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Chapter Forty-Seven (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-08-06 11:48:34 +0000 UTCThe tavern was called "The Frosty Stag". Isolde Fenrir sat stiffly on a stool across from Eirik, trying her best to tolerate the roughly cut wood and grimy patrons.
Eirik, however, seemed unbothered. He'd ordered a simple beef stew. The moment the worn bowl landed in front of him, he picked up his spoon and started eating. Gulping was perhaps the better word. He finished the first bowl in under a minute, signaled the serving woman, and ordered another without looking up. Then a third.
Isolde watched. "Is it truly that good, Commander?"
Eirik paused, spoon halfway to his mouth with the third bowl. He glanced down at the stew – chunks of tough meat, grayish root vegetables, a thick, greasy gravy. He took a bite, chewing slowly this time.
"Honestly?" he said after swallowing. "It's… okay. A bit salty." He took another careful spoonful. "But it's hot.And it's real food. That makes it taste like the finest feast in the world right now."
Isolde nodded slowly, sipping her watered-down wine. "Fair enough." She set her cup down. "You're leaving Leif and Yorick to handle Lord Varn, then? Negotiating for Fort Abercrombie's rights? Why not go yourself? You handled Flint well."
Eirik finished the third bowl. The warmth spread through his chilled limbs.
"Why not? Varn's drowning in debt. Leif's a noble. Yorick knows the politics. They know the plan." He leaned back slightly. "Varn's poor. Throw enough silver at him, he'll sell the rights to a ruin he can't afford to defend anyway. Anyone who's not completely insane would agree. It's simple economics."
"If you believe that's the best path, Commander," Isolde said carefully, "then I agree with your judgment."
She paused, choosing her next words. "But I have to say… this pace. Moving straight from the troll den to Flint's payment, and now immediately targeting a Skarl-held ruin? It feels… rushed. The men are tired, Eirik. They need rest. You need rest. There are bandits to hunt, wolves to clear from easier valleys – tasks to build strength and teamwork before tackling something… impossible." She lowered her voice. "They respect you, Commander. They follow you. But I think many find this choice… confusing. You had safer choices at your disposal."
Eirik held her gaze.
"Maybe I have less of a choice than you think, Isolde," he said finally. "The universe… has a habit of putting me in dire situations. That's as far as I'll reveal."
It's the truth, without the impossible details, he thought. The Tutorial Quests, the constant escalation, the need to reach higher and higher Realms… the System, keeps throwing pits in my path. I'm always climbing out of one before another opens beneath me.
Isolde's brow wrinkled slightly. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Eirik didn't explain more. Instead, he pushed his stool back and stood, stretching his tall frame. The movement drew a few curious glances from nearby patrons.
"It means," his voice stronger carried a note of force that made Isolde sit up straighter, "it means that maybe… I've learned to welcome it, instead of seeing it as a burden."
He paced a step towards the tavern's center, unaware of the bard who had just launched into a showy ballad about a dragon-slayer, complete with big arm movements. The bard's voice shook, but Eirik's words cut through it for Isolde.
"Comfort? I know comfort. The feeling of a thick blanket, a warm fire, a full belly, no threats on the horizon… it's bliss. Don't get me wrong. It's the best feeling." He gestured loosely around the tavern. "But… it gets stale after a while."
He let his hands resting on the back of his stool. "But the feeling when you're desperate? When you're backed against the wall? When you've got nothing left but your wits, no tricks hidden up your sleeve, absolutely nothing… that's the moment I find… enjoyable. In a way."
Enjoyable? Isolde looked truly puzzled now. He enjoys being cornered?
"I found myself think differently when I'm desperate. I'm more diligent. I see angles I'd miss when I'm comfortable. I fight differently – using every scrap, every weakness, every ounce of strength I have. And when I win… when I claw my way out of that pit… the victory…"
An almost hunting smile touching his lips.
"I crave that feeling, Isolde. It's like I'm standing in front of the universe itself, shouting: 'No matter what shit you throw at me, no matter how deep the pit you dig, you will not break me. I will stand here. And I'm going to WIN.'"
He replaced his force with a quiet sureness. "So you're right. I do have a choice. I chose to leave Leif and Yorick to handle Varn. I chose to target Abercrombie now, while the Skarls are careless in their ruin. I chose this rushed pace. Maybe… maybe because, I feel it's the most rewarding path. The one that forces me to be… more."
Isolde stared at him. The showy bard hit a high, screeching note about the dragon's fiery breath, but it was background noise. All she saw was Eirik – not the edgy bastard she'd first met in the Frost Pit, not even the cool commander who'd faced down Flint after slaying the trolls. This was something else.
"Choosing the pit," she repeated softly. "And dragging your men into it with you."
Eirik's gaze softened slightly. "They follow because they see the results. They see the path forward." He glanced towards the tavern door.
Isolde let the silence stretch as yet another greasy beef stew was put in front of Eirik. He sat down, and started to devour it again.
"So," Isolde began as soon as Eirik put down the bowl. "The invincible tactic Leif described. Hit-and-run, I heard? Horse archers? You found a solution yet?"
"No." Eirik let out a word as he wiped his mouth.
Isolde's perfectly shaped eyebrow rose. "No? That sounds remarkably like famous last words to me, Commander."
"Probably are," Eirik admitted. "It's a bit tricky, Lady Fenrir. Can't beat them head-on in the open. Can't siege them – they just melt away. Can't reliably bait them into a stand-up fight either, because they run." He sighed, the sound swallowed by a roar of laughter from a nearby table of miners. "Honestly? If I crack this nut, I deserve some sort of award from the King. Maybe a princess, now that I am of age."
"An award?" she felt indignancy filled her voice. "I think avoiding being turned into a pincushion by two hundred Skarl bows might be reward enough. Though I suppose that would grant you quiet. Permanently."
Eirik chuckled, a rough sound that seemed unfamiliar even to him. He took another huge spoonful of stew.
"Tell me, Lady Fenrir," Eirik began after the slurp. "Why are you here? Truly?"
"Pardon, Commander?"
Eirik pointed vaguely around the crowded tavern. "Here. In this… delightful place. Frostholm, at all. Trailing after a recently made legal bastard through blizzards and troll guts." He leaned forward slightly. "This isn't exactly the Fenrir family house, is it? Where servants fetch your wine chilled and the floors don't try to stick to your boots. You could be back at Stormkeep, dealing with the safer currents of Cedric's court, working for whatever scraps remain to House Fenrir. That was your safer choice. And a much less… smelly one."
Isolde's jaw tightened almost barely. "My son. My father. My house. All remain bound to your… deal. Where you go, Commander, House Fenrir's interests currently lie."
It was the obvious answer, and the most safe one.
Eirik chuckled again. "Ah, the loyal mother. Protecting her children. A noble cause, certainly."
He pushed the gravy-smeared spoon aside.
"And you didn't have to come north yourself. Leif is here, supposedly under my command, learning discipline the hard way. You could have sent a trusted man or woman on your behalf. Yet here you sit. So, cut the 'duty' line for a moment, Isolde. Tell me. Why follow the bastard?"
The directness, the use of her first name in this setting, stripped away another layer of her noble front. She flushed. It wasn't entirely anger. There was discomfort, yes, but also… challenge? She took a careful sip of her cheap wine.
She met his gaze again. "Duty binds me, yes. But you're right. It's not just that." She paused. "I am here… because I see something."
Eirik raised an eyebrow. "Something?"
"Opportunity," Isolde stated. "Not just survival, Eirik. Not just scraping House Fenrir out of the gutter Cedric pushed us into. I see the potential… for restoration. For rise. Greater than anything my father ever managed. Greater, perhaps, than anything House Fenrir has ever achieved."
Eirik blinked, really surprised. He'd expected fighting back, perhaps some half-truth about leverage, not… ambition. Grand ambition. From a widow.
"Rise? With me? Lady Fenrir, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but have you sniffed too much Frostfire?"
Isolde didn't flinch. "I am completely sober, Commander. And completely serious." She pointed slightly towards him. "Look at what stands before me. A man who, within weeks, went from a cut off bastard everyone looked down on – including me, let us be honest – to someone gathering power. Real power. A commander who took seventy-three men into a Troll Shaman's den and walked out victorious. A strategist who turned a lord's money trap into his own gain, publicly humiliating said lord in his own courtyard."
She took a breath. "You command loyalty bordering on devotion from hardened men. You have magic that goes against normal ways. But more than anything, you see people's very strengths and weaknesses laid bare."
The intensity in her eyes is now blazing. "You asked why I put up with the cold and the dirt and the bastard commander? Because I see a chance to rebuild my house not just from ruin, but into something… legendary. And that chance," she finished, "sits across from me, smelling slightly of troll and beef stew."
Silence hung between them. Eirik stared at her, suddenly found himself not knowing what to say. The feeling was quite foreign to him.
A grin finally spread across his face. He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking really flustered for perhaps the first time since she'd known him.
"Rise? Legendary?" He let out a short. "Frost's frozen balls, Isolde. Don't say shit like that." He pointed vaguely at his face. "You're gonna make me blush. And nobody wants to see that."
Isolde found a startled breath escaping her. She was laughing. A real laugh despite herself. "Consider it payment for putting up with your table manners, Commander. Four bowls? Honestly."
Before Eirik could return the banter, the tavern door banged open.
A gust of icy wind swirled sawdust and smoke, carrying in Leif Fenrir and Yorick. Snow dusted their shoulders.
Leif spotted them instantly, striding through the press of tables with Yorick trailing. He dropped a heavy leather satchel onto the table with a solid thump, making Isolde's wine cup jump. His eyes, usually guarded around Eirik, held a spark of weary triumph.
"It's done, Commander," Leif announced. "Lord Varn signed the papers." He pulled out a thick bundle of vellum scrolls with wax seals of House Varn clearly visible. "Fort Abercrombie. Ruin and rights. All his claims, given up. Once you take clear of the Skarl threats."
Good. Eirik scanned the topmost document. "The price?"
Leif's jaw tightened. "He insisted on one thousand talons, Commander. Up front. No negotiation. Said he had debts due yesterday." He hesitated, then added, "He looked… bad. Like a man already half in his grave. The hall was practically bare. "
Eirik nodded. "One thousand talons is manageable." He gestured towards the satchel. "It's paid?"
"Paid and witnessed," Leif confirmed. "His steward counted it twice. Signed the receipt." He tapped another document in the stack.
Eirik looked past Leif to Yorick. The scholar looked pale but keyed up, clutching his own satchel bulging with notes. "And the other task, Yorick? The information I required?"
Yorick blinked, startled to be addressed directly. "Oh! Yes, Commander! Absolutely. We… we gathered everything we could. Lord Varn's steward was surprisingly talkative once we greased his palm. Also talked to some old retainers, a few traders who'd dared the northern routes recently…" He licked his lips. "It's… extensive. Patterns of movement, suspected clan affiliations, names of known sub-chiefs, details on their horses, preferred tactics beyond the obvious…" He trailed off, eyes wide. "D-do you want the whole spill now, Commander? It's… rather a lot."
Eirik looked around the noisy tavern. Miners laughed boisterously. The bard plucked at his lute. He pushed the documents back towards Leif.
"Nah," he said, surprising both Leif and Yorick. He raised a hand, catching the barmaid's eye. "Three ales. Proper ones. And another round of that… fine stew." He gave Isolde a sidelong glance. "It grows on you."
He looked back at Yorick and Leif. "Sit down. Get that frozen look off your faces. You look like you've been wrestling ice wraiths." He gestured to the stools. "We've got the fort. Varn's signature is drying. That's step one." He accepted a large, foaming tankard from the barmaid. "Step two… the Skarls… that's tomorrow's mountain to climb."
Leif slowly sank onto a stool. Yorick practically collapsed onto another, fumbling his satchel onto his lap. "Tomorrow, Commander?" Yorick asked, bewildered. "But… the intelligence… it could be vital for planning the assault…"
"It is vital," Eirik agreed, taking a long pull of the surprisingly satisfying ale. It was dark, nutty, and blessedly cold. "And we will plan. Exhaustively. But not now."
He set the tankard down with a soft thud. "Right now, my bones ache, and I've eaten enough questionable stew to feed a small troll." He looked at Leif, then Yorick, then finally at Isolde, who was watching him with renewed scrutiny. "Tonight? Tonight, we drink." He raised his tankard slightly. "To Fort Abercrombie. Our new… fixer-upper."
A flicker of something flashed Isolde's eyes. He knows forcing it now, exhausted, will just lead to mistakes. She realized. He's delegating… the rest to his own instincts. It was a terrifying level of confidence, or perhaps just madness.
Leif, after a moment's hesitation, picked up his own tankard. Yorick followed suit. Isolde raised her wine cup.
"To Abercrombie," Eirik muttered, and downed the drink in one go.
