Thaer Surtsson stomped down a path between the Bicorn hide tents. The snow tamped down with a satisfying crunch beneath his boots. After several weeks of walking, he was finally back to the Gathering Place, T’Pyun.

Tribesmen gawked at his coming, eyes widening at Thaer’s grey skin, hardened by the Binding Ritual. The Bicorn’s centre horn was the only thing left of the head: a thing that was just a bit longer than Thaer’s arm and would no doubt make for a powerful spearhead. It would be good for his Totem.

He passed the outer ring of tents, cookfires smoking with the morning meal. From the scent, Twin-horn venison, wild grains, and tubers. He felt his mouth water. The only meals he’d had in his trek were from snow-hide rabbits who foolishly crossed his path, the rain and snow from the sky, and from breaking the ice on frozen rivers, to let it melt in his mouth.

“Young chief, welcome back,” a soft voice called enticingly.

Thaer looked between the shadow of the tents and grinned. “Frida Vardottir.”

“I see you’ve succeeded in the Binding.”

She stared at him appreciatively, and with what Thaer imagined to be a lustful look in her eye. Frida was a couple of years older than he was, though still shorter than him by a head. Her voluptuous figure was covered with a deerskin tunic that hung halfway to her knees. A wide leather belt cinched her waist and accentuated her figure however and the swell of her bosom and her hips lit a fire in his loins. Her blonde hair curled enticingly around her oval face, skin the glistening grey that all of the Iron Skin Tribe had.

Thaer licked his lips as he stepped up to her, looking down at her green eyes. He lifted her face with a finger on her chin. Her plump lips pursed, he leaned down, but before he could kiss, a single finger blocked his advance.

“Not until you’re blooded.”

Her sultry voice in his ear ignited his blood and he longed to take her then and there, between the tents, in full view of anyone who wanted to watch. But he fought down his urges, repressed as they were for a few years now. The rules of the Tribe were as ironclad as their name.

“It will be soon.”

Frida grinned, the glint of her eye teeth showing just a little bit.

“I’ll be waiting then.”

With that, she spun on her heels and sashayed away, His eyes snapped up to her face from staring at her rolling bottom when she turned around. A throaty chuckle was all he heard before she left.

“Sweet Chaos. I’ll have her soon enough,” he muttered to himself as he shook himself out of his stupor. He continued on his way, headed to the center of T’Pyun. At the top of the hill they were camped around was a large tent made of hide and bone. It was surrounded by smaller tents, and it was that particular tent that he was headed to.

A tribesman stood guard just beyond the entrance, bare chested as was the norm, with a three clawed mark across his grey skinned chest. Thrice blooded and thrice wed. The man gave a careful head bow to Thaer. By custom, the boy would have been to one to show reverence, but he was the chief’s son. The only surviving son.

“You’ve returned, good.”

His father’s booming voice made the side of the tent billow out as Thaer entered. Surt Biorsson, chief of the Iron Skin tribe, Warlord of the Tundra, and Score-marked, sat cross-legged on a rug. A slip of a girl, clad mainly in her skin, fed the man a cube of seared meat.

“Father.” Thaer bowed his head.

“The council will begin in a few hours. Now, what did the Progenitor tell you?”

“Much as you expected, father. A bid to destroy the invaders.”

Thaer knelt just beyond the carpet, keeping his eyes down, though he snuck a glance at the maid. The girl’s skin was pale and she shivered every now and then. Southerners weren’t as strong in the cold. Even though there was a brazier burning on both sides of the carpet, the cold touch of the North was still too much. Thaer appreciated the girl’s form and figure though her bosom wasn’t as large as he liked. His father liked delicate and dainty wenches.

Surt nodded thoughtfully. “It is the same as when I was a lad. Very well, stop ogling Nina and let’s go.” He got up to his feet in one smooth motion, while the captive girl reddened all the way to her pert breasts while she knelt with her eyes downcast.

Thaer smirked. “Yes, father.”

He waited until the Chief walked past him before he rose to his feet, glancing one last time at Nina before he left.

Blooded warriors were made when they killed the invaders. Well, when they killed the men. The women they took back with them, of course. They needed to replenish their numbers after a mid-Water raid. Only about one in three tribesmen survive the raid. As long as the captives go through the Binding then they would be Iron Skin too, with all the rights and privileges a tribe woman possessed except one: only true-blooded Iron Skin women were worthy of becoming real partners of the Blooded Warriors.

He trailed after Surt as father and son climbed the hill to the council tent. The tribe’s warchiefs would be there, planning for the upcoming raid. A ring of warriors stood a couple of paces beyond the tent. The warrior near the entrance flap held it open for the two of them, bowing his head as they passed and then let it fall.

Rugs and carpets covered every inch of ground, with down filled pillows scattered about. Glowing braziers heated the inside to a comfortable temperature, with the central hole drawing what little smoke they produced.

A short table dominated the room, and twelve men sat around it. On top of the table was an extensive map, though it wasn’t of the Tundra. The Tribes didn’t need one of their homelands. The border between the Tundra and the invaders was broad. Dozens of leagues deep. Small circles marked varied camps and watchposts, with a big square marked the big target that they needed to destroy.

Thaer’s eyes darted to several new circles that were unexpectedly deep into the Tundra, right where he’d been the past few weeks.

“Why are they at Cinderfield?” he blurted out, making all the warchiefs turn to glare at him. “Apologies.” Thaer bowed his head.

“HA HA HA! Pay no mind to my son,” Surt guffawed, “he’s still feeling the effects of his Binding.”

“Well done, youngling.” One of the warchiefs, a grizzled elderly man whose head sported a shock of silvery hair nodded. “Now, Chief Surt, we must plan ahead.”

“Yes, yes. The annual raid! I’ve a good mind to push for that eyesore!”

“Not a good idea.” Another warchief spoke up. “It’s heavily protected.”

“Exactly, there’s more than enough to blood every warrior we send.”

“Not if nine out of ten of them die.”

“Then the one that remains standing is all the better for it!”

“Our numbers dwindle, we should stick to more conservative targets.”

“How about here?” Another warchief said, pointing at the advance camps. “They dare intrude on our holy place.”

“They will find nothing there,” Surt scoffed. “The Nyuno Kwevha opens only for the Iron Skin.”

“And the allied tribes,” another warchief reminded them.

“Yes, the others.” Surt waved a hand dismissively. “Still, letting them run amok there would set a bad precedent.” He palmed his chin and tapped his fingers thoughtfully. “Hmmm, there are few heads to be claimed there, let a smaller force go there while the greater horde heads to the stain.”

“What of the lesser camps?”

“Ignore them.”

“They will harry us on our way back.”

“Then we claim their heads too. Besides, there are no women there.”

“I admire your virility, Tribe Chief, but…”

“Hmph! You don’t understand! The women we claim from the invaders will make their bloodlines wither while ours grow strong! That is how we drive the invaders out! By devouring them and spreading amongst them!”

“What, you intend to send pregnant captives back?” another warchief scoffed.

“Don’t be crass,” Surt scoffed. “Those who bear our children rightly belong to the Tribe. No, we take their women and sire more Iron Skin!” Surt’s grin had a manic feel.

Thaer listened rapturously.

“My son will lead the unblooded to the holy land and clear the infestation there,” Surt continued, jolting Thaer out of his daydreams.

“I will be honoured, father,” he said quickly.

“Good. See that you form the blood markings and return to take your rightful place.”

Thaer bowed his head, but already battle plans and dreams of conquests whirled in his mind. Frida would be his when he returned along with any other women he captured on the way!

________

For three days, Yuriko and the others were stuck doing kitchen duties. Peeling potatoes, milling grain, grubbing for tubers, dicing onions, and other endless tasks. The Fort was home to a thousand Legionnaires, at least, and nearly triple that number in local militia.

Feeding all of them took a lot of effort and no sooner had one meal been cooked and served than preparations for the next needed to start. So Yuriko peeled potatoes.

Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes.

During those three days, she saw them cubed and thrown into stew. She saw them cut in halves, stuffed with cream and cheese then baked. She saw them cut into thin strips and fried until they were nice and crispy.

The individual spuds were as big or bigger than her hand and she used a knife to peel, at least for the first hour or so. Putting too much pressure in her grip had resulted in an exploded potato that covered her face and jacket with mush.

“Oh, great…” she muttered while she wiped the potato off her face.

A chorus of snickers came from behind her and she gave the other girls a glare, which honestly made them laugh louder. With a sigh, Yuriko returned to her duties. After half a day and about a hundred burst potatoes, she managed to get a grip on her increased strength. Afterwards, peeling the things took much less effort than before.

At the end of the first day, they practically crawled back to the women’s barracks in exhaustion.

“This can’t continue,” Gwendith groused while Ella-Mai nodded. They were in the communal showers attached to the barracks.

“Well, what can we do? You can’t appeal to the Fort Commander without him being here.” Yuriko said while she let the hot water flow over her face and down her body. Bits of potato were stuck in her hair, she knew, though with the water she could feel them sluicing off.

“Well…” Gwendith stuttered, staring at Yuriko for a moment before looking away. The showers didn’t have any kind of partition for privacy.

Oooooohhhh!

Yuriko closed her eyes.

No, no, no! Keep them open!

‘Quit it!’ she thought furiously.

Hyo ho ho ho!

She felt Damien’s consciousness withdraw and she sighed with relief. Her Ancestor crept up to her mind at odd times, either to give wisdom or to ogle women. She could feel his emotions bleed into her mind, which she fought off as hard as she could.

“I think we can only endure for now,” Yuriko continued as she scrubbed her body with soap.

“Aye, though I still don’t like it,” Gwendith grumbled. “I didn’t come all the way here just to peel potatoes.”

“Take it as a chance to hone your skills?” Ella-Mai asked.

“What skills? Cooking? Hmph!”

“Control?” Yuriko offered.

“Huh, I’m in full control of myself, thank you. I did not inlay Strengthen Physique. All we’ve been doing is waste time!”

Yuriko shrugged as she finished her bath. She grabbed her towel and patted herself dry. She didn’t know if she could stand to eat dinner today simply from being around food all day, though the rumbling in her tummy said otherwise. They were given time for leisure and training, and since they weren’t attached to any unit, they were free to do what they wanted.

The boys were at different camps so she sparred with Gwendith in the mornings. The other girl had a curious martial style focused less on telling blows. Indeed, due to her Facet, she only had to touch something in order to freeze them.

Three days passed. Every minute dragged on, but eventually, the Fort Commander returned.