Lord Arcturus Flint leaned back in his chair. He gestured lazily towards chairs opposite him with a hand that held a heavy crystal glass half-filled with amber liquid.

  Eirik took the offered seat, projecting calm he didn’t entirely feel. Leif stood rigidly at his shoulder. Isolde Fenrir took the other chair.

  "You made good time, Commander Stormcrow," Flint remarked, and took a slow sip from his glass. "Captain Torvin sent word you were scouting the Ironvein blockage. Find what you were looking for?"

  "More than we bargained for, Lord Flint," Eirik stated flatly, cutting through the pleasantries. He saw no point in dancing around it. "We found the dens blocking your access. One major defile. Not scattered dens."

  Flint’s eyebrows rose fractionally, a flicker of mild interest. "Oh? Tricky terrain, I hear. How many of the brutes did you count?"

  "Seven warrior-class trolls visible immediately," Eirik replied. "Twelve feet tall, armed, armored with lizard hide, clearly organized. They were feeding on mountain goat carcasses."

  Flint waved a dismissive hand. "Big lads, yes. Standard Ice Troll fare. Seven's decent cluster. Nasty, but manageable for a determined force."

  "They weren’t alone, Lord Flint," Eirik pressed, leaning forward slightly. "A eighth troll emerged. Smaller, leaner. Carrying a staff topped with crystals and bones. Performing rituals on the carcass pile. Symbols carved and frozen into the rock all around its cave entrance."

  Flint took another sip. "Staff? Rituals?"

  "A shaman, Lord Flint," Eirik stated, the word dropping into the room like a stone. "It channeled frost energy. The warriors reacted to its presence. We felt it sense our position, even from concealment. This isn’t just a cluster of brutes. It’s a tribe. With leadership and… magic."

  Flint sighed. He placed his glass carefully on the desk.

  "Shaman, eh? Bad luck that. Nasty business, troll magic. Makes them cleverer. Tougher." He met Eirik’s gaze directly. "So? What’s your point, Commander? You signed a contract to clear dens blocking my Ironvein workings. That’s what’s down there. Dens full of trolls."

  Eirik kept his voice level. "The contract stipulated 'clearing of troll dens,' Lord Flint. It implied scattered, lesser trolls – manageable opposition for a mercenary band. What we found is a fortified stronghold defended by likely dozens of organized, magically supported troll warriors led by a shaman equivalent to a Peak Snow Realm warrior. That’s not a 'den'. That’s a small army garrisoning the very land you need cleared."

  Flint spread his hands. "The contract says 'clear the dens blocking the Ironvein.' Doesn’t specify the size, intelligence, or hobbies of the inhabitants. You assessed the situation. You don’t like the look of it?" He leaned back again, picking up his glass once more. "Then walk away."

  Silence slammed down in the study, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

  Walk away? Just like that? Eirik’s mind raced. He doesn’t care? Doesn’t try to persuade, threaten, or renegotiate? He just… dismisses us?

  "Walk away?" Leif couldn't control himself. "Our men, our resources… wasted scouting this… death trap? The contract stipulated payment upon clearing!"

  Flint gave Leif a look of mild annoyance. "Payment upon successful clearing of the specified dens, young Fenrir. Which, by your commander’s own assessment, hasn’t happened. You don’t want the job? Fine. Consider the contract void. No harm, no foul. Move on to easier pickings." He took a deliberate sip.

  "But… your mines?" Isolde asked. "The blockage remains. The iron vein remains inaccessible."

  Flint’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile that held no warmth. "Ah, the mines. Yes. What a dreadful shame." He looked almost bored. "Terribly inconvenient. But there it is. Sometimes, business ventures face… unforeseen obstacles."

  Eirik stared at him. The sheer, calculated indifference was staggering. It didn’t fit. A lord like Flint, building his power on iron wealth, wouldn’t shrug off such a crucial resource being blocked by a monstrous infestation unless… unless letting it stay blocked served a purpose.

  "Unforeseen obstacles we were hired to remove, Lord Flint," Eirik said. "Obstacles you misrepresented significantly."

  "Misrepresented?" Flint chuckled. "Commander, I provided the location of the blockage. You chose to assess it. Found it not to your liking. That’s the risk of mercenary work, isn’t it? My sympathies. Better luck next time."

  He looked pointedly at the door. "Was there anything else? My steward will see you out."

  He’s not even pretending. Eirik rose, signalling Leif and Isolde with a glance. Arguing further was pointless.

  "No, Lord Flint," Eirik said, his voice icy. "Nothing else." He turned and walked out, Leif and Isolde falling in behind him. The heavy oak door closed behind them with a soft, final thud.

  The cold air of the corridor was a shock after the study’s heat. Leif looked thunderous. "He just… dismissed us! Like we were peddlers selling stale bread! What about the contract? The advance? The lost time?"

  Isolde’s expression was troubled. "It makes no sense. That iron vein is rich, easily accessible once cleared. To abandon it over a… difficult clearance? It’s illogical. He gains nothing."

  He gains nothing by clearing it? Or… gains something by leaving it blocked? Eirik’s mind churned as they were escorted back towards the main hall. What leverage does a blocked mine give him? Against whom?

  They were crossing the crowded, bustling main hall, heading for the heavy outer doors and the bitter cold beyond, when a small figure darted out from behind a pillar stacked with ore samples.

  "Commander? Commander Stormcrow?" It was a boy, maybe ten or eleven, grubby-faced and bundled in thick, patched furs. He clutched a folded piece of cheap parchment sealed with a blob of plain wax.

  He thrust it towards Eirik.

  "For you, sir. Gent said give it only to the Stormcrow Commander. Got a whole copper talon for it!" He grinned, showing a missing tooth, before scampering away into the throng before anyone could question him.

  Eirik caught the parchment. Leif and Isolde immediately closed ranks around him, shielding him from casual view as he broke the crude seal.

  The message inside was brief, written in a hasty, unfamiliar hand:

  ‘Commander Stormcrow - Meet at the Broken Plow Tavern, lower town, one hour. Ask for the back room. Do not be seen coming from the Hold. Urgent.’

  No signature.

  Leif glanced at the note over Eirik’s shoulder. "Who?"

  "No idea," Eirik murmured, folding the note. "Someone who knows Flint’s game?"

  Isolde met Eirik’s gaze. "The Broken Plow is a rough place, but known. Fenrir agents sometimes use it discreetly. It’s plausible."

  "We need information," Eirik stated. "Let's see who's behind this."

  They didn’t return directly to their horses. Instead, they wandered seemingly aimlessly through the lower settlement for a while, blending with the crowds of miners, smiths, and traders, ensuring no obvious tail followed them from the Hold.

  The Broken Plow Tavern was nestled in a warren of narrow lanes near the smithy quarter, its sign – a cracked wooden plow – hanging crookedly over a door that leaked warmth, smoke, and the sour smell of cheap ale.

  Eirik pushed the door open. The noise and fug hit them like a wall. Miners in thick jerkins, their faces grimed with soot and ore dust, packed the benches, drinking deep and arguing loudly. Barmaids wove through the chaos with practiced ease. Eirik ignored the curious glances drawn by their finer clothes and weapons, scanning the room. His gaze landed on a grizzled bartender polishing a tankard.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "Back room," Eirik said, pitching his voice low but carrying under the din. "Expecting someone."

  The bartender barely glanced up, just jerked his head towards a heavy curtain at the back of the room. No questions. Eirik pushed aside the thick, stained fabric, Leif and Isolde close behind.

  The back room was lit by a single guttering lamp on a heavy table. A man sat with his back to the wall, facing the entrance. He straightened as they entered, pushing the hood back slightly.

  He was older than Eirik expected, perhaps in his late forties. His eyes widened momentarily as they took in Eirik, then Leif, then lingered on Isolde with visible surprise.

  "Commander Stormcrow?" he asked, his voice a low rasp. "I expected… well, frankly, I expected the reports were exaggerated nonsense. That Cedric had finally snapped and let his useless bastard try playing mercenary captain to get himself killed quietly."

  He shook his head, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes. "But here you stand. Leading what? A bunch of boys barely weaned off their mothers? Against that?" He gestured vaguely towards the direction of the mountains. "Did you scout the Throat?"

  Throat? So it has a name. Eirik took the chair opposite him, Leif and Isolde flanking him. "We did. Troll Clan. Shaman. The works. And Lord Flint just tossed us out like trash. So, who are you, and why should we listen?"

  The man sighed, rubbing a hand over his weary face. "Name’s Harald Stonehand. And the mine? The Ironvein? It’s not Flint’s."

  Leif leaned forward, frowning. "Not Flint’s? But he hired us to clear it!"

  Harald snorted. "He owns the land, young Fenrir. But the mineral rights? The Ironvein workings? They belong to me. Or rather, to my family. My grandfather discovered that seam, struck the original claim with the old Earl. Flint holds the title to the surface land, but the wealth beneath belongs to House Stonehand. We pay him royalties, a sizeable chunk, for the privilege of digging it out and getting it to market. He profits handsomely without lifting a finger."

  He looked at Eirik, his gaze intense. "Until now. You see, Commander, Lord Flint recently proposed a marriage alliance. His third son, Oswin – a wastrel with more brawn than brains – to my only daughter, Elara." His jaw tightened. "I refused. Elara’s barely sixteen. Oswin Flint is… unsuitable. Cruel. Known to frequent the lowest brothels in Bearclaw Pass." His voice dropped, thick with anger and paternal protectiveness. "I refused him."

  So that’s the lever.

  Harald continued. "Flint didn’t take rejection well. Shortly after… the trolls moved in. Aggressively. Into the only viable access point to the richest part of the Ironvein. Curious timing, wouldn’t you say?"

  "Too convenient," Isolde murmured, her eyes calculating. "He controls the surface land. Could he have… facilitated it? Driven something else into the area?"

  Harald shrugged bitterly. "Who knows? He denies it, of course. Calls it bad luck. Says the mines are unsafe until cleared. Which means I can't work them. Can't pay his damned royalties. Can't provide for my people. My workers sit idle. My forges grow cold." He slammed a fist softly on the table. "He thinks he can starve me out. Force me to agree to the marriage to save my House from ruin. Or…" he gestured towards Eirik, "…dispose of troublesome mercenaries foolish enough to take his poisoned contract."

  Leif’s eyes flashed with sudden understanding. "That’s why he didn’t care if we walked away! He wants the Throat uncleared! He wants the blockage to stay, crippling Stonehand! Hiring us was just…"

  "Just another move," Eirik finished. "Hire desperate, expendable mercenaries – the Bastard of Stormkeep and his band of misfits. If we miraculously succeeded? Flint gets his royalties flowing again instantly, without lifting a finger. If we failed and died? No loss to him. He still keeps Stonehand choked. Either way, he wins. And we were the perfect, ignorant pawns."

  Harald leaned forward. "Commander Stormcrow, I know Flint. He has other… pressures. His ambitions cost coin. Skarl raids are increasing on his eastern borders. He needs the Stonehand royalties more than he lets on, but he won’t bend on the marriage. He sees Elara as his key to absorbing my holdings completely. If I can just clear the Throat myself… if I can restart the Ironvein independently… I break his leverage! But I don’t have the men. I barely have the coin to feed my idle miners!"

  He looked desperately at Eirik. "Flint has sent three other mercenary bands to ‘clear the dens’. Reputable ones. They went, saw what you saw, and walked away. Flint paid their scouting fees without complaint. He wants them to walk away. That’s why the job finally fell to someone…" he hesitated, "…to someone like you. Someone new. Or easily disposed of."

  And that someone has seventy-three lives depending on him. Eirik met Harald Stonehand gaze.

  "Harald. Let’s cut to the chase." Eirik ignored his jab. "I want the trolls killed. You need the trolls killed. I came to Flint expecting resources: coin, weapons, perhaps scrolls detailing the terrain. Preparation." He tapped the tabletop once, sharp and deliberate. "Flint refused. So, the question falls to you, Lord Stonehand. Can you provide what Flint will not?"

  Harald leaned back.

  "Commander Stormcrow," he began guardedly, "resources are scarce. Flint's blockade bleeds me dry. My miners idle, my forges cold. Offering significant aid… it's a heavy risk."

  Eirik cut him off. "Frankness then. I'll wager you've approached every mercenary band Flint hired and discarded. Offered them a 'better deal' from the shadows, hoping they'd take the bait. Am I right?"

  Harald's jaw tightened. "I sought solutions," he hedged.

  "Their refusal wasn't about your coin," Eirik pressed. "Those were established companies. Reputable. Taking your coin to directly undermine Lord Flint? Poisonous. They'd never work in these mountains again."

  He locked eyes with Harald. "But I don't care about Lord Flint's long-term favor. I don't have it. I never will. My 'rabble' need legitimacy through a victory. We need coin. Now. Walking away gains us nothing. Dying is the baseline risk we signed for. But dying as a pawn for your little scheme? Never."

  "You accuse me of playing you?" Harald challenged.

  Eirik didn't blink. "Be honest. Flint wants us gone. You? You likely wanted us to die. To fail spectacularly in the Throat, bleeding on Flint's doorstep. Dead mercenaries mean proof Flint sent men to die on a misrepresented contract. Leverage you could use publicly."

  Harald flinched, color rising on his neck. "That’s a harsh judgment, Commander!"

  "It’s the truth," Eirik countered flatly. "So, let’s talk in ernest. I will kill your trolls. The Talons will clear that defile. But not without the resources we need to survive the attempt. I won’t lead my men into a meat grinder unprepared just to become your political martyr."

  He placed his hands flat on the scarred table. "I need to see your tangible contribution before I commit a single Talon’s life to that icy death trap. Gear. Supplies. Coin upfront. Proof of your commitment beyond hopeful whispers in a tavern."

  Isolde Fenrir, who had remained silent, spoke for the first time.

  "Lord Stonehand, Commander Stormcrow speaks plainly, and with reason. You have been grievously wronged by Flint. We have been deceived and discarded. Our goals align perfectly."

  She continued, "Eirik Stormcrow has proven himself resourceful beyond expectation. He bested Marshal Gunnar's warriors with improvised weapons and cunning. Against this troll threat, he needs proper tools. Denying him those tools ensures failure, and your continued stagnation. Supporting the Talons is your sole path to reclaiming your birthright."

  Harald stared at her, then back at Eirik. The elegant Lady Fenrir vouching for this harsh, calculating bastard… It shifted something.

  Before Harald could respond, the heavy curtain blocking the back room entrance twitched aside. A figure slipped through with silent, fluid grace.

  She was about nineteen, Eirik's age. Honey-blonde hair escaped a simple braid, framing a face that held none of the softness expected of a noble daughter.

  "Father," she said. "Stop dithering."

  Harald startled. "Elara! What in Frost's name? I told you to stay at the manor! This is no place—"

  Elara Stonehand ignored him and went to Eirik directly.

  "Commander Stormcrow. I overheard enough. What do you need to turn that Throat into a grave for trolls?"

  Eirik felt a flicker of surprise. He kept his focus, turning the question back to Harald.

  "Tangible contribution, Lord Stonehand. Before we step foot back into that defile. Proof you're investing in success, not just hoping for convenient corpses."

  Harald turned startled eyes towards his daughter. "Elara! What are you—?"

  Elara stepped closer to the table, placing her small hands flat on the scarred wood, leaning towards her father.

  "You have the Old Armory," she pressed, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Grandfather’s gear. The silver bars hidden under the hearthstone. The ones Mother doesn’t know about! Give him what he needs! What’s the alternative? Let Flint starve us? Force me to marry Oswin?" Her voice cracked slightly on the name. "Or…" she gestured fiercely towards the mountains, "…let them try! With our help! What do we lose by trying properly?"

  Harald Stonehand stared at his daughter. She’s braver than I am, he thought with a pang of shame. He closed his eyes for a long moment, a sigh escaping him.

  “Alright, Stormcrow. You’ll have what I can scrape together. Silver? It won’t be Flint’s sum, but… five hundred talons upfront. What little I have in reserve.” He gestured helplessly. “My armory holds miners’ picks, shovels, maybe two dozen serviceable short swords, leather jerkins. Winter gear? Some extra furs, thick boots from the stores. Rope? Plenty of mining rope, strong stuff.” He sighed. “Medical supplies… I could spare some poultices and bandages. That’s… that’s it. That’s all I have.” The admission was painful.

  "Very well," Eirik said, pulling a small scrap of parchment and charcoal nub from his belt pouch. "That's more like the tangible commitment I mentioned, Lord Stonehand. But still not enough. Here are some more non-negotiables for the Talons to attempt the clearance."

  He began writing quickly.