Eirik's face was blank as Yorick briefed everyone. He had yet to find an angle.

  "...so Lord Varn confirms the main southern road, the Pine Run Road? Totally blocked. Skarl war bands hit any group larger than three wagons within ten miles of the pass crossing. They burn what they can't carry. Shipments haven't gotten through from the lower valleys in three months."

  Harkin grunted. "Explains why Frostholme's gate looks like a chewed bone."

  Yorick nodded and continued.

  "Grain groups are the worst targets. They hit fast, kill the guards, burn the wagons. The villages south of Icefang Pass are eating stored roots and cutting down their herds, if they're not burned to the ground by the Skarls yet."

  "Anything else?" Eirik asked. This was really tough news.

  Yorick shuffled his papers.

  "Trade routes for basics… salt being the worst. Skarls hit salt groups with special anger."

  Salt.

  Eirik straightened. "Salt? Explain more."

  Yorick blinked, surprised by the sudden focus. "Salt. It's vital for the Skarls. More vital than grain sometimes, out here. Especially for the Skarls. You see, Skarls live off their herds. Meat, mostly. Milk, cheese when they have it."

  Eirik nodded. "They were nomads and favored a meat-heavy diet instead of crops. So they need salt to preserve everything."

  "More than that, Commander!" Yorick leaned forward. "It's vital. Not just in their food, their bodies need it, too! All that riding, sweating under furs in summer, freezing in winter… it drains the salt from a man! And not just them, it's their horses, too! Even more so! Without salt replacement, their muscles cramp, they tire quickly, and would become a liabity instead of carrying Skarls to victories!"

  Yorick's face darkened further.

  "And Lord Varn mentioned something else. Something that makes their need even more... urgent. The Skarls are preparing for some kind of blood ceremony. Within the week, he thinks. They'll be offering human sacrifices to their gods, probably prisoners from the raids." He swallowed hard. "Varn says salt plays a role in their ritual preparations, too."

  Hmm... this could be a potential angle, but he'd have to confirm a few details first.

  "When was that attack on Varn's salt group?"

  Yorick blinked, going through his mental notes.

  "Weeks ago, probably been a month, Commander. Since then? Not a single salt group has dared the southern routes. Lord Varn mentioned he actually has a good supply left in Frostholme's lower storage rooms. Just sitting there. Too risky to move it anywhere useful. Frozen asset, literally."

  Eirik's fingers drummed against the table.

  If they sent out a caravan carrying salt, the Skarls would hit it - that much was certain. But then what?

  He could set an ambush, but Skarls were mounted with faster horses than whatever he could muster. The moment they sensed a trap, they'd wheel their horses and vanish into the wilderness before his men could close the distance.

  What about explosives?

  He could hollow out some of the salt barrels, pack them with alchemist's fire or blackpowder, rig some kind of detonation mechanism. But this might kill off a dozen, and maybe if he's lucky, dozens of Skarl warriors who were in the vicinity to check it. But he needed to wipe out an entire warband.

  So he was left with the salt itself.

  His thoughts ground to a halt, then started again more slowly. What if the salt itself could be turned against them? Not explosives hidden inside - the salt itself. Can salt kill? Too much of anything could be poison, but how would that work? They weren't going to gorge themselves to death on stolen salt.

  Unless...

  Eirik's eyes suddenly lit up.

  "Alright," he suddenly announced. "We're buying Varn's salt. All of it."

  Leif's brows came together. "Buying it, Commander? But… we just gave him a thousand talons! And salt? We can't carry ten barrels while we hunt Skarls!"

  "Not for us, Leif. For them." Eirik shook his head slightly. "We're setting bait. The richest, shiniest bait they'd ever seen."

  Understanding sparked in Yorick's eyes. "You want the Skarls to know about the salt? To want it?"

  "Desperately," Eirik confirmed. "We need them to smell it. To see it hanging just within reach. And we need them to come for it."

  He turned to Isolde, who had been quietly listening to them this time.

  She straightened. "Commander?"

  "You are now Mistress Isobel Vance. Wealthy spice merchant from the southern cities. You heard stories of war disrupting basic trade. Specifically, the salt shortage is crippling Frostholme."

  Isolde absorbed this while Eirik continued.

  "You are bold, ambitious, and with lots of coins. You see Frostholme's bad luck as your golden chance. You plan to buy Frostholme's 'useless' salt supply cheaply, bet on breaking the Skarl blocking with hired fighters, and sell it at very high prices to starving towns further south."

  Isolde tilted her head. "The whole hold needs to know?"

  "The whole hold must know. Especially the Skarl spies this desperate place surely has. This is an act. Your arrival, talks, loading wagons—it all needs to shout 'foolish southern merchant making a desperate bet.' Make noisy. Better, be gaudy."

  "Commander," Leif interrupted. "So… you're thinking an ambush?"

  "Something like that."

  "Commander, forgive my bluntness, but that's… basic." Leif opened his palms. "Varn told us himself. He tried that. Countless times. Sending out supply trains guarded to the teeth, hoping to lure the Skarls into a fight on his terms."

  Yorick nodded jerkily.

  "Lieutenant's right, Commander. Lord Varn confirmed it. They'd send out groups, sometimes with half the garrison. Strong guard, banners flying. Trying to look like a target they couldn't resist, hoping the Skarls would get greedy and commit."

  Leif picked up the thread with urgency.

  "But it never worked! Not once! The Skarls have scouts everywhere. They'd see the force behind the bait. They're not stupid, Commander! They'd know it was a trap." He slapped his hand flat on his lap. "So they wouldn't commit! Not with their main force. Maybe they'd send a handful of riders, pepper the group from extreme range, vanish before anyone could close."

  He took a deep breath. "Or worse… They'd let the group get deep into the open ground. Miles from safety. Then, only then, when the heavy infantry was strung out, exhausted… that's when they'd swarm. Hundreds of them, appearing from gullies, cresting ridges."

  Yorick helped him finish the grim picture. "They'd kill the horses first, cripple the wagons. Then kill the infantry trapped in the open. They'd turn our ambush back against ourselves until we're all dead."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Olaf slammed his fist against his thigh.

  "Aye! How do we fight that? Frost take it, Commander! We've got sixty men! Sixty! Even if we hid every one of them in the wagons, it wouldn't be enough! We'd be cut to pieces out there before we could draw steel!"

  Yorick added, "And Commander… Lord Varn stressed it. This tactic? It's textbook Skarl. They've seen variations a hundred times. From every desperate lordling trying to protect his lands. They know how to counter it. Easily. They'll see Mistress Vance's group, see the 'hired fighters' guarding it… and they'll just laugh after they killed our men and took our salt." He swallowed. "This… this plan… It won't work."

  Heavy silence fell. Every eye was fixed on Eirik, waiting for his rebuttal.

  Eirik met their collective gaze with calm.

  "You misunderstand," he said. "I agree with you."

  Leif blinked. "Agree, Commander?"

  "Agree," Eirik repeated. "Ambushing them won't work. They're primed for it." He paused. "So… we don't."

  Leif felt his mind stutter.

  "We… don't… ambush them?"

  "No."

  "We… don't fight them at all?" Olaf sounded incredulous.

  "No," Eirik said simply.

  "Then… Commander… what exactly do we do? If they attack the group…"

  "We let them have it," Eirik stated. Matter-of-fact. As if announcing the weather.

  Silence. Total, stunned silence. Olaf stared as if Eirik had sprouted horns.

  Leif found his voice strangled. "Let them have it? The salt? The entire shipment? But Commander…" He pointed helplessly. "We'd be paying dearly for it! Maybe hundreds of talons! And you just want to… give it away? To the enemy?"

  "Essentially, yes." Eirik confirmed. "They take the salt. All of it. "

  He's lost his mind. The thought flashed through everyone's mind. The stress. It's broken him.

  "Commander…" Harkin broke the silence on others' behalf. "Respectfully, sir… that sounds… insane." He struggled for a stronger word in an attempt to wake up Eirik from his sudden madness. "Idiotic, even. Apologies, but… why? What possible good comes from handing the Skarls a fortune in vital supplies they were already desperate to steal?"

  Olaf growled. "Aye! We feed 'em? Make 'em stronger? So they can raid us better later? Give 'em salt so they can ride their horses harder and shoot their bows farther while they burn our villages? Commander, have you cracked?!"

  Yorick wrung his hands. "It's strategic suicide! You empower the enemy! With salt, their warriors stay stronger longer. Their mounts endure harder rides. Their war bands can range farther, strike more often!"

  "It weakens us and strengthens them! Every hold north of Stormkeep will curse your name! Lord Varn would think we betrayed him!"

  Eirik didn't react strongly to the accusations. He knew what it looked like.

  "You see the immediate gain for the Skarls. That is what they will see. That is why they will take it." He looked at each of them in turn. "But I see something else. Something they won't see until it's too late. Something I control."

  Leif shook his head. "What? What could you possibly see, Commander? What do we stand to gain by enriching the enemy who wants to skin us alive? Tell us! How is this not madness?!"

  "The 'what' remains my concern alone. For now. What you need to know is this, and this only: that I know what I am doing."

  He stood up andwalked away from the firelight.

  "Get some rest," He said, leaving his officers staring after him. "Tomorrow, the play begins."

  ——————————————

  Fisk was grounding dried willow bark in a small mortar as he saw Eirik walk by.

  "Commander?" He sounded tired. "Everything alright? Leif looked like he swallowed a hornet when he stomped past."

  "He did," Eirik stepped inside. The flap sealed them in the cramped, herb-scented space.

  "Sit down, Fisk. We need to talk. Something only you can do."

  Fisk set the mortar down.

  "What d'ya need, Commander?" Fisk pulled a rickety stool closer. "More frostfire flasks? We're low on the ingredients, but I can manage. Or is it something… trickier?"

  "Trickier," Eirik confirmed. "I need you to make... a type of salt."

  "What now? Salt?" Fisk sounded skeptical. "Had enough of plain gruel, Commander? Plenty of that in the merchants' booth."

  "A special kind of salt." Eirik leaned forward.

  His answer, which he arrived during the briefing, was Sodium nitrite - the preservative that kept bacon pink and ham from spoiling. Harmless in tiny amounts, but deadly in larger doses.

  Remarkably similar to salt in appearance, sodium nitrite worked by binding to hemoglobin more readily than oxygen, essentially suffocating victims. The beauty was its subtlety - weakness, dizziness, blue-tinged skin that could easily be mistaken for exhaustion or cold. By the time anyone realized what was happening, it would be far too late.

  Better yet, sodium nitrite could be synthesized from saltpeter - which any medieval alchemist worth his salt would have experience with. The transformation wasn't trivial, but it was absolutely doable with Fisk's capabilities.

  But how to explain all this to Fisk without sounding like a madman?

  "A kind that I want the Skarls to have. They'll love it. They'll consume it. Lots of it. And when they do… they die."

  Fisk froze.

  "Die? Commander… what are ya planning? Poison the salt? That's risky business. Takes skill. Rare ingredients. And Skarls ain't fools – they might test it!"

  "Not the way you think. Nothing they can smell or taste." Eirik corrected. "You can make it from other salts you already know."

  Fisk nodded slowly, intrigued.

  "Special salts? Like Sal Ammoniac? Or Saltpeter?"

  Eirik seized on the familiar term. "Yes. Related to Saltpeter. Similar origins." He focused on what Fisk knew. "Saltpeter… you get it from dung heaps, stable muck, urine-soaked earth. Right? The white crystals that crust over?"

  "Aye," Fisk nodded. "Niter. Collect the crust, dissolve it in hot water, filter the muck, boil it down, crystals form. Good for… certain reactions. And boom-powder, like you had mentioned to me the other day."

  "Exactly. Now, this special salt starts like Saltpeter. But you can transform it."

  Eirik focused on processes Fisk could understand. "Take your purified Saltpeter crystals. Dissolve them again, in clean water. Very clean."

  "Distilled water's best," Fisk muttered automatically. "Got a little alembic rig."

  "Good. Once dissolved, you add… you add lead."

  "Lead?!" Fisk's eyebrows shot up. "Commander, lead's heavy poison itself!"

  "Not adding it to the final salt, Fisk. Think of the lead as a tool. A purifier." Eirik grasped for analogy. "You add lead oxide – litharge – to the Saltpeter solution. Then heat it. Boil it hard."

  Fisk frowned. "Boil Saltpeter solution with Litharge? What's that supposed to do?"

  "It makes something change. Like adding vinegar to milk curdles it. The boiling with litharge makes the Saltpeter shift its nature. Part of it becomes something else. Something that isn't Saltpeter anymore."

  "Separates? Crystallizes differently?" Fisk's alchemist brain latched onto the concept.

  "Yes! After boiling, you filter the whole mess again. Get rid of the lead sludge – carefully, it is poison. What's left in the filtered water? It's not just Saltpeter anymore. There's another salt dissolved there now. The special salt I need."

  "And how d'ya get this special salt out?" Fisk asked.

  "Crystals. Just like Saltpeter. You boil down the filtered liquid carefully. This special salt likes to crystallize out when the solution cools." Eirik emphasized the subtlety. "It might look similar, Fisk. White crystals. Salty. But different."

  Fisk stroked his chin, running through the steps mentally.

  "Dissolve Niter… add Litharge… boil… filter… boil down filtrate… collect different crystals…" He looked up, sharp eyes locking onto Eirik's. "This 'different' salt. How does it kill? And why won't they taste it?"

  "It doesn't kill like arsenic or belladonna – fast and obvious," Eirik explained clinically. "It tricks the blood. Makes it unable to carry air. Like putting a cork in a man's lungs from the inside. Slowly. Without warning."

  He met Fisk's gaze squarely.

  "They feel weak. Dizzy. Breathless. Skin turns blue, then grey. Then they just stop. They might taste something bitter, metallic… but mixed into food, into their preserved meats, especially in the quantities they'll crave salt? Doubtful. And the weakness comes on fast enough they won't link it back immediately."

  Fisk absorbed this in silence.

  "Commander… this is dark craft. Powerful. Dangerous. M'self included." He gestured at the jars around him. "Messing with salts that shift blood… Litharge fumes… one slip…"

  "I know the risks," Eirik stated. "But think about our foes. We cannot storm it. We cannot siege it. We cannot outride them. This is how we clear the ruin. This is how we take it without losing all our men charging into two hundred horse archers."

  Fisk swallowed. The image of Northern warriors charging a Skarl arrow-storm flashed in his mind. He'd be stitching corpses tomorrow.

  "Aye. Point taken, Commander." He sighed heavily. "The dose… how much per man?"

  Eirik racked his brain. "Think… a strong pinch. Maybe two." He mimed pinching salt. "For a large man, active. Spread through a day's food, or dissolved in a skin of water… lethal within hours."

  Fisk's mind calculated. "Let's say… a barrel of this special salt. Properly mixed into their entire haul? That should do it. Generously. Especially if they're consuming it fast, thinking they've hit the jackpot."

  "A full barrel mixed thoroughly into the bulk salt Isolde's convoy carries. That should be more than sufficient."

  "Alright," Fisk breathe. "Logistics. I need Saltpeter. Lots. Very pure. The purer the starting niter, the better the yield."

  "You'll have it," Eirik stated. "Lord Varn has resources he couldn't move. Including Saltpeter stockpiles. Frostholme has stables, middens, old siege stores. It'll be there."

  He pulled a heavy purse from his belt and dropped it onto Fisk's table with a solid thunk. "Buy it all. Use the silver we took from Flint. This is just the start. Buy whatever you need. Price is no object. Hire laborers if needed. Speed is critical."

  Fisk hefted the purse, eyes wide. "What about litharge?"

  "Buy it. Or if they have lead, you can make it yourself by roasting lead in air?"

  Fisk nodded. "Aye. Got a small furnace in the wagon. Messy, but doable. Easier to buy if they've got stocks."

  "Buy whatever speeds the process." Eirik stood. "Time, Fisk. You have perhaps seven days to produce that barrel of special salt. Can you do it?"

  Fisk looked at the purse, then around his makeshift lab, then back at Eirik. A slow grin spread across his face. The grin of a man presented with the ultimate alchemical puzzle.

  "A special salt barrel, Commander?" Fisk picked up a clean glass vial, holding it to the lantern light. "Consider it already crystallizing."

  He met Eirik's gaze. "I'll need another assistant. Someone strong, stupid, and doesn't ask questions. Helga's boy, Rolf? He'll do. Send him to me at first light."

  Eirik nodded once. "He's yours. Make it happen, Fisk."