Chapter 28

  Francis and Glitvall walked back through the shaman section in silence. The warchief's usual confidence seemed diminished somehow, his shoulders carrying a weight that hadn't been there before. Francis could sense the change in the man's mood, and he could feel it in the way Glitvall's steps had become heavier, more deliberate.

  They passed through the bone chimes and skull totems without comment, leaving behind the shamans who watched them with knowing eyes. The familiar sounds of the warrior camp grew louder as they walked, but neither man spoke until they reached Glitvall's tent.

  Upon entering the small space, Glitvall made Francis sit on one of the fur-covered benches. The warchief moved to a small chest in the corner, kneeling before it and opening it slowly, reverently. He dug through its contents until he found what he was looking for, a leather flask that looked old and well-worn.

  Glitvall stared at the flask for a long moment, his massive hands gentle as they cradled it. A small tear rolled down his cheek, catching the light from the tent's fire pit. Then he uncorked it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply before taking a long drink.

  He held it out to Francis. "Finish it. Know that if I ever try to share this with you again, tell me you have already partaken."

  Francis nodded, unsure what to make of the change in the man before him. He took the flask and brought it to his nose.

  The scent hit him like a memory he'd never had. It smelled of honey and smoke, of winter nights and summer warmth, of something ancient and powerful that he couldn't name. The smell touched a part of him deep inside, a place he didn't know existed, and Francis felt his chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't identify.

  He drank.

  The liquid was warm going down, spreading heat through his chest and into his limbs. But it was more than just warmth. Power flooded through him, not like his skills or stats, but something different. Something that felt like it was connecting him to the land itself, to the ice and snow and wind of the north.

  Francis finished the flask and handed it back, his hands steady despite the strange sensations coursing through his body. "What is that?"

  "A gift," Glitvall said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "From someone I will one day see again. But for now, you must be told of what is about to come."

  The warchief sat across from Francis and told him everything. He didn't hold back, didn't soften the details or try to make it easier to hear. Glitvall told Francis about the gods speaking through Greythorn, about how even they were concerned about the power Francis carried. He explained that the parasites could limit divine influence, that this war was about more than just mortal lives.

  He told Francis about the old ritual, about becoming one of them, about the mark that would last forever. And he told Francis what the gods had said about his wife, about the special place waiting for them if they could help Francis defeat their enemy.

  When Glitvall finished, he looked at Francis with eyes that held both determination and grief. "Know that the love you have for your brother is like what I feel for my wife, and to be with her... in a special place that my gods give us... I will carry you myself through each trial if I could. Remind me of this when I balk at what you need to become."

  "I will," Francis said softly.

  The words settled between them, and Francis understood something about Glitvall that he hadn't before. The warchief's intensity, his demanding training methods, the way he pushed Francis beyond what seemed reasonable, it all made sense now. Glitvall was a man driven by love, by the promise of reunion with someone he'd lost, willing to do whatever it took to make that happen.

  Just like I'd do anything for Michael. We're not so different.

  "So what comes next?" Francis asked. "How do I become one of you, and what is this ritual?"

  Glitvall took a deep breath and stared at the empty flask in his hands, turning it over slowly. "You, Francis, must be drained dry of what you are and filled with what we are. So come. I will walk this journey with you. But first... the hardest part of all this."

  ---

  They stood before the clan leaders in the large tent that Francis had entered the first time he had appeared before them. The space was filled with warriors and chieftains, each one representing their clan, and the shouting that filled the air made it almost impossible to hear individual words.

  "Madness!"

  "A Southerner cannot learn our ways!"

  "He dishonors us by even suggesting it!"

  "Glitvall has lost his mind!"

  The voices overlapped, creating a cacophony of anger and disbelief. Francis stood beside Glitvall, watching as clan leaders gestured wildly and shouted over each other. Some looked outraged, others skeptical, but none of them seemed willing to accept what the warchief had told them.

  Finally, Jarl Keara raised a horn to her lips and blew. The sound cut through the noise like a blade, silencing everyone instantly.

  She glared at the gathered clan leaders, her expression hard. "Sit. There is only one way to handle this, and us bickering like children will not be good if what Glitvall speaks is the truth."

  "I am not lying," Glitvall growled, his voice low and dangerous.

  "And you shall prove it," Keara replied, meeting his glare without flinching. "Make the oath. Cut your hand. Swear upon their magic and let them show us that you speak the truth."

  Glitvall spat on the ground but moved to stand next to the roaring fire in the center of the tent. He pulled out a long dagger, its blade gleaming in the firelight.

  "You elected me because you trust my judgment and my mind," Glitvall said, his voice carrying to every corner of the tent. "You chose me because you know my commitment and my heart. Yet now... I am forced to take an oath that we would make someone new and untrusted do. Know that I feel dishonored, and those who have done so will need to make great amends to earn back what they have lost."

  He didn't hesitate. The blade cut across his palm, opening a deep gash that immediately began to bleed. Glitvall made a fist, holding it over the fire as blood dripped down into the flames.

  "I swear by our people, by our gods, by my blood and by my life, that every word I have spoken about Francis becoming one of us is true. If it is not, may they strike me now, erase my soul, and my wife's too."

  Gasps came from some of those gathered at those last few words. To swear on another's soul, especially one already in the afterlife, was not done lightly.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The fire continued to burn, the blood continued to drip, and Glitvall stood tall and unmoving.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Then the wind came.

  It blew through the tent from nowhere, a gust that made the walls billow and the support poles creak. The fire stirred and roared, flames rising up into a cyclone that spun faster and faster. The heat intensified, and everyone in the tent took a few steps back, shielding their faces.

  Everyone except Glitvall.

  The warchief stood in place, his fist still extended over the flames, blood still dripping. The fire cyclone rose higher, touching the tent's peak, and then it collapsed inward all at once.

  The flames returned to normal. The wind died. And Glitvall stood there, unharmed.

  Francis stared as Glitvall opened his fist. The deep gash that had been there moments before was gone, the skin smooth and unmarked as if he'd never cut it at all.

  Silence filled the tent, heavy and absolute.

  Jarl Keara was the first to speak, her voice loud and clear. "Prepare for the ceremony. Our gods have spoken."

  No one argued. No one protested. They simply began to move, filing out of the tent with purpose, their earlier anger and skepticism replaced by something else. Awe, perhaps, or fear. Maybe both.

  Francis looked at Glitvall, who stood still by the fire, staring at his healed hand. The warchief's expression was unreadable, but Francis thought he saw something there. Relief, maybe. Or resignation.

  "Tomorrow night," Glitvall said quietly, not looking at Francis. "When the moon reaches its peak. Be ready."

  "I will be," Francis replied.

  Whatever it takes.

  ---

  Francis stood in a tent surrounded by men and women. Some were warriors, their bodies marked with scars and muscle. Others were shamans, their faces painted with symbols that seemed to shift in the flickering firelight. All of them watched him with eyes that held judgment, curiosity, or something he couldn't quite identify.

  He'd been stripped down to just a small piece of cloth that covered his privates, and the cold air of the north bit at his exposed skin. Francis stood still as they took turns approaching him, speaking in a language he didn't understand. Their words rose and fell in rhythms that felt almost like chanting, and occasionally one of them would splash him with a scented liquid.

  The first liquid was cold and had a pine scent. The second was warm and thick, leaving an oily residue on his skin. The third one burned slightly, causing the muscles beneath his skin to twitch involuntarily. Francis endured it all without complaint, keeping his breathing steady and his expression neutral.

  Some of them held razors, worn blades that gleamed in the firelight. They approached one at a time, kneeling to shave every bit of hair off his legs. Then his arms. Then his chest and back. The process was meticulous, careful, and Francis felt the cold metal scrape against his skin again and again.

  One woman stood apart from the others, watching. Her eyes almost seemed to glow in the dim light, pale and intense. Francis could sense the power flowing through her, could feel it like a pressure in the air around her body. The paint on her skin was different from the others, more intricate, more deliberate. Symbols covered her arms and face, and Francis thought he recognized some of them from the tent where he'd waited for Glitvall.

  When the others finished removing all the hair from his exposed skin, Francis was guided to a stool in the center of the tent. He sat, and two large men approached from behind.

  They shaved the sides of his head, their movements quick and practiced. Francis felt the razors scrape against his scalp, felt the cool air touch skin that had never been exposed before. They left a strip of hair down the middle, from his forehead to the base of his skull, and Francis realized they'd given him a style similar to what many of the warriors wore.

  The woman he'd been watching came forward then, her steps deliberate. She stopped directly in front of him and locked eyes with Francis.

  "You will bear our mark," she said, her voice carrying an accent but speaking his language clearly enough. "Glitvall has sworn that you will not wince. For your sake, and for his honor, I hope that he is right."

  She pulled out a needle, thin and sharp, attached to a small wooden handle. Francis watched as she dipped it in a bowl of dark ink, then pressed it against his chest.

  The needle didn't penetrate.

  She frowned and tried again, pressing harder. The needle bent slightly against his skin, but still wouldn't break through. Francis felt the pressure but there was no pain, or puncture.

  The woman's eyes widened slightly. "You... have an ability? That toughens your skin?"

  The tent went silent. Everyone stopped what they were doing, all eyes turning to Francis.

  "I do," Francis replied.

  The woman smiled, and it transformed her face from stern to almost joyful. She said something in her language that made a barbarian near the tent flap take off running.

  "Then that means we get to do this with more honor," she said, turning back to Francis. "Few get this done because they do not possess what you do upon receiving this mark. Perhaps Glitvall was right."

  Francis didn't understand what she meant, but he waited. A few minutes later, the barbarian returned, and several other shamans entered behind him. Kerhi was among them, her expression unreadable as she took in the scene.

  "You need it?" one of the new shamans asked.

  "I do. His skin is thick, and the ink will not take hold."

  A few whispers that Francis couldn't understand passed between them. Then one of the shamans pulled something from a leather tube, handling it with a reverence that drew Francis's attention.

  It was a bone needle, thick and yellowed with age. Runes covered its surface, carved in patterns that seemed to glow faintly in the firelight. Francis had never seen markings like these before, and looking at them too long made his eyes hurt.

  The woman took the bone needle carefully, holding it up to examine it. "Tonight, we shall make a mark that has not been given in ages. It appears the gods are right. You will be different."

  Confused by her words, Francis said nothing. He watched as she dipped the bone needle in the ink, then positioned it against his chest.

  She began tapping the thick bone needle into his skin.

  It hurt. The bone penetrated where the metal had failed, and Francis felt each tap as a sharp point of pain. But it was nothing compared to the teeth and claws that had torn into him. I couldn’t compare to axes splitting him in half or hammers crushing his bones. This was just... discomfort.

  Smiling, Francis looked up at those gathered. "Perhaps I should sing a song."

  And he did.

  Francis sang one of the old songs Michael used to sing when they were younger, back before their parents died. The words came easily, and his voice filled the tent. It wasn't a song the barbarians would know, but they listened anyway, and some of them nodded along to the rhythm.

  The woman worked as Francis sang, her hands steady and sure. The bone needle tapped against his skin again and again, creating a pattern Francis couldn't see but could feel. Each mark seemed to burn for a moment after the needle withdrew, as if the ink itself carried heat.

  When Francis's song ended, the tent was quiet except for the sound of the needle and the crackling of the fire. The woman didn't speak, and neither did anyone else. They simply watched as the mark took shape on Francis's chest, a symbol that would make him one of them.

  Whatever it takes.

  ?