Fog settles over the village, the air crisp and winter-touched despite summer’s arrival. I walk with my hood up, the steps leading to the longhouse rain slick from last night. The storm had come suddenly, tearing through the camp. Progress toward the attack wasn’t halted, but a few men were injured when a roof collapsed. One of these men was a big fellow named Gurt, and he’d been in charge of feeding the Silver Serpent prisoner still held in the longhouse. I’d volunteered to take over Gurt’s duties for the day, but my intentions aren't entirely selfless.

I'm a warrior, named and true. But a coward’s doubt still nestled in my heart, and I wish to face the man who planted it.

The longhouse doors loom over me, the battles carved across its surface sending a hot pulse through my veins. I’d be leaving Sul at midday and taking many of the youths I trained with me. We were to travel to the island of Panros in the west, sent to negotiate with the Splitmaw clan for their support in the coming war. But I could tell by the way Uncle and the other chiefs whispered. They wanted us away for the battle at Isren.

A messenger had come a few days ago, arriving at high tide in a southern vessel. He was escorted to the longhouse by men of the Yellow Tusk, brought before the chiefs with a message from Arthan. I don’t know what they discussed, but Uncle has been acting strange ever sense. Frightful even, an edge to his voice. And now I’m being sent off to negotiate like I’m some common messenger.

Panros is days to the west. By the time we return from our talks, the three clans will have already left for Isren. Battle will be joined without us, our orders to maintain guard at Sul after the negotiations. Does Uncle think I’m not ready? And he’s sending Bear-sister Ryka and Wolf-brother Galmar along with us. Children to be watched. I shake my head, focusing back on the task at hand.

The longhouse is warm, the hearth fire already blazing. A few groggy eyed men move about the room, shuffling about their business, some regarding me over the rims of their cups. I pay them little mind as I head for the kitchen, the longsword strapped to my waist slapping against my thigh.

I find one of the bear-sisters of Sul inside, a bowl of what looks like slop in her hands. She passes me the bowl before nestling a chunk of fresh bread in it. With a brief nod she sends me away. I pull out the bread and eat it before I reach the back part of the longhouse, my stomach grumbling. I haven’t been eating as much since my visit with Sarl.

The man’s taken to walking about the camp with a cane. Ryka tells me he won’t ever be able to walk like he used to. Some of the others pity him, but his words about Uncle leave no sympathy in my heart. Yet I haven’t been able to tell a soul of his treachery. Each time I prepare to, something perilously close to doubt stalls my tongue.

Perhaps I’m a coward in more ways than one.

The door into the prisoner’s room is guarded by a tall, bearded man of advanced years. His one good eye watches me, the spear beside him sun-bleached and topped with a crooked iron tip.

“Food?” he grumbles, voice like the grating of stone.

I simply nod and he unlocks the door with some difficulty, his fingers gnarled like the roots of an old tree. I step through and the smell hits me.

It’s sour and thick, like stables that haven’t been cleaned in months. Three buckets set in the far corner, flies buzzing about them, the flap of their tiny wings behemoths in the stone walled room. The prisoner himself sits on the other end, propped on a bed. His armor has been stripped, replaced with filthy rags. Watching him, I again wonder why he hasn’t been killed. Since the night of Vezitar’s declaration, he’s been kept here. Whatever use he could serve has long since passed, yet all questions about him are met with stern glares and the hint of plans spoken in secret.

But despite his time held captive, the prisoner still holds steady, his shoulders proud and his eyes bright. He watches me intently as I stride to his bedside.

“And where is Gurt?” he asks.

“Inured in last night's storm.” I offer him the bowl and it takes it gently.

“There was a storm?” He looks at the walls of his prison. “I confess to hearing or noticing little while inside this stone box. Indeed, the world outside could end and I would have no way of knowing.” He scoops his dirty fingers into the bowl, searching. “Did my bread disappear along with Gurt?”

I want to hate him. It’s his fault I hear the whispers. Choosing the lesser opponent on the night of my naming is a shame I carry with me. One that must be silenced.

“I could have beaten you.” I say, my hand falling to the pommel of my sword. “The night of my naming. You would have died, same as the man I chose.”

He smiles. “That man was but an idiotic boy. One with some talent, but still an inexperienced whelp.” He scoops some of the slop into his mouth, chewing slowly as he studies me, his steel-colored eyes falling to my sword. “Gurt never comes with a weapon. Do you still fear me, child?”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I slap the bowl out of his hands. It clatters to the floor, the contents splashing onto his chest. “I am not a child.” I grip the handle of my blade, steel sliding as I give it a slight tug. “And I’m not afraid of you. I never was.”

He simply wipes the sludge off his chest and leans over, plucking the bowl from the ground. “A man does not need to tell others he is so. His actions are enough.” He tilts the bowl to the side, frowning at the emptiness. “And what do your actions say about you?”

My brow furrows. What is he getting at? “My actions say that I’m a man. I’ve put more than four to the sword already, taken part in a raid.” I grin, remembering. “And more will fall when we burn Isren, all of Bladoria soon to follow.”

“Ah,” he says cupping his hands together. “I forget Hafthan customs. In my country killing doesn’t make one a man. But your people thrive on conflict, isn’t that right?” His eyes narrow suddenly, his body tensing. I fight the urge to back away. “But you don’t know war. Don’t know what it’s like to march down the long roads, leaving the dead behind. Don’t know what’s like to listen to the wounded cry their last. To fill pits with your own dead. No, your people raid and pillage, but the blade falls both ways. By this time next summer, Hafthan will be the one to burn.”

I stand motionless, not sure what to say. “Southerners are weak,” I eventually get out. “My people are strong. Especially those gifted with the Great Wolf’s blood. We will triumph.”

He laughs. “Those monsters? The ones who eat corpses? Killing them would be doing the world a favor.”

The back of my hand cracks across his cheek, my body reacting on its own. “How dare you talk of the gifted that way.” He looks up at me, blood trickling from a small cut. “They are chosen by one of our gods.” I stammer, not sure where my words are trying to take me.

“I suppose only time will tell who will end up the victor. Provided there even is one.” He wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. “And who knows? Maybe fate will have us cross swords in the end.” He relaxes, a sly smile on his lips. “Then you’ll know your worth, and how little of it there is.”

I back away, my temper threatening to rise up again. When I reach the exit I turn, giving the man one last look. “When the time comes to end you, I’ll be the first to volunteer.”

“I would like that, little wolf,” he says as I press my way into the hall, blood rushing to my temples.

*

Einer stands along the beach, men loading the Panros bound ship with supplies and customary gifts for the Split Maw clan. I take my spot beside him and watch Briar and Jerall argue over something that’s probably just nonsense. Looking at how they bicker and jab at each other reminds me that none of us has reached past their eighteenth summer. The big lad, Thanen from the White River Clan, is the oldest of the boys making the journey. He breaks up Briar and Jerall, the ghost of a bruise still on his cheek form his narrow duel with Talia.

She stands on the ship, looking more captain than warrior with the way she orders the others about. Watching her makes me smile.

“It will be hard rowing to Panros,” Einer says, sniffing the air. “More storms are coming.”

“Just be sure to make it to Isren in one piece,” I say, giving him a light punch to the arm. “And come back to us.”

He sighs. ‘I believe you and Ryka would drag me back from the Great Wolf’s side if I were to fall.”

Bear-sister Ryka comes up from behind us, a fat pack thrown over her shoulder. “And you’d be right.”

The two of them have been spending a lot of time together the last few weeks and I’ve noticed Einer more than once stumble out from Ryka’s tent in the early morning.

“Make sure to keep an eye on this one,” Einer says nodding at me. “You know how he likes to get into trouble.”

“I might have to spend more time watching brother Galmar.” The three of us look over to watch the sullen warrior load a crate onto the boat. “He’s taking this trip to Panros even worse than the youth.”

“It’s our wolf blood,” Einer adds. “Makes us yearn for battle more than regular men. But the Chief needed someone of renown for the negotiations and Galmar’s name carries weight.”

“Surprised he didn’t send you in that case,” I say. “No one else in the clan has quite the same reputation.”

Einer smiles and Ryka rolls her eyes. “True, but I think he wants my blade alongside him. I’m to hit the docks of Isren on his longship.”

Mentioning Isren sends a sad pang through my chest. “Be careful,” I say.

Einer claps me on the shoulder. “Anything can happen in a battle, but I promise to return.” He laughs, but Ryka and I exchange nervous glances. “This battle will see more Hafthan fighting than any in years. It will be a glorious sight.” Ryka jabs him in the ribs with her elbow and he coughs. “But negotiations are important. We need the Split Maw’s ships if we’re to halt an attack from Bladoria’s southern coast. You’ve all got an important task ahead.” He says the last part loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I suppose we should board,” I say, digging a little hole in the sand with my boot.

“Chin up, there’ll be plenty of fighting down the road,” Ryka says. Then she turns to Einer and gives him a peck on the cheek. “And you’d better keep that promise.” She walks toward the boat, Einer’s cheeks turning bright red.

“Well then,” I say, extending my hand. Einer takes it in the warrior’s grip. “Make sure to tell me all about the battle.”

“I will. And don’t let chief Taggart bully you. Man can be harsh with words.”

Then, with only a parting glace, Einer walks back up the bank and toward the village. I stay watching him for a moment, a hand nudging me on the back of the arm.

“I need help getting the boys in order. Galmar is too depressed and Ryka’s too soft. Lend me a hand?” Talia smiles at me, and I smile back.

“Jerrall! Thanen!” I call. “Get those crates up and moving.” Talia and I march toward the boat, the sun high in the sky and waves calm. But Einer’s right, it doesn’t take a wolf’s nose to smell it.

A storm is brewing.