Chương 50: Merchants

The road was open. The isolation was over. Down in the village, the militia had not lowered their weapons. They were staring nervously toward the tree line. For the past months, the only things that had come out of those woods were starving beasts and desperate bandits. Something came into Jack's view, in the mountain road. Jack turned and walked briskly back into his room. He grabbed his cane and headed for the stairs.

He had expected Merchant Gary to return, but he knew the muddy mountain road would slow heavy wagons down significantly. They had at least an hour before the caravan reached the village gates. That was exactly enough time to set the stage. Jack walked down into the village square. Giles, Old Miller, and Barnaby quickly gathered around him.

"Listen to me carefully," Jack instructed, his tone sharp and commanding.

"When those merchants clear the tree line, they are going to be expecting a graveyard. They are vultures. They are coming here with cheap, moldy grain, hoping to buy our land and our remaining supplies for absolutely nothing." Giles gripped his spear, his face hardening.

"We won't let them cheat us, Lord Jack."

"No, we won't," Jack agreed smoothly.

"But we are not going to threaten them. We are going to overwhelm them. I want this village looking like a military stronghold." Jack pointed his cane at the militia.

"Have the men put on their newest dire-wolf coats. Stand tall on the firing platforms. Barnaby, load the heavy ballista with your largest bone-tipped bolts and point it directly at the road. Stoke your forge until the flames roar. I want the sound of hammering echoing through the valley." Jack turned to Old Miller.

"Keep the doors to the smoking sheds open just enough so the smell of the cured meat drifts out toward the gates. Bring out three of the best, softest brain-tanned bear furs and drape them casually over the skinning racks like they are common blankets." The men nodded, immediately understanding the strategy. While the village scrambled to arrange the display of wealth, miles down the muddy mountain road, a heavy wooden wagon was struggling up the incline.

Merchant Gary was on the driver's bench, wrapped in a thick wool coat, shivering as the damp spring wind bit at his face. His wagon was the vanguard, the very first in a long, winding train of nearly a dozen different merchant wagons representing various trade guilds in the continent. Gary looked over his shoulder at the massive caravan following him. He let out a greedy, satisfied chuckle.

"Look at them," Gary said to his hired mercenary guard sitting next to him.

"Those city guild masters think they are so smart, following me up this miserable mountain. But I know the boy-lord of this fief. I made a deal with him before the snow fell." The mercenary grunted, pulling his cloak tighter.

"You think anyone is still alive up there? This was the worst freeze in past 5 years."

"Of course they aren't," Gary laughed, snapping the reins to urge the draft horses through the mud.

"That sickly boy didn't have the coin to buy enough grain to last two months, let alone the whole winter. They probably starved to death weeks ago. And that is exactly what I am counting on." Gary patted a leather pouch resting at his feet.

"I brought three wagons of the cheapest, oldest grain I could find," Gary explained, his eyes gleaming with greed.

"If there are a few starving, desperate peasants left, I'll trade them a sack of moldy oats for the legal deeds to their land. And if they are all dead, I'll just walk into that crumbling castle and take the rights to the old coal mine for myself. By the time those guild merchants behind us figure out what's happening, I'll own the entire Frost-Grip valley." The horses crested the final steep hill, fighting for traction in the slush.

The thick line of pine trees finally broke, revealing the wide, flat expanse of the Frost-Grip valley.

"Alright," Gary said, sitting up straight and putting on his best fake, sympathetic frown.

"Let's go see the corpses—" Gary stopped talking. His jaw dropped completely open. The mercenary guard beside him suddenly sat up straight, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of his sword.

"By the gods…" the guard whispered. Gary rubbed his eyes, completely unable to process what he was looking at. He expected to see the scattered, snow-crushed ruins of wooden huts. He expected to see a dark, lifeless castle and frozen bodies half-buried in the snowdrifts. Instead, dominating the center of the valley was a massive, impenetrable wall of logs, standing ten feet tall. Surrounding the wall was a wide, deep trench.

Up on one of the elevated wooden watchtowers, a massive siege ballista was locked and loaded, manned by guards looking down at the road. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Plumes of fragrant smoke were rising from the village, carrying the mouth-watering scent of perfectly roasted meat. The loud, steady ringing of a blacksmith's hammer echoed powerfully across the valley.

Gary's draft horses slowly pulled the wagon toward the defensive moat, followed closely by the rest of the shocked caravan. They approached the wooden ramp that spanned the deep trench. Standing dead center on the walkway, directly in front of the iron-reinforced gates, was a single man wrapped in a dark traveler's cloak. It was Elias. The dead mage did not move. He simply stared at the approaching wagons with empty, unblinking eyes, his hands resting on the pommel of a high-quality steel sword.

Gary felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. The sheer, lethal presence radiating from the silent swordsman at the gate was terrifying. The iron-reinforced gates slowly creaked open. Jack walked out onto the wooden ramp, leaning lightly on his cane. He was dressed in clean, looking immensely healthier and composed. Walking silently one step behind him was Bones, entirely hidden in his heavy iron chainmail and dark cloak, looking exactly like a towering, elite royal bodyguard. Gary swallowed hard.

He forced his shock down and plastered a massive, friendly smile onto his face. He jumped down from the wagon bench into the mud.

"Lord Jack!" Gary called out, spreading his arms wide as if greeting an old friend.

"Praise the heavens! I feared the worst when the snows closed the pass! I pushed my horses to the breaking point to bring you relief! I brought grain, My Lord! Just as we discussed!" Gary took a step forward onto the wooden ramp, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Listen, Jack. I know things must be hard. Let me pull my wagons in first. We can make a private deal for the grain before those other guild merchants try to price-gouge you. As a favor between friends." Jack looked at Gary. His expression was completely flat and cold.

"We are not friends, Gary," Jack said smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly in the still air.

"You sold me bottom-barrel grain at an inflated price because you thought I was a desperate fool." Gary's fake smile faltered.

"My Lord, I—""Step aside," Jack commanded. Jack looked past Gary, projecting his voice loudly so that the dozen other merchants sitting on their wagons behind Gary could hear him clearly.

"Welcome to the Frost-Grip Fief!" Jack announced, his voice echoing with absolute authority.

"The winter is over. My people are well-fed, and our storehouses are completely full. We have no need for basic grain or simple charity." A murmur of surprise rippled through the caravan drivers.

"However," Jack continued, gesturing to the open gates with his cane.

"We are looking to trade. I am officially opening the gates to the entire caravan. There will be no exclusive deals. There will be no monopolies. We operate a free market today. Bring your wagons inside." Gary's face turned bright red as the guild merchants behind him immediately snapped their reins, eagerly steering their wagons around Gary's stalled cart. Gary's dream of buying the valley for pennies was instantly shattered. The wagons rolled heavily over the wooden ramp and entered the village square.

The merchants climbed down from their benches, looking around in absolute awe. Giles and Old Miller stepped forward, acting as the official guides for the fief.

"Right this way, gentlemen," Old Miller said politely, leading a small group of finely dressed traders toward the skinning racks. A merchant representing a tailoring guild stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the massive, dark gray furs draped over the wooden frames.

"Are these… dire wolf?" the tailor asked, his voice trembling slightly. He reached out a hesitant, gloved hand and touched the thick fur. His eyes widened in shock. Raw animal hides cured by peasants were usually stiff, foul-smelling, and hard as wooden boards. But this fur was different. Because the village women had used the boiled brains of the beasts and spent hours stretching the hides, the leather beneath the thick fur was incredibly supple.

"It is as soft as fine velvet," the tailor whispered, running his hands over the massive pelt.

"And there is no rot. How did you cure this perfectly in the dead of winter?"

"Trade secrets, friend," Old Miller smiled proudly.

"And we have dozens more just like it, along with three massive mountain bears." Across the square, a different merchant, one dealing in metals and fuel, had wandered over to Barnaby's roaring forge. He watched Barnaby pull a glowing hot boar spear from the flames. The merchant didn't care about the weapon; he was staring at the black rocks burning in the hearth.

"Blacksmith," the merchant said, pointing a shaking finger at the fire.

"That coal. There is almost no smoke coming from it. And the heat radiating from your forge is twice as hot as standard lump coal."

"Anthracite," Barnaby grunted, wiping sweat from his forehead with a dirty rag.

"Pulled fresh from the deep veins of our mountain. It burns hotter and longer than anything you'll find in the southern bogs." The fuel merchant's eyes practically turned into gold coins. High-grade, smokeless coal was highly prized by the imperial foundries and the capital's glassblowers. It was an incredibly lucrative resource. Meanwhile, a third group of merchants, dealing in provisions and food, were standing near the newly dug bedrock cellars beneath the castle foundations.

Giles opened the heavy wooden door to the cellar. A blast of natural, cool air rolled out. The merchants peered inside. The wide earthen shelves were stacked floor-to-ceiling with perfectly smoked, dark-red beast meat. The sheer volume of preserved meat in the room was staggering.

"It is all perfectly cured," Giles said, pulling a strip of jerky down and offering it to the merchants.

"It won't mold in the spring humidity, and it will last for years on a ship. We have more than we can possibly eat." The merchants tasted the meat. The pine smoke and the rich, dense flavor of the dire wolf meat was excellent. Within thirty minutes, the entire caravan was in a frenzy. They had climbed the mountain expecting to scavenge a dying village. Instead, they had stumbled into an untapped gold mine of premium luxury furs, high-energy fuel, and massive military-grade food reserves.

Gary stood by his wagon of cheap grain, completely ignored by everyone. He watched the other merchants eagerly taking inventory of Jack's goods, writing furiously in their ledgers. Jack watched the chaos unfold in the village square. A satisfied, highly calculated smile spread across his face. The bait had been perfectly set. The merchants were drooling over the wealth. Now, it was time to lock them in a room and let their own greed drive the prices up to the sky.

Jack turned to Karen, who was standing quietly near the door of his room.

"Karen," Jack said.

"Go down to the square. Inform all the lead guild merchants that the Lord of the Fief invites them into the Great Hall for a warm meal. Tell them the auction is about to begin."