SerProcrastinate
patreon
Chapter Fifty-Three (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-08-11 12:28:32 +0000 UTCThey were hauled off the ponies with efficiency. Hands grabbed Eirik's arms and legs, and he hit the ground hard.
The hood was ripped away, revealing Fort Abercrombie at dusk.
The courtyard teemed with Skarls—warriors passing liquor skins, women stirring iron cauldrons over fires. Children added to the noise with their shrieks.
And dominating everything were the wagons.
The salt wagons. Barrels had been rolled out, lids pried open. Warriors crowded around, thrusting hands into white crystals, scooping handfuls and letting grains run through their fingers.
They shouted, laughed, faces alight with joy. Men rubbed salt onto dried meat, poured it into leather sacks, tasted it with grins. Women gathered portions into pouches. The relief in their movements was palpable.
THUD.
A boot connected with Eirik's ribs. Olaf and Helga were prodded toward the western courtyard, where collapsed wall had been rebuilt with timber and rubble into a crude enclosure. A timber gate stood open.
Inside were other prisoners. Two dozen figures huddled against stone—men in roughspun wool and leather, faces gaunt, eyes hollow. A few wore tattered militia colors. Guards with clubs patrolled the perimeter.
The sacrifices Yorick had mentioned.
As the three were shoved inside, the gate slammed shut, ropes creaking as they were secured.
Olaf spat phlegm onto mud.
"Frost Giants' balls... that shaman smelled worse than a week-dead troll." He glared at the celebrating Skarls. "Enjoy yer feast, ye bastards."
A new sound cut through the Skarl shouts—a nasal voice in accented Common Tongue.
"–disgraceful! You expect the Sky Father to accept this offal?"
A man strode into view, flanked by two Skarl warriors. He was a Northman, but different from the captives. His clothes mixed well-made trousers with a ragged Skarl wolf-pelt vest.
He peered at the new prisoners with contempt.
"Fresh meat for the grinder! Got yourselves painted, did you? What a sorry reeking lot!"
He barked broken Skarl at a guard. The guard chuckled but loosened the bindings.
"Right then, maggots! I am Dren. I speak for the Wise One. You answer me, or answer to Skarl steel." His eyes gleamed. "The Blood-Rite demands purity. So we check."
Eirik kept his head down. Dren was kept alive probably for this vetting process for the shaman.
Dren paced along the captives.
"You!" He pointed at a trembling woodsman. "Any sickness? Wounds?"
"N-no, master," the man stammered.
Dren leaned in, sniffing. "Clean enough. Next!"
He stopped before a youth, maybe eighteen, shivering. "Fevers? Did you soil yourself when caught?"
"N-no, master Dren," the youth whispered.
"Good. Wouldn't want the Sky Father offended by coward-stink." Dren continued his inspection. He seemed more interested in inspiring terror than the answers.
Dren stopped before a young woman, and his sneer deepened into something uglier.
"Ah, a bit of skirt," he leered. He gripped her arms, tilted her head back, ran a hand down her neck. "You ever been with a man, sweetheart?" The woman flinched, trying to pull away.
"What of your woman's courses? Are you clean?"
"I... I am not bleeding now, master," she whispered.
"When last?" Dren pressed.
"Two... two weeks past, master."
"Borderline. We'll see what the Wise One says." He moved on.
Eirik's mind clicked. Unclean. That's what the shaman had hissed.
The ritual demanded purity—no sickness, no corruption, no female bleeding. That's why they were brought back alive instead of butchered. To be vetted. To ensure they were suitable vessels for the ritual.
Dren reached Olaf, looking him up and down with a sneer. "Big one. Lots of blood. You bleeding? Got the wasting?"
Olaf met his gaze, eyes cold. "Only sore here is the one lookin' at yer face, rat."
Dren's face flushed. He drove his fist into Olaf's stomach. Olaf grunted, doubling over, but didn't make another sound.
"Pig! You'll squeal prettier on the stone!" Dren looked to a guard, who shrugged.
He stopped before Helga. His gaze lingered, appraising her frame with a leer.
"A fighter-woman. Rare. Makes for a strong plea to the Earth Mother." His eyes dropped to her hands. "Any sickness? Woman's taint?"
Helga stared through him, jaw clenched. "No sickness. Clean cycles."
"Good. Good." He reached toward her face. Helga's eyes snapped to his. Dren hesitated, withdrew his hand with a cough.
He stood before Eirik, peering at the dried blood. "Look at this mess! Is it yours? Or just filth of those you crawled with?"
Eirik kept his voice low. "Theirs, master Dren. Took a knock fighting... protecting the lady."
Dren sniffed. "Smells old. Caked. Wounds underneath?"
"Just bruises, master. No open cuts. Washed before we rode."
Dren grabbed Eirik's chin, inspecting beneath the grime. Eirik forced himself not to react. Dren grunted, satisfied there was no wound beneath the gore.
"You reek, but it's not sick-reek. Clean enough. We'll see what the Wise One says." He shoved Eirik back and clapped his hands. "Right! These three are passable! Keep them separated! Don't let filth spread!"
He strode out, barking mangled Skarl at guards. The gate ropes were pulled taut. Guards laughed at something Dren said as he walked back toward the celebration.
Darkness deepened. The celebrating Skarls seemed frenzied now. Warriors rubbed salt onto faces, into beards, chanting prayers. Some sprinkled it into the fire, sending up gouts of green and blue flame. They danced around the flames.
Olaf slumped beside Eirik. "Passable. Like we're damn sides of meat at market."
Eirik watched the salt-fueled frenzy through timber gaps. Warriors filled waterskins at troughs, adding salt. Women mixed salt into stew bowls. The poison was dispersing.
"The traitor," Eirik whispered. "Dren's not asking for their sake. He's ensuring we're clean. No sickness, no corruption, no woman's blood. That's the 'unclean' the shaman feared. We weren't killed because they needed sacrifices—pure ones."
Olaf's eyes narrowed. "So bleeding might save the women?"
"Possibly. But it would get them killed immediately. Or singled out for torment. Dren would enjoy that." Eirik nodded toward the terrified woman.
Helga opened her eyes. "He touches me, he dies."
"The ritual's soon," Eirik said, watching the shaman emerge near the fire. "They're preparing. We need to be ready.
The salt barrels were the center of activity now. Warriors dipped hands deep into the crystals, scooping fistfuls, rubbing it into their beards, over their faces, chanting prayers. Others poured it into bubbling stews stirred by women whose eyes held exhaustion and relief.
Children darted between legs, snatching pinches of the commodity, tasting it with wide eyes. The poison, Fisk's sodium nitrite, indistinguishable from common salt, was dispersing through the camp, ingested, dissolved in water, rubbed onto preserved meat.
But it wouldn't save them tonight.
The shaman stood near the largest fire, his frame backlit by the flames. His milky eyes seemed to sweep the courtyard, the bone-and-feather rattle hanging from his belt clicking.
He raised a hand, and the chanting intensified.
The Blood-Rite.
"The traitor marked the girl for his own pleasures later." Eirik murmured. "That made it very dangerous for Helga."
Helga didn't look at him.
"Not if they sacrifice you first," Olaf grunted. “Or me.”
“They won’t, because we’re going to make ourselves unclean. Helga first."
Understanding dawned in Olaf's eyes. "The woman's… taint? You can't mean…"
"It's a disqualifier, Olaf," Eirik stated. "The ritual demands purity. A bleeding woman is considered unclean by their faith. If Dren or the shaman believe she's menstruating, she'd be cast out of the sacrifice pool. Probably killed for being 'unclean,' but spared the altar."
Helga's jaw tightened. "I am not bleeding."
"But you could appear to be." Eirik held her gaze. "Smear blood between your thighs. Make them think you are."
"And how," she asked, "would I achieve that, Commander, trussed like a Midwinter goose? Shall I bite my tongue and hope it drips?"
Eirik scanned the pen. The guards were distracted, watching the celebration, jeering at the captives. The shaman was engrossed in his incantations. Dren was moving near the fire, refilling a horn from a skin.
Now.
He focused inward, on the core of frost mana swirling within him. He needed precision, silence, and concealment. Not a blast, not a shield. A pinpoint conjuration.
[MANA EXPENDED: 1]
[MANA: 29/50]
[ABILITY: ICE CONJURATION ACTIVATED]
He willed the conjured ice onto the stone of the wall behind Helga. A sharp shard less than an inch long, angled perfectly.
"Against the wall behind you," Eirik murmured.
Helga shifted her position, pressing her bound wrists against the wall, grinding them against the spot Eirik indicated. Her face remained impassive, but a tightening around her eyes betrayed the effort and pain.
A bead of crimson welled on her forearm, near her wrist. She flung them back, smearing it onto the coarse fabric of her trousers near her thigh, working it in, transferring the evidence.
When she settled back, a dark stain was visible on her inner thigh.
Olaf watched the maneuver.
"Frostbite's balls, Commander… that's… dark." Then the practicality of their situation hit him. “But... What about us? "
"I will think of something," Eirik said, "if it comes to that."
He had no plan. Only the certainty that survival demanded any price. Even the unthinkable.
The drumming from the main fire intensified. The chanting rose to a fever pitch. The shaman threw his arms wide, his cry cutting through the noise. Dren scurried over, bowing. A guttural exchange followed. Dren gestured towards the pen, then nodded.
It was time.
Dren swaggered towards the gate.
"Up! Up, you offal!" he barked. "The Wise One calls! The Sky Father demands sacrifice! Stand and show your worthiness!"
Guards hauled the captives to their feet.
Dren paced, gaze lingering where he pleased. He stopped before the woodsman.
"A fitting plea for strong winds." He nodded to a guard. "This one."
The woodsman let out a sob as he was grabbed and dragged towards the gate. His cries were swallowed by the Skarls' chant.
Dren moved to Helga. His eyes flicked to the dark stain on her trousers.
"Ah. The fighter-woman. Thought you seemed… clean."
He turned and spat towards the shaman, shouting in mangled Skarl, pointing at Helga.
The shaman let out a hiss. "Thrak vak! Ul gash zhog!"
Dren grinned. “She’s rejected! Take her out!”
He gestured to the guards, but there was disappointment in his eyes. He'd hoped for… more. His gaze lingered on her with malice before snapping away.
His eyes settled on Eirik.
“You! You'll do." Dren nodded to the guards. "This one."
Hands seized Eirik, hauling him forward. Olaf lunged, but a guard's spear shaft slammed into his gut, doubling him over with a gasp.
"Leave him!" Olaf wheezed.
Eirik didn't resist.
Helga was shoved to the side, away from the sacrifice group, towards the perimeter of the pen. Disqualified, spared the knife for now, but still trapped. Her eyes met Eirik's as he was hauled past. There was no gratitude, only the acknowledgment of a shared nightmare.
He was thrust out of the pen alongside the woodsman. The noise and heat from the central fire was overwhelming. Dozens of Skarl faces turned towards them, eyes reflecting the firelight.
At the edge of the firelight stood a stone slab – the altar. Obsidian black in the flickering light, it absorbed the fire's glow.
The woodsman was first. He was dragged screaming towards the slab. Two warriors held him down while a third, wielding a heavy blade, stepped forward. The shaman raised his rattle, his chant reaching a crescendo. The Skarls roared.
The blade rose and fell.
A wet thunk echoed. The screaming stopped. A cheer erupted. Blood flowed across the stone, running into carved grooves towards the fire. The shaman dipped his fingers in it, painting symbols on his own face, chanting louder.
Eirik watched despite the horror.
Then hands seized him. He was dragged towards the stone. The smell of fresh blood from the woodsman was overwhelming. Hot breath washed over him from the warriors pinning his arms.
The executioner wiped his blade on his furs, raising it again. The shaman turned his eyes towards Eirik, the rattle shaking. The crowd's roar was deafening.
This was it. His moment. He had to make it convincing. He had to be unclean.
He let go.
Every muscle tensed not in resistance, but in surrender to terror. He didn't fight the hands holding him. He sagged. He let his legs buckle, collapsing towards the stone, making himself a dead weight. A whimper escaped his lips.
"NO! PLEASE! NOT ME! PLEASE!" His voice cracked. He thrashed weakly in the spasms of panic. Tears streamed down his face. "I'M NOT WORTHY! I'M NOT PURE! PLEASE! SPARE ME!"
He pissed himself. The warm rush soaked his trousers, the odor cutting through the blood and smoke. The Skarls roared with laughter. Spittle flew. They pointed, jeering at the coward.
"Vok vak gorrash!"
The executioner paused, a look of amusement on his face. He glanced at the shaman.
This… this was pathetic.
Dren pushed forward. "What's this sniveling? Trying to delay the inevitable, filth?" He grabbed Eirik's hair, yanking his head up.
Through the fake tears, Eirik met Dren's eyes with terror. "Please… master… please… I can't… my guts…" He moaned. “I’m foul… unclean!"
Then, as Dren leaned in closer, sneering, Eirik focused all his will. Inwards. Deep into his own core, his lower abdomen. Just enough to trigger a spasm of the smooth muscle lining his bowels.
[MANA EXPENDED: 1]
[MANA: 28/50]
He felt it happen. A cramping. A pressure. Then release.
A gurgling, splattering sound erupted from beneath him. The stench that hit was overwhelming, a miasma of digested rations that cut through the blood and smoke. Warmth spread through his already soaked trousers.
Dren recoiled as if struck, gagging.
"FROST CURSE YOU! DISGUSTING WRETCH!"
The warriors holding Eirik released him, jumping back with cries of disgust. He collapsed onto the stone beside the woodsman's corpse, a shivering, weeping, foul-smelling wreck. The crowd's laughter died, replaced by gasps, curses, and retching.
The executioner lowered his blade, his face twisted in revulsion.
The shaman let out a shriek.
"UL! GASH VAK THUL! NA DRAS!"
Dren waved at the guards near the pen. "Get him OUT! Clean him! Throw him back with the other filth! He's spoiled! Utterly spoiled!"
He pointed a finger towards the pen. "Him! The young one! The one who shakes! Bring him! NOW! The Sky Father will not be mocked! He demands pure blood!"
The guards hauled Eirik up, holding him at arm's length, his legs trailing, dripping filth. He kept his head lolled, moaning, playing the utterly broken, fouled creature.
As they dragged him back towards the pen, past Olaf who stood frozen by the gate, Eirik risked a glance. The young boy – barely sixteen – was being pulled screaming from the huddled captives.
Olaf couldn't hold back his horror.
Then, as Eirik passed within a foot of him, Olaf felt it. A tiny, icy spark, like a frozen pinprick, jabbing into his lower abdomen. The faintest tendril of Eirik's frost mana, slipping past the guards, an intrusion.
[MANA EXPENDED: 1]
[MANA: 27/50]
A sudden, freezing pressure emerged deep inside. His eyes widened, locking onto Eirik's slumped form.
The same trick.
A moment later, Olaf's own bowels clenched. He doubled over with a grunt, his face flushing, not with anger this time, but with the overwhelming physical necessity forced upon him.
The guards dragging Eirik paused for a second, wrinkling their noses as Olaf fought the losing battle against his own body.
Olaf stared at the form of Eirik Stormcrow, lying in his own filth. A sound escaped his teeth.
"You… fucking… bastard."
———
The air in Lord Varn's hall was very cold.
Moonlight streamed through windows, illuminating dust motes where portraits had once hung. The feasting table shoved against a wall with only a candle. The hearth yawned black and cold.
Lord Dagan Varn hunched in the room's only remaining chair.
"Lord Varn," Leif began. "We come not for silver or food. Only your men. We need your garrison to storm the ruin."
Varn didn't lift his head.
"Storm Abercrombie? With what, boy? Prayers? You saw my hall. That's all that's left."
He looked up.
"You bought a ruin, Fenrir. You didn't buy me."
Isolde stepped forward. "Lord Varn, Commander Stormcrow will break the Skarls. But not alone. This is about reclaiming your land. Your honor."
"Honor?" Varn laughed, then coughed. "Honor buys no grain. Pays no debts. I signed away Abercrombie. Stormcrow gambled and lost." His gaze flickered to the cold hearth. "I've buried too many sons on that mountain. I will not bury more for a bastard's gamble."
Leif clenched his fists. "They're consuming our poisonous bait tonight! If we delay—"
"And what would you have me do?" Varn surged up. "March my small crew up that pass? Into two hundred Skarl horse-archers? In the dark? That's not courage, boy, that's suicide!"
He slumped back.
"My duty is to the remnants clinging to life in these walls. Go. Die for your Commander. Leave me to my peace."
Silence fell. The candle guttered.
Fisk cleared his throat and stepped forward with a bow.
"Beggin' yer pardon, yer Lordship. A moment? Just a demonstration?”
From his belt pouch, he produced a sackcloth bundle and snatched out a rat by the tail. The creature squeaked and writhed.
Varn stared, disgusted. "What in the frozen hells—?"
"A rodent, yer Lordship! Symbol of decay, some say. But also... survivor." Fisk reached into another pouch and produced a pinch of white salt. "Now, see... salt. Lifeblood of the Skarls."
He held the salt near the rat's nose. The creature sniffed, eyes fixed on the crystals.
"The Skarls crave it. We gave 'em a feast. Barrels full!" He winked. “Just look."
He sprinkled the crystals onto the rat's snout. The creature started licking, consuming them.
"Give it a moment, yer Lordship."
They watched. The rat's licking grew intense. Its back legs jerked. Its body arched rigid. A gasp escaped it. Then it hung from Fisk's fingers, eyes glassy.
"See? Full of vigor one moment... peaceful rest the next!" Fisk shook the dead rat. "Quick and quiet. None o' that messy business."
Varn stared, understanding dawning. "You poisoned the salt? The whole shipment?"
Fisk tossed the rat aside. "What needed doin'. Them Skarls right now? They're feastin' on Commander Stormcrow's 'special seasoning'. Stomachs fulla victory... and death."
Varn surged up, trembling. "You fools! If they figure it out... they'll wipe Frostholme off the map! They'll skin every last one of us!"
"Only if they figure it out before it finishes 'em!" Fisk's voice turned hard. "Only if we leave Commander Stormcrow trapped there when they start droppin'. Poisoned Skarls with prisoners? Think they'll go quiet? Stormcrow needs us there! Now! Before dawn!"
"No!" Varn backed away. "This is madness! I want no part of it! Get out! GUARDS!"
Two thin men in mail shuffled in.
"Escort these people out," Varn hissed. "I want them gone."
The guards shuffled them into the courtyard. The doors thudded shut with a final sound.
The moonlit courtyard was silent after the hall. Bjorn, Harkin, Yorick, and the Talon veterans emerged from the shadows near the stables.
"He refused?" Bjorn rumbled.
"Completely," Isolde said. "We are on our own."
"Damn the coward," Harkin spat.
Leif stared at the stars. Eirik, Olaf, Helga... trapped in that ruin, surrounded by Skarls feasting on poison. Time was running out.
"Right. Varn wants no part? Fine. We make it everyone's part. We wake the whole hold. The plaza. At the bell tower. We make them listen, and decide."
Yorick swallowed at Leif’s sudden plan.
"And say what? Beg them to die?"
Fisk clapped him on the shoulder. "Nah, scribe. We give 'em proof. Now, Bjorn! That muster bell on the tower – reckon you can make it sing?"
Bjorn cracked his knuckles. "Been waitin' for an excuse."
He reached the stone bell tower. Wrapping arms around the iron bell itself, he heaved. With a groan, the bell tilted.
Bjorn threw his weight into it.
CLANG! The sound was jarring. He did it again. CLANG! Windows rattled. CLANG! Alarmed faces began to appear at doorways and windows.
Doors creaked open along the narrow streets.
Men stumbled out in hastily-thrown cloaks, women clutching shawls, children peering wide-eyed from behind their mothers' skirts.
"What's that racket?"
"Fire?"
"Skarls?"
But there were no horns from the walls, no sounds of battle. Just that damning bell, over and over, demanding attention. People began moving toward the plaza with the cautious shuffle of the sleep-addled, drawn by the mystery and the growing crowd.
The plaza began to fill with men—and women, and children too. They clustered in small groups, whispering among themselves, eyes darting between the bell tower and the keep where Lord Varn's halls remained stubbornly dark and silent.
Leif stood on the steps of the bell tower. He drew the Fenrir blade. Its wolf-head pommel caught the moonlight.
"People of Frostholme!" He forced his voice deeper. "Look at me! I am Leif Fenrir! Son of Stalwart Arn Fenrir!"
He pointed west, towards the peaks.
"Out there, right now, Fort Abercrombie is held by Skarls. Skarls who killed your sons! Your husbands! Your brothers! Skarls who starve your children! Block your trade! Make every step outside these walls a death sentence!"
Mutters rose.
"Varn sits in his hall!" Leif gestured towards the keep. "He says Abercrombie is lost! He speaks false! Abercrombie was lost because men like Varn forgot how to FIGHT FOR IT!"
He saw heads began to nod.
"Commander Stormcrow hasn't forgotten!" Leif shouted. "He staked everything so that Abercrombie can be reclaimed!"
He took a breath. The crowd was silent now. "But I know many of you still fear Skarls! Yet, you no longer have to, at least for tonight! For they are being poisoned at this very moment." Leif slammed the flat of his blade against his chestplate. "With the salt they stole from us!"
A murmur. Salt?
Fisk dipped his hand into the sack and pulled out a handful of white crystals. They gleamed in the moonlight.
"Look familiar? Frostholme salt!" He held it high.
He gestured, and a talon brought him a black gelding. Fisk murmured something soothing, stroking its neck. Then, with a swift motion, he shoved the handful of salt into the horse's mouth, clamping its jaw shut with strength.
The crowd gasped. "What're ye doing?"
The horse snorted, shook its head, trying to spit out the mass. Fisk held firm for a few seconds, then released. The horse coughed. For a moment, nothing.
Then, it happened.
The horse jerked as if struck. A choking gasp tore from its throat. Its legs stiffened; its body went board-straight. It swayed, hooves scrabbling on the cobbles. Foam bubbled at its nostrils. It crashed to its knees, then onto its side, legs kicking in spasms.
A stunned silence blanketed the plaza. People stared at the struggling horse, then at the bag in Fisk's hand. The transformation was too fast and too wrong.
Fisk held up the bag again.
"That, people of Frostholme, ain't just salt. That's Commander Stormcrow's gift to the Skarls. His 'special blend.' That's what they're guzzling down in Abercrombie right now! Happy as clams, thinkin' they hit the motherlode!" He pointed a finger at the horse. "That is their victory feast!"
He turned to the crowd.
"Now! How long d'ye reckon before it starts takin' effect on a couple hundred Skarls? An hour? Two? Before they start droppin'? Before the cramps hit? Before their warriors can't draw their bows, before their horses can't run?"
A scarred guard from the gate stepped forward. "By the Frost Mother... it was true?"
Leif took over.
"BUT! But... right now, Commander Stormcrow is in that fort! With Olaf! With Helga! Trapped! While the Skarls are feastin' on death! When they realize what's killin' them... what do you think they'll do to their prisoners? To the man who tricked them?"
His voice dripped to a hiss.
"They'll skin 'em alive! They'll make their deaths last days! They'll send Stormcrow's head back on a pike as a warning! And then... when the poison thins their numbers, but doesn't kill them all... who do you think they'll blame? Who do you think they'll come for next? Frostholme! Starving, defenseless Frostholme!"
He let that sink in.
"Commander Stormcrow bought you time!" Leif roared, pointing back towards Abercrombie. "He bought you a chance! To STRIKE! To BREAK them! To take back YOUR fort! To open YOUR passes! And what do you do? Huddle? Wait? Hope the death sticks to the Skarls and not yourselves?"
He spat on the cobbles near the dead horse.
"Varn hides! Stormcrow fights! He fights for you! He's trapped in that pit, right now, because he dared to try and pull you out of yours! He chose the hard path! The rewarding path! The path that screams 'You will not break me!' to the gods themselves!"
From scattered positions throughout the crowd, Talon veterans who had melted into the gathering began the roar. "FOR ABERCROMBIE!" shouted one near the front. "DEATH TO SKARLS!" bellowed another from the back, pumping his fist.
The enthusiasm spread like wildfire as neighbors looked to neighbors.
"FOR MY BOY! FOR ABERCROMBIE!"
"OPEN THE PASSES!"
"THEN WE GO!" Leif roared. "WE GO NOW! NOT AS VARN'S MEN, BUT AS FROSTHOLME'S! AS ABERCROMBIE'S! AS THE TALONS OF THE STORMCROW!"
He pointed the sword west, towards the mountains and the trapped man who had thrust this burden upon him.
"TO ABERCROMBIE! FOR VENGEANCE! FOR OUR FUTURE! MOVE!"
Comments
Connor
No, I’m not crazy, chapter fifty two is missing, possible that you uploaded an earlier chapter in its stead. Because we go from fighting skarls in 51 back to the trolls in 52 and completely bypasses the whole Abercrombie thing
Telchar
5 talons a week seems like a lot. For a band of 100, that is 26000 per year. For a 1000...
