The Stubborn Axe and the Frostbound Bow
Wendigo tilted his head, scanning Syr's body. The word "deal" had instinctively put him on guard. It was a natural reaction, given that almost none of those who'd come seeking trades before had been normal.
He sensed no strong shamanic power emanating from her body, which puzzled him.
"You came to a dangerous place without a single weapon? If you're relying on your friend—no, your spirit—that's not a great choice, I'd advise."
Wendigo's point was quite reasonable. No idiot would approach a spirit for a deal without some means of protecting themselves. Syr, of course, had that much common sense. Having spent her life dealing with spirits, how could she not?
But shamans had to know how to accept when common sense crumbled for a valid reason.
There are good spirits too, after all. Nothing strange about that.
Syr defined the spirit before her as different from any she'd met before.
She bowed politely and chose her words with care.
"I would with other spirits, yes. Most of them torment others without hesitation, so just meeting them is a risk in itself."
"So you're saying I'm not dangerous?"
"It means you're someone I can deal with without holding a weapon. How could bullying with strength ever be called proper trade?"
"Hm, fair point. Trading by force is something thieves do."
Wendigo nodded, and the others followed suit in agreement.
Only then could Syr relax. Truth be told, she'd worried the spirit might take offense as she spoke. Phrased politely, sure—but bluntly, it was like saying, "What's the difference between that and a thieving bandit?"
Mercenaries and thieves enjoyed seizing by force, but spirits loved it most of all. Kill one or two as an example right in front of them, and they'd offer tribute on their own. How many spirits in the world hated that?
So this one before her was astonishing.
Of course, Wendigo was just as surprised. Excluding those he'd taken under his wing, he'd seriously wondered if shamans' personalities were inversely proportional to their skills...
Hm. Feels like looking at Skadi.
Wendigo had just given her his highest praise for a shaman.
Starting a deal on trust rather than force—what a splendid attitude. Compared to the violent deceivers who'd come before, Syr was clearly a person of character.
"And to add one more thing, I'm not friends with Freya. She's been tormenting my clan by using the contract she made with my ancestors as an excuse..."
Hm. Talking like that means they're pretty close, huh.
There was a faint whiff of falsehood, but "friend" meant different things to different people. Syr was surely questioning whether she was at a level where she could call the spirit a friend.
Freya, who had been quietly listening from Syr's pouch, poked her head out and teasingly scolded her in mock shyness.
"Honey~ You don't have to advertise how close we are that much! I have an eye for spirits, you know, and that guy's definitely an abnormal one!"
"Hm. Hearing that and still acting all chummy? Yeah, definitely close."
Syr stared at the two spirits in disbelief.
Wendigo brushed off her sharp glare. Clearly, she hadn't accepted the "friend" label yet.
Best not to force the truth in cases like this. In time, she'd realize being friends with a spirit wasn't such a big deal...
Hm. Can't exactly say it's not a big deal.
Wendigo corrected himself. On second thought, befriending a foul-tempered spirit with immense power was pretty impressive.
That realization made it impossible for him not to acknowledge Syr's character and ability.
"Dragging around a rude spirit like that as a friend wouldn't be easy with ordinary skill or patience. Let's hear about this deal."
"......"
Syr gave Freya and Wendigo an odd look.
Calling Freya a friend was creepy enough, but denying it would imply she lacked the ability.
Under Syr's heated gaze, Freya placed her hands on her cheeks and wriggled bashfully.
"Eek~ Isn't your gaze extra hot today, honey?"
"...Shut your mouth before I actually set you on fire."
Thankfully, Syr didn't collapse from apoplexy before they even heard the deal. The perceptive Osa had caught on to her relationship with Freya and asked the attendants for a soothing tea that calmed her raging blood pressure.
As it subsided, Syr apologized for her outburst.
"Hoo... Sorry. Seeing that disgraceful sight, I just couldn't hold back and was rude."
"No harm done. More importantly, what is it you want to trade?"
"Actually, it's closer to a proposal than a trade. Could you take a look at this map?"
Wendigo examined the map Syr pulled out closely. Nothing too special, but one thing set it apart from ordinary maps: each territory was labeled with a tribe's name.
Lefrun, Ulpen, Norg...
"Plenty of names from the ones who came at me."
"Yes. The shamans used land as bait, so most chiefs who joined the alliance are from the forest's outer regions."
No matter how tempting the fertile land, crossing another tribe's territory wasn't easy. Northerners were warriors who didn't hesitate to draw weapons when negotiations failed.
Syr drew a line connecting the outer northern tribes.
"My proposal is to unite those who will swear loyalty to you, Lord Spirit, and create a gateway to manage the forest's outskirts."
"A forest gateway... You mean control entry into the forest?"
"Exactly."
It was a tempting idea. This time, the greedy ones had united—if they'd attacked simultaneously across the forest, it would've been a real headache. He could make unlimited clones, but controlling them wasn't infinite, and Sia alone couldn't scout dozens.
Syr circled one tribe of her own and two on either side.
"Freyer is your tribe, Lefrun the one humiliated today. And... Duenor?"
"Yes. A tribe with considerable renown. Lefrun has a bad reputation, but they won't refuse if there's profit."
"I've heard of the Duenor tribe too. Mother said they're honest about grudges and stubborn."
If Skadi's mother rated them as stubborn, that carried weight. A woman versed in herbs, unafraid of rough work, skilled in shamanism and martial arts—she'd said they were steadfast. What more needed saying?
Lefrun... At least the one I picked isn't a swindler, so it'll be fine.
Best of all, it meant little work for him. The question was what Syr wanted in return for handling this hassle...
"A deal means giving and taking. Speak—what do you want?"
Syr tensed. Even a mild spirit might not like what she desired.
She answered cautiously.
"What you gave Isaac—an ice crystal, one per year. In return, we'll do our utmost to procure whatever you desire."
"Not a big ask. Fine, we'll do that."
"???"
Syr stared at Wendigo in bewilderment, her face blank. She'd expected displeasure and a long negotiation...
"Ah, but I have a request."
"Anything within my power."
"If possible, get us some foodstuffs not found in the forest? I'll deduct payment from what we take from the other tribes."
"......"
Syr was speechless. In her life as a shaman, she'd never heard such a request.
...Was he really a spirit?
Having smoothly sealed the deal with Syr, Wendigo selected chiefs from all tribes except Lefrun the next day. The most memorable was Duenor tribe.
Skadi's mother's description of them as stubborn was spot on.
The muscular bald man, Anton's face from Duenor was rock-hard as he bellowed.
"I have no interest in the chief's seat. I answered the call to cut my father's throat myself."
"Lord Spirit. He seems insane."
Geron whispered to Wendigo, pointing at Anton, who brazenly spoke of patricide, his face twisted in disgust.
Even in the North, where seizing the father's seat was a virtue for the next chief, few declared it so boldly. Who'd brag about it, knowing they might end up the same?
Pure curiosity prompted Wendigo to ask Anton.
"If not to inherit the chief's seat, why cut your father's throat?"
"My father let my mother die in agony from illness. I swore in her deathbed to avenge her."
"And if I refuse?"
Anton placed a hand on the warhammer at his waist, meeting Wendigo's gaze squarely.
"A warrior's oath is sacred law. Even if death awaits, I won't back down."
Wendigo admired Anton's stubbornness. This was what it meant to be unyielding!
He let out a hollow laugh and clapped.
"Ha, the craziest and most stubborn I've seen. I entrust your father's life to you. In return, lead the tribe."
"I'm no wise man. What could I do leading the tribe?"
"Wisdom doesn't guarantee good leadership. Better a chief who loves the tribe and shuns foul paths."
Duenor's other heirs eyed Anton with jealousy or regret, but none denied his suitability. Deep down, they felt no one fit better.
Wendigo dismissed the rest, keeping the new chiefs-to-be, Skadi, Geron, and Syr.
Standing before Anton, he asked.
"What weapon do you favor? Spear? Sword?"
Anton pondered, then blurted.
"I've wielded every weapon in my life, but none I truly like. Though... an axe to fell my father would be nice."
"An axe, huh."
Wendigo nodded, raising roots from the ground and infusing them with mysticism to shape an axe. He plucked it free like fruit and offered it to Anton.
"Congratulations on becoming chief. May this axe guard your tribe well."
"!"
Anton grabbed the axe with trembling hands, eyes wide. The life force surging through it thrilled him. Power pulsed in his arm, enough to cleave trees in one stroke.
He looked at Wendigo in shock.
"Can I really have something like this?"
"Think I made it just to show off? Take it. Use it to behead your father, then my enemies'."
"...Thank you. I'll repay this grace with loyalty."
Anton accepted with newfound respect.
Wendigo then forged and bestowed weapons on the others: swords and spears laced with bitter cold, heavy yet flexible hammers and maces...
Last was Milosh, the first chief designate.
Meeting Wendigo's eyes, Milosh asked hesitantly.
"Um... Could it be a bow?"
"A bow?"
Expecting sword or axe, Wendigo reflexively echoed.
Fearing anger, Milosh shook his head frantically.
"N-no! On second thought, a sword's fine!"
"You forgot I can detect lies, huh. A bow, though..."
The bowstave was easy, but the string? Thinning wood might work?
Even thin, no elasticity means no bow. There has to be a way...
His gaze fell on Milosh's hair, and he paused. Entranced, he reached out.
"L-Lord Spirit!?"
Milosh flinched, raising a hand, but couldn't dodge. Wendigo's claw plucked hairs from his head in an instant.
Skadi sensed something off. Wendigo would have asked first—yet here he acted without a word.
...He does inexplicable things sometimes anyway.
Noting Wendigo seemed different, Skadi approached.
"Are you alright? Overused mysticism and fatigued?"
Wendigo didn't answer. Silently, he plucked his own hairs, merging them with Milosh's. Infused with mysticism, they transformed: exhaling cold, they became beautiful white threads.
Wendigo shaped a bowstave from roots and strung the white threads.
He offered the completed bow to Milosh.
"No arrows needed. If you wish, the cold in the string will form them at your will."
Milosh stared blankly at his new bow. A mere sword would be a generational heirloom—yet this treasure!
"We swear generation after generation to serve you, Lord Spirit!"
"Oaths aren't to be made lightly. Come to me when you're truly ready, and swear then."
"Yes!"
Wendigo's gentle authority filled the space. The warriors—no, chiefs—prostrated, swearing utmost loyalty with utmost respect.
None saw it as dishonor. They took pride in being there.
Seated on his jade throne, Wendigo gazed down softly. Geron and Skadi watched, blinking in awe.
A moment later, as the chiefs took their weapons—and fathers or what remained of them—and departed, Wendigo sat on the throne, replaying the scene.
He plucked his own hair and infused it with mysticism. Like before, it became a cold thread...
"Doesn't work."
The hair shattered, unable to withstand the mysticism.
Wendigo toyed with the icy remnants, pondering. He had no method or experience for that...
How did I do it?