Chương 6: Caravan of Greed

The morning light did not bring warmth; it only turned the sky a flat grey. Jack stood by his window, watching a small trail of gray smoke rise from the hearth. The pine splinters Karen had scavenged had burned out hours ago, leaving nothing but cold, white ash. He could feel the familiar, icy tickle returning to his throat, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating agony of the previous morning. His core was stable, resting quietly in his chest like a smooth pebble in a frozen pond.

Behind him, Rusty, Dusty, and Bones stood perfectly still.

"Alright," Jack whispered, turning back to his undead servants.

"Karen will be coming up soon with whatever water she can melt. You three need to head back down." He walked over to the corner of the room, dragged the balding bear-skin rug aside, and pulled the iron ring. The stone slab slid open with a low, scraping groan, releasing another draft of soothing cold.

"Go down to the bottom of the steps and wait," Jack commanded mentally, sending the thought along the three thin, grey threads connected to his soul.

"Do not move. Do not make a sound. If you hear the door open above, stay absolutely still." Rusty went first, descending the steep stairs with slow, deliberate steps. Bones had to duck his massive, six-foot-four frame, his long leg bones folding awkwardly as he squeezed into the shaft. Once the last ivory heel vanished into the dark, Jack hauled the stone slab shut and kicked the bear-skin rug back over the seal.

He had barely leaned his weight back onto his brass-headed cane when a sharp, brassy blare cut through the howling wind outside. Ahooo! It was a horn. A heavy, off-key sound that bounced off the icy stone walls of the castle. Jack hobbled back to the window. Down in the snow-choked courtyard, the wooden gates were swinging open. A line of miserable, shivering pack mules was filing into the yard, their iron horseshoes sliding precariously on the slick ice.

Each beast was laden with bulging burlap sacks, their heads hanging low, their breath rising in thick, rapid plumes of white steam. At the front of the line rode a man wrapped in three layers of thick, luxurious beaver pelts. He was plump, with a round, red face that looked like an apple, and a thick mustache that was currently frozen stiff with white frost. Merchant Gary had arrived. And behind him, emerging from their dark, freezing hovels, came the villagers.

Jack watched as Old Miller, Giles, and dozens of others gathered near the castle walls. They didn't approach the mules immediately. They stood in the snow, their arms crossed tightly over their chests, staring at the bulging sacks of grain with a desperate hunger that made Jack's chest ache. The children, their faces smudged with soot and pale with starvation, peered out from behind their parents' threadbare coats. They looked at the mules not with curiosity, but with the terror of the empty-bellied.

"They won't survive the week without that grain," Jack muttered to himself.

"No matter how much coal I dig." A sharp knock rattled his bedroom door.

"My Lord!" Karen's voice was frantic, breathless.

"The… the merchant caravan! Gary is here! Giles is leading him into the Great Hall right now!"

"I hear them, Karen," Jack called back, calming his voice.

"I am coming down." By the time Jack made his way down the winding stone stairs and entered the Great Hall, the room was already filled with a tense, shivering crowd. The single green log from the previous day had finally died, leaving the massive stone fireplace completely black. The draft in the hall was so cold that Jack could see his own eyelashes freezing if he blinked too slowly. Merchant Gary stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by three of his leather-armored guards.

Gary was busy unwrapping a long, woolen scarf from his neck, exposing a thick gold chain that rested against his grease-stained velvet tunic. He smelled of dry cloves, stale beer, and roasted pork—scents that felt incredibly offensive in a room filled with people who had spent days eating nothing but watered-down turnip broth.

"Ah, Lord Jack!" Gary boomed, his voice dripping with artificial warmth as he saw the young lord hobble into the room.

"Praise the gods you are still with us! When I heard the rumors down in the valley that the last Frost-Grip was on his deathbed, my heart simply bled. Truly, it bled!"

"I am alive, Gary," Jack said, his voice flat as he settled into the high-backed wooden chair at the end of the hall. He rested his hands on the brass head of his cane, staring down at the merchant.

"Let us skip the pleasantries. My people are cold, and your mules are loaded." Gary's smile didn't fade, but his small, dark eyes narrowed, gleaming with the sharp instinct of a vulture circling a dying beast.

"Straight to business. I like that," Gary said, clapping his gloved hands together.

"Very well. I have brought twelve pack mules of high-grade wheat, three sacks of dried salt-pork, and two barrels of dried peas. Enough to keep your lovely little village fed and happy until the spring thaw." A low murmur of hope rippled through the gathered villagers. Old Miller's wife clasped her hands together, a faint sob escaping her lips.

"And the price?" Jack asked. Gary sighed in a dramatic way. He shook his head, looking down at his leather boots as if he was the one suffering.

"Ah, Lord Jack. The mountain pass… it was a nightmare. We lost two mules to the northern ravine. The frost was so bitter my men demanded double hazard pay just to keep walking. The risk… it was astronomical." Stolen story; please report.

"The price, Gary," Jack repeated, his voice dropping a register lower. Gary looked up, his greasy smile returning.

"Four silver coins per bushel of wheat. One gold piece per sack of salt-pork. And the peas… let's say thirty silver pieces a barrel." The Great Hall went dead silent. Giles, who was standing near the edge of the crowd, took a sudden, aggressive step forward. His massive fists clenched at his sides.

"Four silver a bushel? That's four times the imperial rate! You sold it to us for one silver just two months ago, you parasite!" One of Gary's guards instantly shifted his weight, his hand resting on the hilt of an iron shotsword. Giles didn't flinch, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Now, now, Master Giles," Gary said, waving a dismissive, gloved hand.

"Then, the pass wasn't buried under six feet of ice. I didn't have to risk my own life to bring food to this frozen tomb. If you do not like my prices, you are welcome to walk down to the southern valleys yourself and buy it at the market rate. Of course… you'll have to carry your children through a raging blizzard to get there." The threat was clear, cold, and entirely true. Gary had a monopoly on their survival, and he knew it.

"I do not have that much gold in the castle treasury," Jack said, keeping his voice steady despite the furious hammering in his chest.

"You know our financial situation. The mines have been closed for years now."

"Indeed, I do know," Gary said, his eyes drifting toward the high stone walls, lingering on the ancient tapestries and the tarnished silver candle-holders lining the pillars.

"Which is why I am a flexible man. I will accept ancestral silver. The old tableware, the family signets, the decorative swords… or, if you prefer, I can take the title deed to the southern timber woods." Jack's jaw tightened. The southern timber woods were the last legal land asset the Frost-Grip family owned. If he gave those up, they would have no way to rebuild, no way to trade for iron, and no way to establish an empire.

Gary didn't just want to sell food; he wanted to strip the bones of the Frost-Grip estate clean.

"Give me an hour," Jack said, rising slowly from his chair, using his cane to support his frail frame.

"I will gather what silver remains in the castle vaults. We will settle the payment in my private quarters." Gary bowed deeply, a mocking, sweeping gesture.

"Of course, My Lord. I am a patient man. But do hurry. The mules are freezing, and my men do not like the draft in this hall." Jack turned and hobbled back toward the staircase. He didn't look at the villagers, but he could feel their eyes burning into his back. They were terrified. They knew that if Jack couldn't pay, Gary would turn his mules around, leaving them with nothing but forty-eight hours of false promises. Once he reached his bedroom, Jack locked the door and collapsed against the wood, panting.

His forehead was slick with sweat. He didn't have any silver. Not a single coin. The old John Frost-Grip had spent the last of the family's gold on medicine from what he remembered.

"I have to go deeper," Jack whispered. He dragged the bear-skin rug away, opened the trapdoor, and descended into the dark. Rusty, Dusty, and Bones were standing exactly where he had left them. Jack picked up his candle, his mind reaching out to the three grey threads.

"Rusty, hold the light," Jack commanded mentally. The average-sized skeleton immediately took the candle, holding it steady.

"Dusty. Bones. Follow me." Jack led them past the rows of stone sarcophagi, deeper into the dark recesses of the crypt. In the very back, where the ceiling dipped so low that Bones had to crawl on his hands and knees, lay the old storage vaults. This was where the family had kept their old household goods, broken furniture, and discarded relics before the decline of the house. Several iron-banded wooden chests sat against the stone wall, covered in a thick crust of gray mold and dust.

Jack walked up to the first chest. He tried to lift the iron latch, but it was completely rusted shut, fused to the metal band by decades of frost. He tugged on it, but his thin fingers slipped, the rough rust biting into his skin.

"Bones," Jack commanded.

"Break it open." The giant skeleton stepped forward. Its long, lanky arms reached down, its massive, ivory fingers wrapping around the rusted iron lock. With a terrifyingly easy snap, Bones flexed his arms. The ancient iron lock shattered, pieces of rusted metal clattering against the stone floor. Bones peeled back the heavy wooden lid, the old pine groaning and splintering under his raw, skeletal strength. Jack held the candle closer, his heart skipping a beat.

The chest was filled with old, mold-rotted velvet drapes and broken glass. He sifted through the fabric with his cane, but found nothing of value.

"The next one," Jack ordered, pointing to a smaller, heavier chest made of dark oak. Bones moved to the second chest. He gripped the iron hinges and pulled. The thick wood split down the middle with a loud crack, revealing the contents within. Inside lay a collection of tarnished family tableware—silver plates black with age, a pair of dented silver chalices, and a small, velvet-lined box containing dozen of thick; coins from the previous dynasty, their faces stamped with the image of a long-dead emperor.

Jack picked up one of the silver plates. It was incredibly heavy, the silver thick and pure beneath the dark layer of tarnish.

"This is enough," Jack muttered, a wave of relief washing over his chest.

"It's old, but the silver is real. Gary won't be able to refuse this." He looked at the heavy pile of metal. In his current state, carrying even three of these plates up the steep stairs would leave him gasping for air.

"Bones, Dusty," Jack commanded mentally.

"Gather the silver. Carry it up to my room. Do not let the metal clack together." The two skeletons began picking up the plates, stack by stack. Bones carried the majority, his long, white fingers wrapping around the silver platters as if they weighed nothing at all. Dusty carefully picked up the small velvet box of ancient coins, holding it against his ribs. They climbed the narrow stairs in perfect silence, a bizarre procession of dead guards carrying ancient wealth to save the living.

When they reached his bedroom, Jack had the skeletons stack the silver neatly on his desk. He then ordered them back into his large, broken-down wardrobe, closing the wooden door just as the sound of Gary's heavy, self-important footsteps echoed in the corridor. Jack took a deep breath, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and unlocked the bedroom door.

"Enter," Jack said. Merchant Gary stepped into the room, his eyes instantly locking onto the pile of black, tarnished metal sitting on the desk. His nostrils flared, his greedy gaze tracing the elegant, old-world curves of the silver chalices.

"Ah, Lord Jack," Gary whispered, his voice losing its loud, boisterous edge, replaced by a quiet, reverent greed. He walked over to the desk, picked up one of the silver plates, and scraped the dark tarnish with his fingernail, revealing the brilliant, gleaming white metal beneath.

"This… this is high-purity silver."

"It is," Jack said, leaning on his cane.

"Twelve plates, two chalices, and few silver coins. It is worth more than the grain you brought, Gary. Even with your ridiculous hazard markup." Gary weighed the plate in his hand, his eyes blinking rapidly as he calculated the profit. He could take this silver back to the cities, and make a fortune from the collectors of old kingdom relics.

"Yes… yes, this is acceptable," Gary murmured, his greasy smile returning as he set the plate down.

"We have a deal, Lord Jack. I will have my men unload the grain into your castle cellars immediately."

"Good," Jack said, his voice cold.

"Get your men to work. And Gary?" The merchant paused at the door, looking back.

"Do not come back to my valley with those prices again," Jack said, his pale eyes boring into the plump man.

"Next time, we won't need your grain." Gary let out a soft, mocking chuckle.

"We shall see, Lord Jack. We shall see." As the merchant walked down the stairs to order his men, Jack stood by his desk, looking at the empty spaces where his family's history had just been traded away for a few sacks of wheat.