I exhaled a frustrated sigh and stood to face the doors. I gave the handle a good jerk.
“Try knocking,” he suggested.
I glared at him, then I knocked. I’m not completely stubborn. After a minute and a half of banging on the doors, I decided to try a new approach. I turned to Thor the Skullsplitter. Obviously, he’d known knocking wouldn’t work.
“Could you help me?” I asked. After a pause, I added, “Please?”
His smile broadened, revealing clean white teeth that dentists everywhere would have praised. “You can ask nicely.”
I crossed my arms. “Are you going to help me or not?”
He mimicked me and crossed his arms. Muscles bulged under his shirt. I tried not to notice. “It will still cost you.”
Oh, good grief. “But I asked nicely! Does it look like I have anything to trade?”
“I didn’t ask for a trade.”
“Look,” I said, attempting to stay even-tempered. “You want something? Fine. But I’ve got nothing right now. How about I pay you later?”
“Later is no good.”
“Then I’ll find my own way in.” I turned my attention to the locked doors. I could always use magic… I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to that, but I didn’t have time to bargain, I didn’t have time to beg, and my patience was growing very thin.
Picking locks wasn’t my expertise, but blowing stuff up? That I could handle.
Focusing my energy, I held my hands an inch away from the wood, closed my eyes, and concentrated. I needed the symbol for door. Or better yet, the symbol for wood. In my mind, I created a picture of an oak tree and held it there. My magic surfaced. With controlled force, I let the magical energy burst through my fingertips and slam into the doors.
A loud crack erupted through the hall. The doors split apart and clattered to the ground with a thud. Dust rose from the rubble. A room full of Wult warriors stared at me with wide, red-rimmed eyes.
Hey Skullsplitter, guess I didn’t need your help after all.
Chapter 9
Vikings didn’t wear horns. Wults didn’t, either. They also didn’t drink from skulls or wield clubs. I guess everyone gets stereotyped.
Wults did plunder. A lot. And they were pretty good at getting drunk, which I found out as soon as I blasted my way into the hall. I could have gagged from the stench of alcohol, but oddly, I didn’t detect any body odor. I suppose that was also a stereotype.
A man with a faded blond beard walked toward me, his eyes fixed on the broken doors. A leather tunic stretched over his large middle. He stood a few inches shorter than the average Wult, though he seemed no less intimidating. His smile seemed friendly enough, but with one glance at his hardened eyes, I decided to think twice before challenging him. I recognized him—King Herrick.
He tapped his fingers on his broadsword as he inspected the heap of wood. “You’ve broken our doors.” He spoke with calmness, though I heard the displeasure in his voice. “What an interesting display.” He calmly removed his sword from his sheath and pointed the blade at my heart. “Have you come to challenge us? Because if you have, know that you are treading dangerous waters. We are not used to challenges by half-elven outsiders, though your boldness is duly noted.”
I took a step away from his sword and weighed my choices. Choice one: I could fight. I could demand the Wults accompany me to their temple ruins. I could put on a showy display, maybe break a few tables, smash some helmets, and let them know I was serious. I was the sky king’s charge, and they had to do what I asked. I had enough magic to bring down this whole building if I wanted. Choice two: I could ask nicely.
“I’m not here to challenge you. As the sky king’s ward, I’ve come to ask a favor.”
“I don’t grant favors.”
Of course he didn’t. Fine. New tactic.
“I’ve come to propose a bargain.”
This seemed to get his attention. I knew that with the mention of the sky king, his head had filled with all sorts of images of dragon loot.
“Bargain?”
“Yes.”
He eyed me for a moment longer. Silence filled the hall. He must’ve been deciding whether to behead me or accept me—Wults never did anything halfway.
His face stretched into a smile, and he replaced his sword. Lopsided scars pulled at his ruddy skin. “A bargain!” He clapped me on the shoulder, then pulled me toward the center of the room, where tables sat laden with enough food to feed the Wults until next spring. “Brodnik, bring the lady some ale.”
A man—I assumed Brodnik—shoved a large tankard at me. I grabbed it before it splashed my Docs. “Thank you,” I mumbled.
We stopped by a table adorned with every cut of meat imaginable. Bones littered the floor, most of them picked clean. “Some boarhound for our visitor,” King Herrick called as he pushed me toward a bench.
I took a seat beside a Wult woman who wore her dark hair in a long braid. She gave me a smug glance as I sat next to her.
King Herrick grabbed a knife, impaled it through the boarhound flank, and shoved it onto a plate in front of me. “Eat!” he called. “And then we bargain.”
I was still going with option one, so I supposed I’d better make a good show of it. In true Wult fashion, I grabbed the thighbone and ripped a chunk of meat out of the flesh. I supposed I made a good impression on the king, because he slapped my back with enough force to make my teeth rattle.
After a few mouthfuls of food, King Herrick took a seat across from me. He laughed and talked with the Wults surrounding him, but I got the impression he was doing more than that. Maybe I’d grown paranoid, but I got the feeling he was sizing me up, looking for my weaknesses.
“And what would this bargain be
