Harald snatched the list, his eyes darting down it.

  "Saltpeter? Sulfur? This is alchemical stock! Expensive! And in those quantities? Commander, I told you—"

  "You told me you're bleeding dry, but that has nothing to do with the fairness of our current trade." Eirik cut him off. "I will tell you what is fair: you want the Talons as your martyrs. So I want Stonehand as my future miners."

  "Miners?" Harald scoffed, trying to regain control. "What nonsense is this? You clear the dens, you get paid per the contract!"

  "The contract?" Eirik's laugh was harsh and devoid of humor. "The contract Flint designed to see us fail or die? He'll honour it? When pigs fly. He has no incentive. We succeed, he still gets his royalties from you. We die, he avoids paying and keeps you choked. Why should he pay the Talons a single copper?"

  Harald's face flushed. "What are you proposing, Stormcrow? Extortion?"

  "Partnership," Eirik stated flatly. "A renegotiation you sign. Not Flint. You need the Throat cleared to save your House. The Talons clear it. In exchange, we take a twenty-five percent stake in the net profits of the Ironvein mine for the next three winters."

  Elara gasped. Harald looked like he'd been punched.

  "Twenty-five percent! For three winters! Outrageous! You might as well ask for my daughter!"

  "I need something Flint can't just ignore or erase," Eirik countered, his voice cold steel. "Something with tangible, lasting value tied to our success. A stake in the mine."

  "It binds Flint. If he tries to cheat us after we clear your mine, he cheats you, his landholder, out of royalties and disrupts a productive asset he profits from. He'll honour it because disrupting it costs him more."

  He saw the dawning horror mixed with reluctant understanding on Harald's face. The bastard was right. It was diabolical.

  "It turns the Talons from disposable mercenaries into... investors."

  A stake forced Flint's hand in a way pure coin never could. But giving up twenty-five percent? For three winters? To this... rabble?

  "It's robbery!" Harald spluttered. "My House teeters on ruin, and you demand its lifeblood!"

  "Your House bleeds because Flint cut you," Eirik shot back. "We offer the knife to remove the blockage. You pay for the surgery."

  "Twenty-five percent for three winters or watch Flint grind you into dust and marry your daughter off to someone she resents. What's Elara worth, Lord Stonehand? Less than twenty-five percent of a mine you can't access?"

  Elara flinched, but she didn't look away. The unspoken message was clear: He's right, Father.

  Harald slumped. The fire of outrage flickered, drowned by cold desperation.

  He saw his daughter's face, saw the futility of clinging to pride while his world crumbled. This Stormcrow bastard saw angles he hadn't.

  "And if you fail?" Harald rasped. "If you all die?"

  "Then you lose nothing but the supplies," Eirik shrugged. "The contract becomes void. Flint still owns the surface. You still own the mineral rights, blocked. Status quo. Or even better for you, because that’d be a scandal against Flint you could spread." He leaned closer. "But if we win... you get everything back. Minus twenty-five percent."

  The silence stretched, thick with the weight of a collapsing future.

  Harald stared at the scarred wood of the table, then at his daughter's resolute face, then finally at Eirik's unyielding gaze. The cost was immense. But the alternative... was even worse.

  "Frost take you, Stormcrow," Harald breathed, his voice thick with defeat. "Twenty-five percent. Three winters."

  He pulled a worn leather satchel towards him, extracting a creased parchment and a stub of ink. His hand trembled slightly as he began drafting the agreement.

  "But I see this only on the condition that the Throat is cleared and the main access tunnel secured within two weeks. Fail that deadline, the stake dissolves."

  "I don’t need two weeks," Eirik said, watching the words take shape.

  Partial assignment of net mineral profits: Twenty-five Percent for a term of Three Winters to be held collectively by the Stormcrow Talons Mercenary Company...

  It was real. A foothold. A future bought with blood and audacity. He'd get Yorick to scrutinize it later, but the essence was locked.

  Harald signed with a flourish that looked more like a death rattle. He shoved the document across the table.

  "There. Your poisoned chalice. Now get me my mine back."

  Eirik took the parchment, folded it carefully, and tucked it inside his tunic. It felt heavy.

  "The supplies, Lord Stonehand. Including the alchemicals. Delivered to our camp by dawn tomorrow. We move at first light the day after."

  "Fine." Harald looked at Eirik, and spat. "May Frost freeze your ambitions, Commander. Now get out."

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  ———

  Leaving the stench of cheap ale behind, Eirik didn't head back to camp. He turned his steps back towards Flint's Hold.

  "Commander?" Leif asked, keeping pace. "What now? We have Stonehand's stake. Why poke the bear?"

  "To make sure the bear knows he's been poked," Eirik said, his gaze fixed on the Hold's imposing gates. "And to force his hand."

  Isolde nodded slowly. "A declaration. Showing him Stonehand's capitulation... and your resolve."

  Getting an audience this time was trickier.

  The steward looked pinched and disapproving. "Lord Flint is occupied, Commander Stormcrow. He instructed no further—"

  "Tell him it concerns the Throat," Eirik interrupted, his voice flat. "And a newly signed contract with the actual mineral rights holder."

  The steward paled slightly. Mineral rights holder? That meant Stonehand. He vanished, returning moments later, looking shaken. "Lord Flint will see you. Briefly."

  Flint was back in his study, but the relaxed aura was gone.

  "Commander Stormcrow," Flint drawled, finally glancing up. His eyes flickered to Isolde with mild, dismissive curiosity. "And the Fenrir matron. Back so soon? Did you forget something? Perhaps your senses of self-preservation?" He took a slow sip. "I told you my position. The contract will not change. Go away."

  Eirik didn't sit. He planted his feet, meeting Flint's bored gaze directly.

  "We're going into the Throat, Lord Flint."

  Flint's glass paused halfway to his lips. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face before settling back into practiced disdain.

  "Going in? Into the Throat? After you just spent an hour detailing how it's a deathtrap crawling with trolls and magic?" He lowered the glass slowly. "Commander, I confess, I thought you were reckless. Now I fear you're genuinely unhinged. Did that fall you took as a boy damage more than just your prospects?"

  "We're going in," Eirik repeated, pulling the folded parchment from his tunic. He held it up.

  "Just fulfilling your contract. Clearing the dens blocking the Ironvein. With Harald Stonehand's blessing and... financial participation."

  Flint's eyes narrowed to slits. "Financial participation? What nonsense is that bastard peddling now? His pockets are emptier than a Skarl's conscience."

  "A stake, Lord Flint," Eirik clarified, his voice dangerously calm. "Twenty-five percent. Net profits. Three winters. Signed and sealed. Part of the price for the Talons risking their necks against your under-described troll problem."

  He saw the flare of disbelief, then dawning fury in Flint's eyes.

  "You... you insolent whelp! You went behind my back? Dealing with that sniveling lickspittle?" Flint hissed, stepping closer. "After you yourself told me that Throat is death? Do you have a death wish, boy? Or are you truly as stupid as everyone says?"

  "Neither," Eirik replied. "Just committed to seeing the job through. With or without your help. But since you are the land’s Lord protector, I'm informing you of the arrangement. I trust you'll honour it once the dens are cleared."

  "Honour it?" Flint choked on the words. "Honour your back-alley deal with a debtor? You've signed your own death warrant, Stormcrow! And you've dragged Stonehand down with you!" He slammed a fist on his desk.

  "I march in with a plan," Eirik corrected. "And the resources to execute it."

  Flint surged to his feet, leaning over the desk, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss.

  "You told me! An hour ago! Trolls! A dozen or more! Organized! Led by a shaman! Equivalent to Peak Snow! You painted a picture of certain death! And now you stand there and tell me you're marching right back into it? Are you utterly mad, boy? Or are you truly Cedric's useless get, determined to drag your rabble to a pointless, gruesome end just to spite me?"

  Eirik met Flint's furious gaze without flinching.

  "My assessment stands, Lord Flint. The threat is significant. Perhaps you underestimated it when you wrote the contract. But the Talons signed on to clear dens. We intend to clear them. With or without your active help, the job will be done."

  "Without my help? Without my help?" Flint's laughter was brittle. "You need my help, you reckless fool! You need my men, my resources! Or you die! Do you think Cedric Stormcrow will sit idly by when word reaches him that his bastard led seventy men into a troll-infested death trap on my lands? Or worse, when Earl Borin hears about it? The last thing I need is that old bear stomping through my territory demanding answers over a pile of your frozen corpses!"

  "Then give me the support to ensure no heads roll," Eirik pressed. "Scrolls detailing the underground layouts Stonehand's miners mapped. Potions. Maybe a squad of your own veterans for the bottleneck sealing?"

  "Not a chance!" Flint roared. "I am not sending one more soul to die alongside your suicidal folly! You want to be a hero? Fine! Be a dead one! I wash my hands of it!" He stabbed a finger at the document. "But this? This is blackmail! Pure and simple! You wave a worthless piece of paper tied to a treacherous weasel and expect me to endorse your suicide mission?"

  "I expect you to honor a legally binding contract signed by your steward, witnessed by your Captain of the Guard, Torvin," Eirik replied evenly. "Whether the Talons succeed or fail, you hired us for this task based on your representation of the problem. I've merely secured additional motivation for my men from a... third-party stakeholder."

  He gestured to the signature on his own copy of the original agreement on Flint's desk.

  "That doesn't negate your obligation. So, Lord Flint, do I have your assurance that payment will be rendered upon successful completion? That the terms regarding our mining rights hold? Or should I send a raven to Earl Borin tonight informing him of your involvement in actively hindering a vital operation against a significant troll threat within his vassal lands?"

  Flint stared at him, apoplectic. Eirik could see the calculations warring behind his eyes – fury at the defiance, fear of Borin's involvement, the sheer, staggering recklessness of Eirik's plan, and the inescapable fact that Eirik was technically, legally, correct.

  Flint had hired him. Eirik was proceeding. And Flint couldn't openly stop him without looking like he was sabotaging the clearance of his own blockage.

  "You... you arrogant, suicidal pup!" Flint finally spat, sinking back into his chair like a deflated wineskin.

  He snatched a quill from his desk, dipped it violently in ink, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the original deployment contract Eirik had placed before him earlier. He didn't even read it again.

  He slammed the quill down.

  "There! Your death warrant is signed! Take it! Take your rabble and march to your frozen hell! There will be witnesses!" He gestured wildly towards the window overlooking the courtyard below. "Plenty of them! So everyone knows this madness is entirely your doing! I wash my hands of you and your fools!"

  He shoved the signed contract across the desk.

  "But mark my words, Stormcrow. When you stand at the mouth of that Throat, watching those monstrosities tear your street rats limb from limb, shattering bone and spraying gore across the ice… When the stench of their offal and the screams of dying boys fill your ears... you'll puke your guts out. You'll freeze. And you'll run."

  He glared at Eirik with pure, undiluted hatred.

  "You'll run back to your father like a whipped cur, if you make it out at all. And Flint lands will be cleaner for your absence!"

  Eirik calmly picked up the signed contract. The ink was still wet. He folded it neatly into his pouch.

  "Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Flint. And your... well-wishes. We will depart soon."

  Without waiting for a dismissal that wouldn't come, Eirik turned on his heel.