The oak gates of Flint's Hold squeaked open.

  Eirik Stormcrow walked at the front. Behind him the main group of Talons marched.

  They were beaten up, wrapped in cloth. Some walked with hurt legs. All had marks of fighting. But it was what they carried that made the quiet talking turn into silence.

  Tusks — yellow and longer than a man's arm — were carried on their shoulders. And most clearly seen, carried on spears held high, were grotesque-looking heads.

  Troll heads.

  Their faces were stuck in terrified looks. One was bigger than the rest, with magic marks cut into its forehead – it belonged to the shaman.

  The proof of winning hit the watching crowd.

  "Look at them! Look at the heads!" A miner pointed. "That... that's a warrior-class! Tusks that big… It must've been twelve feet or taller!"

  A wave went through the crowd.

  "That's the one that crushed Torvald's crew last winter! I'd swear it! Look at that cut over its eye!" another miner gasped.

  "But... so few men?" a baker's helper said quietly. "Against that?"

  A group of Flint's guards exchanged uneasy looks.

  "Momma," a boy pulled at his mother's skirt. "Who's that? He looks… so young. And short."

  The mother pulled the boy closer. "That... that's him. Eirik Stormcrow. Cedric's boy. The bastard they sent away."

  The boy scrunched up his nose. "That's him? But Old Man Hagar... he said the Stormcrow Bastard had horns! And breathed fire! Like a demon! He said he was huge and scary!"

  He looked again at Eirik.

  "Why doesn't he look like that, Momma?"

  The mother shook her head. "I don't know, Jorin. Maybe the stories got it wrong."

  "Is he a hero now, Momma?"

  "I don't know what he is, Jorin. But he killed the trolls. Now be quiet."

  —————————

  Lord Arcturus Flint stood still at the window. Impossible. He knew the Throat. A Troll Clan stronghold. Over a dozen warriors. Organized. Led by a Shaman using frost magic.

  He'd sent three hired bands – companies numbering close to two hundred each. They'd looked around and walked away without arguing. Because they knew it was suicide. He'd thrown the contract to the Bastard for them to run away. To run away so Stonehand would have nothing left and obey his will.

  Seventy-three men. Seventy-three! Against a dug-in force of trolls. They shouldn't have lasted ten minutes!

  "Did you say twelve..." Flint said roughly to the steward beside him. "Twelve dead? Out of seventy-three? Are those reports checked?"

  Barlow, the steward, swallowed.

  "They are checked, my lord. Twelve checked dead. Several hurt. Against..." He pointed. "Against that."

  It wouldn't make sense. A dozen losses against an enemy that should have wiped out three times that number! Flint felt his plan lay in pieces.

  If the Talons failed, he could blame Stormcrow's incompetence and keep Stonehand choked. If they ran away, then he’d kept playing his game until Stonehand folded. But them winning… with hard proof and marched right into his court yard — this was the last thing he’d expected and the worst scenario he’d imagined.

  Now, the trolls were wiped out, and he was tied to pay them money. Money he needed for the Skarl raids. Money he’d rather spend on his wine collection than giving to this stubborn and annoying bastard. Money he’d hold on to dearly, one way or another.

  "Barlow!" Flint snapped. "Offer them the barracks annex. Hot food. Medical care. Tell them I will see Commander Stormcrow. In one hour. In the study. Alone."

  Barlow bowed and ran away.

  Flint turned back to the window, eyes locked on Eirik Stormcrow. The man had stopped near the courtyard center.

  Eirik raised a hand. The Talons stopped, waiting.

  The Hold's door squeaked open. Flint's steward came out, deliberately averting his gaze away from the Troll heads.

  "Commander Stormcrow. Lord Flint offers shelter to your band. The barracks annex is ready with hot food. Our healer will help the hurt." He swallowed. "Lord Flint asks for the honor of your presence. In his study. In one hour. To discuss the ending of your contract."

  A private meeting? Not a chance, Flint. You tried to bury us quietly. Now you'll pay us loudly.

  Eirik let the silence stretch, then he raised his voice.

  "We thank Lord Flint for his kindness." His eyes looked around the crowd, then locked onto the steward. "My men are tired. Annex barracks is welcome."

  Relief went through the steward, he opened his mouth to answer.

  "However." Yet Eirik didn’t give him the chance. "There will be no private meeting."

  Eirik pointed at the cut off troll heads, the tusks, the claw prizes held high by his Talons.

  "The contract Lord Flint offered was for clearing the troll dens blocking the Ironvein. We did it. The blockage is removed. The terms were clear. Payment was written upon finishing." He took a step forward forcing the man to step back. "I see no reason to wait. "

  He turned, talking to the courtyard now.

  "Lord Flint hired the Talon Warband to clear the Ironvein blockage. We have done so. The price was agreed: One thousand silver talons. Payable upon proof of success." He swept his arm towards the trophies again. "Proof is right here."

  Inside the study, Arcturus Flint's knuckles were white on the windowsill. He dares? The young one dares demand payment like a seller on market day? In front of everyone?

  Flint saw the steward stuck in the courtyard, looking towards the window for help. He forced himself to take a breath and summoned his servant.

  "Tell Barlow," Flint hissed. "Tell him… tell him payment requires checking of the Ironvein access. It requires counting the dead for the bounty clause. It requires... tallies! It cannot be done instantly!"

  The servant nodded and ran out. He pushed past the crowd and whispered in Barlow's ear.

  "Commander Stormcrow," Barlow finally began. "Lord Flint appreciates your action. However, contract duties require certain... formalities. Checking of the Ironvein passage being cleared and open. Tallying the troll remains for the per-head bounty clause detailed in the contract add-on. This requires a trip to the site, led by Hold representatives. Payment processing follows completion of these tallies, which will require several days."

  He spread his hands. "Standard procedure, Commander. To ensure accuracy and fairness for both parties."

  Ah, the dance. Wait, wait, wait, until they find something to reduce the pay.

  "Formalities," Eirik repeated. "Lord Flint's contract said 'clearing of the dens blocking the Ironvein workings'. Not 'checking trips'. Not 'bounty tallies'. Clearing. The dens are cleared. The proof of clearing is piled around your feet, Steward."

  He pointed at the shaman's head. "That? That made sure the clearing. Its presence here proves the dens are no longer working. There are no trolls left in that gap able to block anything. Your Hold scouts can check the pass is open later. That doesn't delay the contract payment."

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  He took another step forward, forcing Barlow back another step. The steward looked scared. "As for the bounty clause..." Eirik paused. "...we expected that."

  He raised his voice again. "Talons! Present the tallies!"

  From the ranks, Helga stepped forward, pulling a paper scroll from her belt. Bjorn followed, holding up a leather pouch bulging with... something.

  They unrolled the scroll before Barlow. Helga began reading aloud:

  "Warrior-Class Trolls, standard height, ten to twelve feet: Fourteen checked kills. Tusks, claws, heads presented. Bounty: Fifty talons each. Total: Seven hundred talons." Gasps. Fourteen?

  "Warrior-Class Troll, Shaman: One checked kill. Features written down. Head presented. Bounty: As per leadership clause – Two hundred talons." More murmurs. Two hundred for one head!

  "Worker-Class Trolls: Seven checked kills during fight and run. Smaller claws presented. Bounty: Twenty talons each. Total: One hundred and forty talons."

  She paused, then tapped the paper.

  "Total Bounty Due: One thousand and forty talons."

  Bjorn stepped forward and turned over the pouch onto the stones. Clatter-clatter-thud. Dozens upon dozens of frozen, cut off troll ears tumbled out. The crowd’s faces turned pale.

  "The ears," Eirik said. "For checking if Lord Flint's clerks question the authenticity of our account. Each matched to the tally." He locked eyes with the steward. "The contract completion payment: One thousand talons. The checked bounty tally: One thousand and forty talons. Total owed: Two thousand and forty silver talons. Payable. Now."

  The number hit everyone. Two thousand talons! A huge sum. The boldness of having it all counted, written down, and demanded publicly… they had never seen their Lord being cornered like this — being forced to pay right away and in full, with all his subjects as witnesses.

  Inside the study, Arcturus Flint staggered back from the window, crashing into his chair. His face was grey. Two thousand? They counted? They wrote it down? They have the ears? Flint felt the walls closing in. The Skarl raids demanded coin now. Paying this… it would drain his reserves.

  But refusing? In front of everyone? After that display? His authority would disappear.

  Steward Barlow looked like he might faint. His gaze darted towards the Keep's window where Lord Flint stood unseen. The oak door of the Keep groaned open once more. Not a servant this time. Lord Arcturus Flint himself stepped out.

  A gasp rippled through the courtyard. Lords didn't come down to deal with hired fighters, especially ones led by a bastard.

  Flint looked around the prizes, the ears, the tally scroll, and locked onto Eirik. He walked down the steps, the crowd parting before him as he stopped a few steps from Eirik, close enough for private talk if they kept their voices low, but positioned so the courtyard could witness the meeting.

  "Commander Stormcrow," Flint forced a smile onto his lips. "A remarkable feat of arms. The Hold owes you and your men a debt for clearing the Throat."

  Eirik tilted his head. "Lord Flint. The troll threat was significant, my men suffered losses. But the Talons did the contract as written. Swift resolution benefits everyone."

  Flint's smile tightened. "Indeed. Swiftness is praiseworthy. Yet," he leaned closer, "even swiftness requires due diligence, Commander. Large sums, complex contracts… checking takes time. My steward explained the formalities."

  His eyes, inches from Eirik's, held a warning. Stand down.

  "Respectfully, Lord Flint, your steward explained stalling tactics. Lady Isolde of House Fenrir witnessed the aftermath firsthand. She could check everything, here, and now."

  Flint kept the smile, though it looked like it hurt. "Lady Fenrir’s presence is… noted. But witness or not, standard accounting procedures—"

  "Standard procedures," Eirik interrupted, still smiling, "can be sped up when proof is overwhelming and presented at point of completion. As it is now. Delaying payment," his gaze hardened, "could be… misunderstood, Lord Flint. Given the circumstances under which this contract was offered."

  He let the hint hang – offered to a bastard band you hoped would run or die as dispensable tools for your petty little schemes.

  "Are you threatening me, boy? In my own courtyard?" Flint's smile vanished.

  Eirik's smile remained. "Threatening? Never, Lord Flint. Stating potential outcomes." He leaned even closer. "Refuse payment now? After this demonstration? I walk to Earl Borin back at Stormkeep. With Lady Fenrir. And we retell everything. The troll den you knew was a fortress. The contract you offered knowing its impossibility. Your attempts to block the Ironvein to force a marriage were denied."

  Eirik tilted his head. "How do you think he'd view your… resource management, Lord Flint? Especially when the man who killed the trolls shaman and saved that resource stands before him, unpaid?"

  Flint's face drained of color. If Eirik escalated this with proof, not just with the troll heads but with whatever account the sleazy weasel Stonehand and his spoiled daughter put together, he’d be put in a tough spot. Borin's displeasure could mean much worse troubles for him — reduced territory, increased tithes, and he’d be made to pay the bastard anyway.

  Eirik pressed.

  "Or… you pay the two thousand and forty talons owed. Today. Publicly. Honorably. The Talons leave with coin in our pouches and a tale of Flint's justice. Your miners see their lord reward those who remove threats. Stonehand reopens the mine, your royalties resume, and the Skarls' throats get the steel they deserve."

  He leaned back, his smile returning. "A simple choice, wouldn't you say?"

  The silence between them was heavy. Flint straightened his shoulders, summoning lordly dignity.

  "Commander Stormcrow. Your… zeal for precision is noted." He turned to Steward Barlow. "Barlow. The treasury. Fetch the sum. Two thousand and forty silver talons." He ground out the number. "Immediately. Counted and brought here."

  Barlow looked confused. "My… my Lord? Here? Now?"

  "NOW!" Flint roared, startling everyone. He reined himself in. "Count it before witnesses. Every talon. Pay the Talon Warband what they are owed. For services rendered. Promptly."

  A wave of murmurs swept the crowd as Eirik gave Flint a nod.

  "Lord Flint honors his word. The Talons are grateful."

  As Barlow ran away to fetch the fortune in silver, Flint stepped closer to Eirik again.

  "You have your coin, Stormcrow. Take it. Take your band of outcasts. And get out of my Hold." His hate was thickening. "You may have won, boy. But remember this. You tread on dangerous ground. You've made an enemy today. A powerful one. The North has a way of swallowing up men who overreach. Your luck won't hold forever."

  Eirik met the gaze with calm.

  "Remember this too, Lord Flint. You tried to bury me with trolls. You failed. You tried to bury me with contracts. You failed. What makes you think anything in the North you can throw at me will succeed?"

  He stepped back, turning to face his men just as Barlow and two clerks returned, carrying wooden chests. The sound of silver talons, hundreds and hundreds of them, echoed in the air.

  Eirik Stormcrow watched as the chests were opened.

  It really took a while. This sum, with a band of warriors that bleed money from him every second, is achieved.

  But there's one last thing before he could tend to the spoils. He turned sharply.

  "Talons! Mount up! Column formation! We leave. Now."

  Leif snapped his head up. "Now? Commander, some wounded can barely stand! Helga's arm needs stitching! We just got paid! They offered sleeping rooms, food…"

  "You heard me! MOUNT UP! NOW! Move your asses! Bjorn, Helga – grit your teeth, we'll tend you on the trail! Isolde, get Fisk mounted! Yorick, secure the packs! MOVE!"

  The transformation was remarkable. Grumbles died. Tiredness was shoved aside by discipline. Within minutes, the column formed up near the main gates.

  Eirik raised a hand.

  "Talon Warband! Forward! Double time! Keep formation!"

  Lord Arcturus Flint watched the column hobble towards the open gates and afforded himself a smirk. Too scared of my wrath to even claim the shelter I offered? Good. Run, you bastard. Run like the mongrel cur you are.

  —————————————

  Lord Arcturus Flint retreated to his study's warmth and slumped into his chair. The bottle arrived swiftly. Flint poured a measure, not bothering with a sip. The liquor burned down his throat. He poured another. Then another.

  Hours crawled by.

  Flint nursed his fury and his bottle while the door burst open. Barlow stood there, eyes wide and panicked.

  "My Lord! Lord Flint!"

  Flint blinked, the haze disappearing. "What? Spit it out! Can't you see I'm… occupied?"

  "The… the Ironvein Throat, my Lord! Scouts… our patrol sent to check access… they've returned!"

  "And?" Flint snapped, dread coiling in his gut. "Spit. It. OUT!"

  "It's… it's blocked, my Lord! Blocked! Collapsed! The main cave entrance… the one Stormcrow cleared? It's buried! Tons of rock!" Barlow's voice rose to near shriek. "Like the whole mountain face slumped down! It'll take months to clear! Maybe through the winter!"

  Collapsed? Months? Through the winter? Lord Flint's knuckles whitened around the stem of his expensive crystal glass. The image of Eirik Stormcrow flashed in his mind.

  The bastard hadn't just outmaneuvered him. He'd played him for the ultimate fool.

  An impulse ripped from his chest and outside his throat.

  "THAT FUCKING BASTAAAARRRRD!" He surged to his feet. The crystal glass flew from his hand, arcing through the air to smash against the stone hearth with spectacular crash. It exploded.

  "WHERE IS HE?!" Flint bellowed, spit flying. "DON'T JUST STAND THERE GAPING, YOU OAF! WHERE DID HE GO? SEND THE GUARDS! EVERY MAN! MOUNT THE CAVALRY! BRING HIM BACK! I'LL FLAY HIM ALIVE! I'LL FEED HIM HIS OWN SILVER TALONS!"

  Barlow flinched back, eyes wide with terror.

  "M-My Lord! They're… they're gone! Hours ago! We saw them leave! They're miles away by now! In the wilds! Tracking them would take days! And the Houseguard… the garrison… we'd be defenseless! The Skarl raiders have been probing the eastern passes! If we strip the Hold…"

  The wave of rage crested… and broke.

  Lord Arcturus Flint stared at glittering crystal shards scattered across his hearth rug. It left only hollow despair.

  "Fuck."

  He didn't roar again. He simply sank back onto the stone floor amidst the ruin of his bottle.