Chapter 12

  [ Swordmanship Increased - 73 Elite ]

  [ Tracking Increased - 15 Novice ]

  [ Stealth Increased - 14 Novice ]

  [ Pain Resistance Increased - 59 Advanced ]

  [ Power Strike Increased - 56 Advanced ]

  [ Strong Bones Increased - 58 Advanced ]

  [ Quick Attack Increased - 46 Advanced ]

  [ Guarded Stance Increased - 34 Proficient ]

  [ Riposte Increased - 38 Proficient ]

  [ Thick Skin Increased - 30 Proficient ]

  [ Iron Wall Increased - 28 Proficient ]

  [ Dual Wield Increased - 45 Advanced ]

  [ Flurry Increased - 25 Novice ]

  [ Battle Sense Increased - 17 Novice ]

  [ Warrior’s Resolve Increased - 7 Basic ]

  Francis wondered how many more deaths it might take before Swordmanship reached the Master rank. He could feel that it was improving with each death, but it wasn’t as fast as he had hoped. Francis had shared everything that had taken place, and Glitvall was silent, his eyes closed.

  I guess Stenson was right… the thought that it takes those who reach that Rank over thirty years is insane. Knowing that Kels has reached it without having to die, like me, and having the Fast Learner skill shows it's possible.

  A snap brought Francis back to the room tent he was in. His mind had been wandering while he waited for the warchief to speak. Glitvall's massive fingers were still in the air, and the warchief was frowning.

  “Sorry, did you finish thinking about whatever it was you were?” Francis asked.

  The older barbarian lowered his hand and leaned forward, his chair creaking under the shift in weight. "Two hundred deaths just to reach those bears. Two hundred times you fought through the Lynxkin alone."

  "Give or take," Francis said. "I stopped counting precisely after the first hundred or so."

  Glitvall's expression was unreadable for a moment. Then he grunted, something that might have been approval or disbelief. "The Lynxkin are dangerous enough for my people to face in pairs. Fighting them alone, over and over..." He shook his head. "Most of my warriors would think I disliked them if I asked one to fight a pack of four alone."

  Most people don't have a brother they'd die for.

  "The Ursalofs," Glitvall continued, "are one of our main problems. They hold the center of their battle line, right where the pass narrows between the ice cliffs. Strong, disciplined, and smart enough to use actual tactics. Unlike some of the other beasts we face."

  Francis straightened slightly. This was the information he needed. "What else are you dealing with out there?"

  The warchief stood and moved to a crude map spread across a wooden table. It showed the valley, the cliffs, and rough positions marked with stones and carved figures.

  "The bears hold here," Glitvall said, tapping the center. "But the enemy is not just one type of beast. They have variety, and that makes them deadly. On the flanks, we face Frost Serpentkin. Scaled bastards with blue hides that form shield walls tighter than anything I've seen. Their venom slows your blood until wounds freeze shut. Men die slow from that poison, trapped in their own frozen flesh."

  That sounds like a nightmare.

  "They breathe a mist too," Glitvall added. "Blind you with it, then close in with spears. We've learned to maintain distance and use fire when possible. But fire is scarce this far north. Wood is getting harder to come by and we have cut down many of the pines that once sealed off so much of this land."

  Francis studied the map. "What about the cliffs? Can't you flank them from above?"

  "We tried." The warchief's jaw tightened. "Lost two full parties to the Ramhorn Vessers and the Frost Reavers. The rams—goat-like things with black horns—they jump like nothing I've ever seen. Full armor, weighted chains, and they leap across gaps that few men or women I know could hope to jump over. They use those chains to pull you off balance, then cave your skull in with spiked maces."

  "And the Reavers?" Francis asked.

  "Ravenkin. Crowkin. Whatever you want to call them." Glitvall's voice carried a hint of disgust. "Black feathers, smart as any man, and they fight in threes. They’ll circle you, harass you with arrows, and if somehow you manage to make one land, carry curved daggers. Some of them cast spells—fire, ice, it doesn't matter. They'll burn you or freeze you depending on their mood." He paused, then added, "You want to know the worst part? They mimic voices. Human voices. We've lost men who followed calls for help, only to find three Reavers waiting in ambush. One of the packs that returned had a set of twins. Rare things in our kingdom. His brother had died, ignoring the sense that their mother couldn’t be calling out to him. The fool ran right over a trap, dying before the rest of his pack."

  Gods, these things are organized. This isn't just some random horde. They're coordinated, using tactics.

  "There's more," Glitvall said. "The Walruskin hold the edges near the frozen shores when the battle line extends that far. Big tusked brutes with blubber so thick arrows bounce off. They use tridents and barbed nets to drag men down. Once you're on the ground with them, you don't get back up."

  Francis absorbed it all, his mind already working through the implications. "So the Ursalofs are the backbone, the Serpentkin hold formation, the Ramhorns and Reavers control high ground, and the Walruskin are the anchors on the flanks."

  "You learn fast," Glitvall said, a note of approval in his voice. "That's why we don't push anymore. We send out small parties, hit them fast, kill what we can, then retreat before they can coordinate a response. It's not winning the war, but it keeps us alive."

  "Like my kingdom," Francis muttered. "The beasts only appear when we go out there. Otherwise, they stay back, waiting."

  Glitvall nodded. "Same here. They don't attack the camp. It's like they're testing us, measuring how much we can take." He returned to his chair and sat heavily. "Which brings me to my recommendation."

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

  Francis waited.

  "You should go with one of our raiding parties,” Glitvall said. “See how we fight, learn the patterns. Your loop lets you die and try again, but dying blind won't teach you anything you can't already figure out on your own. Watch experienced warriors work together. Learn what works and what doesn't. Even better… You might learn to use a real weapon. Like an axe."

  That... actually makes sense. Except the axe part.

  "How long will it take to arrange that?" Francis asked. “The party, not hunting with an axe.”

  "A few days," Glitvall said, frowning. "I need to convince the Jarl and the clan leaders. Outside of calling for a full assault—which we won't—any decision about who fights and when goes through the council. It's not fast, but it's how we survive up here. Everyone gets a say. Sometimes… some like to talk more than they should, but they are allowed that chance as the leader of their clan."

  Francis frowned. "So what am I supposed to do while you're convincing them? Just wait around?"

  "No." Glitvall's expression shifted to something that might have been amusement. "You're going to the forges. Learn to work metal."

  "What?" Francis blinked. "I need to train, not pretend to be a blacksmith. Every hour I'm not fighting is an hour wasted—"

  Glitvall raised a hand, cutting him off. The gesture was gentle but firm. "You asked for my advice, Francis. Here it is: you cannot temper metal all the time."

  Francis opened his mouth to argue, but the warchief continued.

  "I'm afraid your heart will eventually lose the fire you possess if you burn too hot for too long. Even my people, who are known for our temper and hot flashes, know the importance of cooling off. Perhaps that is why our gods have given us this land—to teach us to control the fire inside. You say your brother is the thing that drives you to get stronger, yet you told me you just died two hundred times because you were upset at how we treated you. A warrior doesn’t have time for their feelings to be hurt."

  The words hung in the air between them.

  He's right. I can feel it. The frustration, the anger, the constant cycle of dying and starting over. It's wearing on me more than I want to admit.

  Francis let out a slow breath. "Fine. I'll go to the forges. But I'm not promising I'll be good at it."

  Glitvall's laugh was deep and genuine. "Good. A man who thinks he'll be good at everything is a fool. A man who's willing to try anyway? That's someone worth teaching."

  He stood and clapped Francis on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble slightly. "Ask for Tormund when you get there. Tell him I sent you. He'll know what to do."

  "Tormund," Francis repeated. "Got it."

  As Francis turned to leave, Glitvall called after him.

  "Francis."

  He paused at the tent flap.

  "Two hundred deaths to reach the bears," the warchief said quietly. "Most men couldn't handle that. The fact that you did, and you're still standing here asking how to do better? Stenson was right about you. I won’t promise to coddle you like your general did. I’ll keep my promise, though, to help shape you into what you need to become."

  Francis didn't know what to say in response to that statement. He had never felt like he was coddled but rather than arguing, Francis just nodded and stepped out into the cold.

  ---

  The forges were easy to find. Francis just followed the sound of hammers on metal and the orange glow that seemed to defy the perpetual gray of the northern sky. He had originally considered following the smoke, but there were tons of that coming from every part of the camp.

  Heat hit him the moment he stepped inside the open-sided building. After so many deaths fighting in the cold, the warmth was almost overwhelming. Sweat broke out across his forehead immediately.

  A dozen barbarians worked at various stations, some hammering, others tending fires or quenching metal in barrels of water that steamed and hissed. The air smelled like coal, hot iron, and sweat. It was a reminder of a childhood he tried to forget. Being a Lancaster meant knowing about ore and metal. He hadn’t spent much time in the smelting area or forge of his family's property, but he had more than enough to remember the smell.

  This is going to be miserable, isn't it? It’s like having to relive some of my worst memories.

  "You lost?" a voice called out.

  Francis turned to see a shorter barbarian—though still taller than him—approaching. The man had a thick black beard braided with small metal rings, and his bare arms were covered in old burn scars.

  "Looking for Tormund," Francis said. "Glitvall sent me."

  The man's eyebrows rose. "Did he now?" He looked Francis up and down, taking in the southern armor and the dual swords. "You're the short one from the south, then. The one who sits alone with our warchief."

  Word travels fast up here.

  "That's me," Francis said.

  "I'm Tormund." The blacksmith gestured to an empty station near the back. "Come on. Let's see if those hands of yours can do more than swing a worthless sword."

  Francis followed, already feeling the heat from the nearby forge. Tormund grabbed a leather apron from a hook and tossed it at him.

  "Put that on. You'll burn yourself otherwise."

  Francis did as instructed, tying the apron around his waist. It was too big, made for someone with a barbarian's build, but it would work. Donning the piece of leather tugged at a memory he couldn’t see. There had been something… a hole was there now, of a time with Michael.

  I’ll need to ask him next time we have one of those moments. Just how many memories did they steal from me?

  Tormund picked up a pair of tongs and a hammer, setting them on the anvil. "First lesson: metalwork is about patience. You heat it, you shape it, you cool it. Rush any step, and the metal breaks. Understand?"

  "I understand," Francis said.

  Even if I don't like it.

  "Good." Tormund pulled a piece of raw iron from a pile and thrust it into the forge. "Now watch. And try not to burn yourself. Glitvall would have my head if I sent you back looking like a roasted pig."

  Francis watched as the metal began to glow, the heat radiating off it in waves. Around them, the other smiths continued their work, the rhythmic sound of hammers creating an almost hypnotic pattern.

  Maybe Glitvall's right. Maybe I do need this. Something to clear my head before I go back out there and die another hundred times.

  The iron turned orange, then yellow, then white-hot.

  "Now," Tormund said, pulling it from the forge with the tongs. "Let's see if you can make something that doesn't look like shit."

  Francis picked up the hammer.

  Here goes nothing.

  ?