Chương 53: Rat's Departure

The morning sun crested over the high mountain peaks, casting a bright, clear light across the Frost-Grip valley. Down in the village square, the atmosphere was chaotic but incredibly cheerful. The merchant caravan was preparing to leave. Dozens of men were shouting, draft horses were snorting in the cold air, and heavy wooden crates were being hauled back and forth across the packed snow. Jack stood near the gatehouse, leaning comfortably on his cane. He watched his people work.

In the Castle, Giles was directing a team of militiamen as they carried heavy woven baskets out of the deep bedrock cellars. The baskets were packed to the brim with premium smoked dire wolf and mountain bear meat. They loaded the meat carefully into the provisioner's wagons, trading the food for heavy canvas sacks filled with salt, sturdy rope, and thick winter cloth. In the village, across the square, Barnaby was acting like a man who had just found a mountain of gold.

The blacksmith was standing next to a merchant cart, personally inspecting every single pure iron ingot before he allowed his apprentices to carry it to the forge. He struck the metal blocks with a small hammer, listening to the solid, clear ring of the iron.

"It is beautiful, Lord Jack," Barnaby called out.

"No rust, no weak spots. With this much pure iron, I can build the remaining ballistas for the watchtowers, forge proper plow blades for the farmers, and still have enough left over to make nails for Giles."

"Use it efficiently, Barnaby," Jack said smoothly.

"We will not see another iron merchant until the middle of summer." Old Miller was standing near the greenhouse, surrounded by the agricultural merchant's open crates. The old farmer was carefully running his fingers through sacks of frost-hardy seeds, completely ignoring the noise of the square. He already had his planting rows mapped out in his head for the newly cleared southern field. While Jack's people were thriving, one man in the square was completely miserable.

Merchant Gary sat on the driver's bench of his wagon, his face sour. His carts were still fully loaded with the cheap, moldy grain he had brought up the mountain. Because Jack had demanded high-purity gold and specific trade goods, Gary hadn't been able to buy a single pelt or a single piece of coal. He had spent weeks traveling through freezing mud just to turn around and go home with nothing. Gary snapped his reins angrily, moving his horses toward the front of the caravan line.

He wanted to get out of the valley as quickly as possible. As the morning progressed, the other merchants finished securing their highly profitable cargo. They tied down the canvas tarps over the brain-tanned furs and locked the iron chests containing the smokeless coal. Jack caught the eye of Merchant Vane. The shadow broker was standing near his heavily reinforced, enclosed wagons. Vane did not wave or shout his goodbyes like the other guild traders.

He simply gave Jack a very slow, respectful nod before climbing onto his driver's bench. The contract was set. Fifty workers would arrive by early summer.

"Open the gates!" Giles shouted from the palisade walkway. The heavy iron-reinforced wooden doors swung open. The caravan began to roll out. The squeaking of wooden wheels and the heavy thud of horse hooves echoed loudly as the long line of wagons crossed the wooden ramp and headed toward the southern tree line. Deep inside the woods, far away from the road, a pair of bloodshot eyes watched the village through the bare branches.

Kael, the original leader of the Frost-Bite Bandits, was barely recognizable as a human being. When his men had fled from Jack's village months ago, the group had scattered in panic. Kael had not stayed with the main group. He knew the freezing temperatures would kill them, and he knew they lacked the skills to survive. So, he had abandoned them entirely. Kael was an Iron Core mage, but his core had been firmly sealed upon his exile.

Unable to use a single spark of magic, he had relied on sheer, stubborn desperation. To survive the brutal winter, he had traveled deep into the highest rocky slopes and found a small, natural geothermal vent hidden inside a shallow cave. For months, he had huddled next to that vent. He had breathed in the foul air just to absorb the faint heat radiating from the rocks. He had survived by eating frozen pine bark, grub worms he dug from the dirt, and the occasional scraps left behind by larger predators.

His clothes were nothing but filthy, rotting rags. His skin was stretched tight over his bones, and three of his toes were completely black from frostbite. But he was alive. And he was consumed by a burning, absolute hatred. Kael leaned against the trunk of a pine tree, shivering violently as the morning wind hit him. He watched the massive merchant wagons rolling out of the Frost-Grip valley. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

He had been spying on the village for weeks. He had watched them build the massive wooden palisade. He had seen the smoke rising from their meat sheds. He had watched them survive the Beast Tide, harvesting hundreds of massive carcasses while he starved in a cave. He hated the sickly boy-lord who had taken his easy victory away. But more than hatred, Kael felt an overwhelming sense of horror. Kael knew the truth.

A few nights ago, driven mad by hunger, Kael had crept closer to the village walls in the dead of night, hoping to find a discarded bone or a piece of trash. Instead, he had seen something that made his blood run cold. He had watched a group of figures marching silently down the mountain path from the castle. They weren't wearing coats. They were wrapped in ragged black cloth. Kael had hidden in the snow, holding his breath as the figures walked right past his hiding spot.

The wind had blown one of their dark cloaks aside. Kael hadn't seen pale skin or armor. He had seen a completely bare, white ribcage. He had seen a fleshless skull. He had watched the skeletons pick up heavy wooden barrels and march silently into the dark coal mine without carrying a single torch. The realization had hit Kael like a physical blow. The boy-lord's "private, silent mages" were not human mercenaries. They were the dead. Kael had once been a minor noble, before he was exiled for his crimes.

He knew the laws of the continent. He knew the strict, absolute mandates of the Holy Church. Necromancy was the ultimate heresy. It was a corruption of the natural order. If the Inquisition even suspected that a noble was practicing the Grey Arts, they wouldn't just send a simple patrol. They would send a Gold Core Inquisitor to burn the entire fief to ash. Kael smiled. His lips were cracked and bleeding, making the expression look ghastly. He didn't have the strength to fight the boy-lord. But he didn't need to.

He just needed to deliver a single message to the capital. The squeaking of the merchant wagons grew louder. The caravan was entering the tree line, moving slowly down the muddy, slush-filled mountain road. Kael forced himself to move. His muscles screamed in agony, weak from months of starvation. He crept through the snow, keeping low behind the thick pine trunks. He needed a ride. If he tried to walk through the mountain pass on his own two feet, he would die of exposure in a day. He watched the wagons roll past.

Merchant Gary's wagon went first, but the driver was looking around nervously, and there were hired mercenary guards walking closely beside it. It was too risky. Then, Kael saw exactly what he needed. Near the back of the caravan was a heavy, enclosed wagon. The wood was reinforced with thick iron bands, and there were small bars over the ventilation slits. It was a slaver's cart.

Because the wagon was so heavily fortified against internal escape, the driver sitting on the front bench wasn't paying much attention to the outside underneath. Kael didn't have any mana to mask his scent or hide his presence; his sealed core was nothing but a dead, aching weight in his chest. Instead, he simply smeared more of the freezing slush over his face, using the foul-smelling mud and his rotting rags as a natural, pathetic camouflage.

He waited until the slave wagon hit a deep patch of mud, slowing it down to a crawl. Kael lunged out from the trees. He threw his frail body directly under the moving wagon. He scrambled on his back through the freezing mud. He reached up with desperate, trembling hands and grabbed the thick wooden axle connecting the rear wheels. He pulled himself up, wedging his thin body tightly into the narrow gap between the wooden undercarriage and the axle.

He pulled a length of frayed rope from his pocket and quickly tied it around his waist, securing himself to the thick iron bracing of the cart so he wouldn't fall if he passed out. The wagon hit a bump, shaking violently, but Kael held on. He was completely hidden in the dark, muddy undercarriage. The loud squeaking of the wheels and the heavy thud of the horses masked the sound of his ragged breathing. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the cold wood.

He was starving, he was freezing, and he was covered in mud, but he had made it. He was leaving the mountains.

"I will see you burn, boy," Kael thought, his mind clinging to the hatred to stay awake." I will bring the golden fire directly to your door." Back in the village, the gates were slowly pulled shut and barred. Jack stood on the palisade walkway, watching the last wagon disappear into the trees. The long isolation of the winter was officially over. The mountain pass was open, and trade had returned to the Frost-Grip fief. He took a slow, deep breath of the cold morning air. It was an incredible victory.

They had started the winter with a few days of wet firewood and a starving population ready to riot.

Now, they had a booming coal mine, perfectly sealed against toxic gas. They had a massive surplus of food stored in natural bedrock cellars. The village was completely enclosed by a tall wooden wall and a deep trench. Barnaby's forge was fully stocked with pure iron, and Old Miller had the seeds he needed to plant the cleared fields. Most importantly, Jack had solved the labor bottleneck. By early summer, fifty strong hands would arrive to push the fief into actual industrial production.

"Lord Jack," Giles said, walking up the wooden stairs to join him on the walkway. The carpenter looked tired but immensely proud.

"The inventory is complete. We secured enough salt to preserve meat for the next two years. The canvas and rope are stored in the Great Hall."

"Excellent work, Giles," Jack nodded, turning away from the forest.

"Give the men the rest of the day off. Tell Karen to prepare a large meal. The village has earned a celebration."

"They will be thrilled, My Lord," Giles smiled broadly.

"Spring is here. The worst is finally behind us." Jack offered a small, polite smile, but internally, his mind was already calculating the next problem. The environment was no longer their primary enemy. The snow and the starving beasts had been beaten by walls, fire, and logistics. But surviving the winter was simple compared to surviving the politics of the continents. The merchants who had just left were going to travel other regions.

They were going to sit in warm taverns and boast about the incredible wealth they had found in a supposedly dead northern territory. Word would spread. The quiet, forgotten Frost-Grip fief was about to become very loud. And with the noise came the tax collectors, the greedy nobles looking to expand their borders, and the ever-watchful eyes of the Holy Church. Jack gripped the brass head of his cane. He had built his foundation in the dark, hidden by the snow. Now, he would have to defend it in the light.

He walked down the wooden stairs, heading back to the castle to review his new ledgers. The spring had arrived, but the true test of his leadership was just beginning.