Judgment from the Ice Throne
While the battlefield was being cleared, Wendigo sat on a makeshift throne of ice, watching over the prisoners. With the major battle over, there wasn't much for him to do. Cleaning up the field and gathering the spoils fell to the warriors, while tending to the wounded and transporting them was the job of the volunteered forest folk and shamans. Returning to the temple didn't feel right either...
Unable to stand it any longer, Geron approached with a troubled expression and made a suggestion. "Why not take these guys back to the temple, my lord? It doesn't seem right that you're unable to rest because of the prisoners."
The other warriors nodded in agreement with Geron's words. There was no reason for Wendigo to handle something like this personally. They could just state their demands and persuade with swords and spears if needed...
'These bastards are making the spirit suffer.'
'Can't we just chop off an arm and threaten them?'
Even the warriors who had found peace under Wendigo couldn't completely shed their past lives. Sometimes violence was simpler than words.
As the warriors subtly rested hands on their weapons and glared, the prisoners—nervously scribbling their surrender letters while stealing glances at Wendigo—turned pale. They feared they might end up writing their last wills instead.
But Wendigo shook his head, ignoring Geron and the warriors' advice. "The village and the temple are full of people. I don't want to bring these vicious bastards there."
"Would the forest folk and nomads, hardened by harsh environments, fear trash like these?" Geron stared coldly at the prisoners, trying to persuade Wendigo. It wasn't wrong. Wendigo's followers, tempered by the world's cruelest hunger and cold, had no reason to fear even the fiercest warriors.
"Lord Geron's right. Those guys would lose to my wife."
"No need for your wife. I'd bet my youngest could beat them."
"Your youngest is already grown and hunting with a bow... Mmph!?"
"Shut it."
The prisoners trembled in rage at being reduced from foes who could make warriors quake with a glare to trash even housewives and kids could beat. It was an insult the chiefs and shamans had never endured.
Unable to bear it, one chief hurled his charcoal to the ground and shot up. Uba, chief of the Celtivar tribe, pointed at Geron and bellowed. "You son of a bitch... Without that spirit, barbarians like you couldn't have stood against us!"
"Why blame us for not being chosen by the spirit? And barbarians? You lot get called the same by the empire."
"Shut your mouth! Teaming up with barbarians like you shows what level your spirit is. No, I knew from the moment you petty traitors urged betrayal!"
"...You sure can wag your tongue when the spirit hasn't ordered silence."
Geron spat his retort calmly, but when Uba insulted Wendigo, he gripped his sword and glared murderously. Uba, already half-resigned to death, ignored it.
Blood rushing to his head, Uba pressed on. "Hiding behind your spirit and flapping your gums. If I had my sword, I'd gut you!"
"Heh... Does Geron look that pathetic to you?"
Uba flinched as Wendigo interjected. No matter the rage, fear of Wendigo was unavoidable.
Wendigo glanced at Geron, who signaled with his eyes to let him fight. Wendigo nodded. "Looks like Geron wants a go. Give the bastard his weapon. If death's his wish, no reason to stop him."
"I'll behead him and offer it to you, my lord."
Geron expressed gratitude and loyalty. What subordinate wouldn't be devoted to a superior who understood without words? Surely the spirit had seen his eyes and permitted it.
'He reeks of anger. Killing one prisoner won't matter.'
...Sometimes superiors read minds through ability, not bonds.
Uba, handed his weapon, looked dazed and scanned around. The warriors eyed him displeased but showed no intent to interfere. Uba, furious, saw a chance.
'This is it. A golden opportunity to impress the spirit! Beat this guy, and maybe he'll recruit me!'
Ignoring that Wendigo might turn him into a living tree, Uba burned with zeal. He charged Geron, swinging his massive greatsword. A middle-aged gray-hair should split in half blocking it!
"Die!"
Geron drew like lightning and smacked the greatsword with one hand. The unbelievable force deviated its path. Uba, shocked by Geron's strength, strained his muscles futilely.
"Mocking the spirit with this? Atone in death."
"W-Wait!"
Geron twisted the blade at the wrist and swung vertically. Sensing doom, Uba pinned hopes on his armor—stolen imperial chainmail of sturdy steel, topped with tough bear hide...
Slash!
"Gahk!"
The wooden sword Wendigo gave cleaved chain and hide, slicing heart and lungs. The sword clanged down amid a clamor, and Uba crumpled.
Geron glanced indifferently at the corpse and ordered the warriors. "Not fit to show the spirit. Clear it away."
"Yes!"
The warriors dragged it off. Prisoners sneaking peeks at the body gasped as a warrior tossed it to wolves.
'Never piss him off.'
'Cheap tricks won't win the spirit's favor.'
Those with similar thoughts to Uba abandoned them and scribbled faster, fearing Wendigo's whim might feed them to wolves—or worse, devour them himself. Hadn't Gelmir, their leader, been eaten after defeat? (Well, bitten to death, not eaten.)
As prisoners hurried their letters, Wendigo nodded.
'Should've started by killing one.'
One by one, they finished, but none stepped forward rashly, fearing a pretext for execution.
Not all, though. Valken, chief of the Lefrun tribe and red fox beastman, slunk forward, bowing low. Warriors blocked with spears and swords, but Valken bowed deeper, unflustered.
"Great spirit, I've listed all with succession rights as ordered."
"Hm..."
As Wendigo took the parchment with a claw, Valken smirked slyly. At first puzzled by the succession talk, most prisoners quickly grasped Wendigo's intent: handing power to his chosen puppets.
While others hesitated, Valken schemed differently.
'What does a spirit know of my tribe?'
He had two wives, three concubines—plenty of kids. Thus, many heirs. He listed the most incompetent idiots, confident he could reclaim the tribe by beheading them later. Sad to kill sons, but for the greater good...
'Warriors won't know complex inheritance. Useless to ask.'
"These all of them?"
"Of course. With my life as collateral, how could I defy you?"
Valken blinked pitifully, feigning misery—groveling only a scheming chief could muster.
Wendigo eyed him, then spoke. "Stand."
"How dare I stand before you? I'll kneel."
"Then kneel."
"?"
Caught off-guard but maintaining the act—spirits were eccentric, after all. Survive kneeling...
"Warriors, beat this liar hard."
"Pardon? What do you... Aaaagh!"
"Shut it! Daring to deceive the spirit!"
Warriors pummeled without question. Valken reeled under heavy kicks, confused.
'My trick's exposed?!'
Impossible. How could the spirit know tribal intricacies!
Wendigo asked indifferently amid the blows. "Again: how many heirs?"
"S-Sorry! I forgot one. Seven!"
"Lies. Harder."
"Yes!"
They fetched thick branches—less lethal than weapons but potent. As skin split, Valken begged. "Mercy! Not seven, eight..."
"Lies."
"I r-remember! Recent birth—nine! Nine!"
"Got a beating fetish? Honesty's easier."
Cracks and wails echoed; prisoners paled, watching. Spirits were spirits—mad to keep beating when truth should've spilled!
(Valken still lied, unbeknownst.) Desperate, lips burst, he confessed truly. The crotchety spirit might call it lies anyway...
"Fif... teen. Really... fifteen."
"Three more? Truth at last. Stop and return his charcoal and parchment."
"!"
Warriors backed off; Valken gaped at Wendigo.
"H-How...?"
"Thought lies would work on me? Foolish. Hurry back if you want to live."
Dragged off, Valken gone, Wendigo tsked, scratching his nose-area.
'Smelling lies is a chore.'
The stench when Valken lied was nauseating.
'Should've been honest sooner.'
Now with a lesson shown, schemers would dwindle. With lives at stake, how many would try...
"U-Um..."
"Done?"
"W-Well..."
A sweating prisoner timidly raised a hand; Wendigo puzzled. Not done, so why?
"J-Just remembered another heir. May I have new parchment?"
"M-Me too! Mercy once, please!"
"Mercy!"
"......"
One's courage sparked others to beg, heads suddenly soft...
'They always exceed expectations.'
"...Give them new parchment."
"A beating first?"
Geron suggested, reading Wendigo—who nodded unwittingly. Realizing, he didn't retract.
Geron signaled; warriors gleefully charged, pummeling beggars.
To the crooks' wails, Wendigo recalled an old saying.
'Whip's the medicine for madmen.'
He loved peace, but sometimes this worked best.