,” Francis said.
Glitvall chuckled and shook his head. “There is no love for those two. Those were words that confirmed they were traitors. No one would be foolish to ever speak them to me if they weren’t told to.”
“You just… I mean…” Francis wanted to groan but instead he joined the warchief in laughing. “Fine… I need you to help me learn whatever legendary skill there is that will let me heal my injuries.”
Glitvall’s face went blank and the warchief sighed. “Well fuck us both then…”
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