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Chapter Twenty-Nine (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 13:09:50 +0000 UTCFor three solid days, Eirik Stormcrow felt like nothing more than a glorified ice machine. His Peak Snow Realm mana core churned relentlessly, cold energy flowing from his center, down his arm, crystallizing into shape above his palm.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The rhythm was unceasing. Flask after flask materialized: thick-walled, apple-sized, with narrow necks. Each one cost him a single precious point of Mana. He'd wake before dawn, find a secluded spot near the Talons' temporary camp, and work. Conjure, rest while his Mana regenerated painfully slowly, then conjure again.
Twenty-five flasks. That was his daily limit before hitting zero, leaving him drained and irritable. Rinse. Repeat. A hundred flasks didn't materialize by wishing.
This is the cost, he thought grimly, watching frost plume from his latest creation. Mana is power, but it's also currency. Time. Stamina.
But the relentless grind wasn't without rewards. On the second day, desperate for efficiency, he'd slipped a single conjured flask into his storage ring. He'd held his breath. Would it vanish? Melt instantly?
Nothing happened. An hour later, he retrieved it. Cold, solid, pristine.
It doesn't decay inside, the realization struck him. The storage ring suspends it. Time stops. No melt, no seepage.
This changed everything. He could mass-produce the ice shells ahead of time. Store them indefinitely. Carry pre-filled bombs into battle without worrying about them sweating and weakening. Logistical magic to match the alchemical kind.
Isolde Fenrir had been true to her word. While Eirik churned out ice and Olaf drilled recruits, she had leveraged her family's strained but extant mercantile connections. Discreet messages flew. Meetings were arranged.
On the morning of the fourth day, Eirik found himself on a desolate, snow-dusted plateau overlooking a steep ravine, half a day's ride northwest of Stormkeep. The wind howled like a hungry wolf, carrying stinging ice crystals. The spot was perfect: isolated, rugged, far from prying noble eyes.
Good choice, Isolde, Eirik acknowledged silently. This setting screams their pain point.
Six men huddled near a small, shielded fire, wrapped in thick furs over fine woolens. Merchant lords, not soldiers. Their expressions ranged from skeptical curiosity to outright impatience.
Beside them stood four hard-eyed men in sturdy leathers – mercenary captains, representing smaller companies known to operate near the contested northern borders. These men looked cold but alert, assessing the terrain with professional eyes.
Isolde stood beside Eirik, radiating calm assurance. Yorick hovered nearby, holding a locked iron box containing ten of Fisk's finished masterpieces. Leif stood slightly apart, observing with his newly assigned lieutenant’s detachment. Olaf and a handpicked squad of Talons formed a loose perimeter.
In the center of the plateau stood their demonstration targets: A crude wooden shield wall with four thick planks bolted together. Besides it, a mock supply cart made of a simple wooden sled stacked with straw-filled burlap sacks. Lastly, a tall post wrapped in thick furs and topped with an antlered skull.
Eirik stepped forward, wind whipping his dark cloak.
"Gentlemen," Eirik began, his voice cutting through the gale. "Thank you for braving the cold. Lady Fenrir vouches for your discretion and your need. My name is Eirik Stormcrow. I command the Talons. What I show you today addresses a problem you all face: survival against overwhelming force in this frozen hell."
The mercenary captains leaned in. The merchants watched, calculating.
"The north is vast. Patrols are thin. Raiders strike fast and vanish. Monsters emerge from blizzards. How do you purge a threat, quickly and decisively, without getting close enough for them to use their axes or claws?"
He gestured to Yorick, who opened the box and lifted out one of the Frostfire bombs. Gasps went up. A flask of seemingly clear ice, filled with dark liquid, a short cord protruding from its neck.
"What is this… thing?" demanded Silas Mender, a portly merchant known for supplying garrison outposts. "A jar of lamp oil? In ice? It'll melt!"
"It holds," Eirik stated flatly. "For long enough. This, gentlemen, is 'Frostfire'. Developed for the Talons. Exclusively."
He took the bomb from Yorick. "Its purpose is simple: deliver cleansing fire exactly where you need it. Shield wall? Supply cache? Monstrous den? This clears the path."
He pointed at the shield wall. "Olaf. The barricade."
Olaf grinned fiercely. He accepted the bomb, lit the fuse with flint and steel. A tiny ember glowed, sizzling softly. Olaf loaded it into a crude sling, spun twice, and let fly.
The ice flask arced through the air. Every eye tracked it.
CRACK-SMASH!
It hit the center plank dead on. Ice shattered instantly. Thick, sticky fluid exploded outwards, coating the wood. For one heart-stopping second, nothing happened except the hiss of the burning fuse.
Then…
WHOOSH!
A ferocious bloom of deep orange flame erupted. Not a flash – an inferno clinging to the wood, spreading with terrifying speed. Intense heat radiated outwards. The flames roared, melting surrounding snow into hissing steam. Within seconds, the mock shield wall was a blazing pyre.
The collective gasp was louder, sharper. Silas Mender gaped. Dagmar Stonefist, a grizzled mercenary captain, muttered, "Frost's teeth..."
"Fire that clings," Eirik stated over the crackle. "Fire that burns hot enough to weaken timber, warp shields, and turn any defensive position into an oven. No need to charge spears. Break their formation with fire before you draw blades."
He nodded to Yorick for another bomb. "Raiders live off stolen goods. Monsters hoard. Burn their sustenance."
Olaf repeated the process. The Frostfire bomb struck the topmost burlap sack.
SMASH-WHOOSH!
Flame erupted instantly, greedily devouring the dry straw. Thick, greasy smoke plumed skyward. Within moments, the entire mock supply cache was a blazing ruin.
"The fuel sticks," Eirik explained coolly. "It splashes wide. One hit can ignite a whole wagon."
He moved towards the fur-wrapped effigy. "And then there are the things that laugh at steel. Fur, hide, thick natural armor. Fire purifies."
He took the third bomb himself. Lit the fuse. Judged the wind. Drew his arm back and threw underhand, hard and low.
The ice flask slammed into the fur-wrapped post.
SMASH!
Sticky fuel sprayed over the furs.
WHOOSH!
The flame bloomed with terrifying ferocity. The thick furs caught instantly, fire clinging and spreading upwards with shocking speed. Within seconds, the effigy was a roaring pillar of fire, the antlered skull rapidly blackening. It was primal, terrifying.
Silence descended, broken only by the roar of three separate fires and the howl of wind. The merchants stared wide-eyed, calculating destruction against profit. The mercenary captains exchanged grim, knowing glances.
Eirik let the fires burn another minute. Then he turned back. "Frostfire. Instant, targeted, purifying flame. Effective at range. Leaves no traceable container – just meltwater and ash."
He saw greed warring with caution in the merchants' eyes. Strategic appreciation in the mercenaries'.
"So," Silas Mender spoke first, voice slightly hoarse. "This… Frostfire. What's the cost, Commander? And how is it supplied?"
Eirik met his gaze. "The weapon comes ready to deploy. Each Frostfire unit is twenty-five silver talons."
Sharp intake of breath from the merchants. Ivar the Knife, a lean, scarred captain, whistled softly. "Steep."
Is it? Eirik thought coldly. He didn't flinch.
"Steep?" Eirik echoed, voice carrying an edge. "Calculate the cost, Captain Ivar. How many men does it take to storm a Skarl shield wall? How many silver talons in blood money? How much lost revenue when a convoy is gutted?"
He gestured towards the burning shield wall. "One Frostfire bomb. One throw. That shield wall is gone. The men behind it are panicked, burning, or dead." He pointed at the smoldering sled. "One bomb. An entire season's worth of plunder, gone." He pointed at the charred post. "One bomb. A threat that might have cost a dozen lives, ended in moments."
He locked eyes with each man. "Twenty-five talons buys you victory. It buys you lives. Security for your investments. A reputation for wielding fear."
Dagmar Stonefist scratched his grizzled chin. "How many can you provide? And how fast?"
"The initial production run is limited," Eirik stated. "We prioritize reliability and exclusivity. Current capacity allows for significant, but finite, orders. First orders placed today take precedence."
Silas Mender cleared his throat, pulling his expensive furs tighter against the biting wind.
"Commander Stormcrow, that... that demonstration was... potent. But ice melts! How do you store such a thing? How do you transport it? By the time I get this back to my outpost depot, days from here, won't it just be a leaking puddle of oil with a wet wick?"
He shook his head, genuine worry creasing his brow. "What if the journey warms it? What if a warm spell hits? A leaking firebomb in my warehouse..." He trailed off, shuddering visibly. One spark near a spill, and my livelihood goes up in smoke – literally.
Others murmured agreement.
Ivar crossed his arms. "Mender’s got a point, Commander. My boys operate across the Frostfang passes. Temperatures swing. Sun hits the supply sledges. How do we keep these frosty fire-starters stable for days, maybe weeks? We can’t afford them failing when a Skarl raiding party shows up."
Eirik gestured sharply towards the Talon perimeter.
"Olaf. Bring a crate."
Olaf barked an order. Two Talons wrestled a sturdy wooden crate from the back of their sled towards the center of the plateau. It was unremarkable – thick pine planks nailed together, lined inside with what looked like coarse, stitched sheepskin. Yorick stepped forward, pulling off the lid with a flourish.
Inside, nestled in a bed of packed snow and rough-cut ice chunks, lay ten Frostfire bombs, identical to the ones used in the demonstration.
"See?" Olaf boomed, reaching in and pulling one out. Condensation immediately formed on the cold surface, but the flask itself was solid, the dark fuel clearly visible, the wick dry. "Kept 'em colder than a frost giant's heart all the way here. Simple crate. Packed with snow and ice. The north provides plenty of that, eh?"
"The storage crate maintains a sub-zero environment, gentlemen," Eirik explained. "As long as the ambient temperature remains below freezing – which, for us, is ten months of the year – the bombs remain stable indefinitely within their insulated cradle. For transport during the brief summer thaws, deeper ice cellars or shaded, ventilated storage suffice. The principle is sound: contain the cold with the cold itself. Your cellars, your ice houses – they already keep your perishables frozen. They will keep Frostfire stable."
Silas peered into the crate. "Huh. Simple enough." His expression was less panicked, more calculating. So, it requires dedicated cold storage... an extra cost, but manageable. Especially compared to the potential gains. "And... you guarantee they won't just... melt and leak during storage? Or ignite spontaneously?"
"The fuel blend is thickened, designed to resist seepage even during brief warming," Eirik stated. "The ice shell provides a buffer. We've tested stability for days within these crates without issue. The risk," he locking eyes with the merchants, "is minimal compared to the risk of not having this tool when raiders torch your caravans or monsters overrun your outposts."
"This was untested beyond this pretty demonstration, Commander. What proof do we have that it works consistently? In battle? Against living, moving targets? What if the fuse fails? What if the fuel doesn't ignite on softer ground?" Silas spread his hands. "We are being asked to gamble substantial capital on an invention. This... is a leap into the unknown."
Dagmar chimed in, his voice reedy. "Indeed! A track record of failure could ruin us! Our clients rely on dependable goods! If Frostfire fails when raiders hit a caravan... the reputational damage alone..."
They need a push, Eirik caught Isolde Fenrir’s eye. A subtle nod passed between them. It was her cue. She had played this game in Stormkeep's high halls for decades.
Isolde stepped forward smoothly. "Gentlemen. Your caution is understandable. Predictable." Mild disdain colored her tone. "You weigh risks like coins. A prudent habit."
She paused. "But have you calculated the scale of opportunity lying scorched before you?"
She gestured toward the smoldering shield wall. "This isn't merely a weapon. It's a paradigm shift. Imagine being the sole supplier of Frostfire to border garrisons. The premiums you could charge mining outposts desperate for defense against Ice Troll packs."
Her gaze swept over them. "This 'leap into the unknown'? It's the edge. The advantage. The difference between being a reliable supplier of lamp oil... and becoming the indispensable purveyor of security."
She let the word hang heavy. "The House that controls Frostfire controls the northern defense market for the next decade. Profits won't be measured in hundreds of talons, but thousands."
She saw avarice ignite in Aksel’s eyes. Silas's expression shifted from skeptical to thoughtful. She pressed her advantage. "Commander Stormcrow offers exclusivity. First refusal to those with vision to seize it now. But he is not a patient man."
She turned toward the mercenary captains. "Captain Borin. Captain Ivar. I know your companies operate near Skarl borderlands. Lord Arcturus Flint's garrison at Icemark Keep has been begging for better solutions after last season's losses. Imagine being the captain who gives Lord Arcturus the means to turn Skarl raiding parties into bonfires."
Their weathered face hardened. The implication was clear.
"House Fenrir," Isolde continued coolly, "has placed its faith behind Commander Stormcrow. We secured the first major order." A slight exaggeration, but truth was flexible in negotiations. "Should your vision remain limited... the western clans facing more immediate incursions are far less squeamish about new tools."
Perfect, Eirik thought. She's dangling riches while holding a knife of obsolescence to their throats.
Silas Mender broke first. The image of losing the lucrative garrison contracts to a rival merchant, or worse, seeing Dagmar or Ivar become heroes supplying Flint with his missed opportunity, was too much.
He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Exclusivity, you say? For specific regions?"
Eirik nodded. "Initial orders define territory. Supply contracts for designated areas: garrison zones, key trade routes, specific clientele. First commitment secures the most valuable territories."
"How many can you supply?" Dagmar Stonefist rumbled. "And how fast?"
"Initial production capacity is one hundred units per week," Eirik stated. It was ambitious, given his mana constraints and Fisk's capabilities, but achievable with relentless focus. "Delivery to a pre-arranged location within a week of order confirmation. Payment in full upon confirmation of the production schedule."
"One hundred a week..." Ivar mused, rubbing his scarred chin. He glanced at Borin, a silent communication passing between the rival captains. "Icemark Keep alone could use twenty a month through the winter. Just for patrol deterrents."
Silas Mender saw the mercenaries moving and panicked. "House Mender would secure exclusive supply rights for the northern garrison route! Thirty units initially, with options for monthly resupply!" He blurted it out, the words tumbling over each other in his haste to lock it down.
Aksel, not to be outdone, jumped in. "Aksel and Sons demand exclusivity for the Blackroot Pass caravans! Twenty units! Guaranteed monthly orders!"
Dagmar Stonefist scowled. "Don't be fools. Garrisons and caravans need protection, but active companies need deployable weapons now. Stonefist Company takes thirty units. Immediate delivery priority." He looked directly at Eirik. "Cash. On the barrel."
Ivar the Knife smirked. "Knife's Edge takes twenty. Same terms. Priority delivery."
Leif Fenrir, observing silently from the periphery, felt a grudging respect bloom amidst his lingering resentment. Eirik and mother are playing them off each other masterfully. They turned skepticism into a bidding war within minutes. He subtly signaled a nearby Talon to bring forward the iron-bound chest containing the sample contracts Yorick had prepared.
Negotiations descended into a focused frenzy.
Prices were reiterated – twenty-five talons per unit, non-negotiable. Territories were carved up verbally: Mender secured the garrison route, Aksel the Blackroot Pass caravans. Stonefist and Knife's Edge claimed priority battlefield supply. Yorick, ever efficient, took rapid notes, translating the verbal agreements into binding clauses on parchment.
Isolde moved like a diplomat, whispering assurances to Aksel, subtly reminding Silas of the consequences of delay, affirming the captains' battle-tested pragmatism. She was the lubricant ensuring the gears of greed meshed smoothly.
As Yorick finalized the last signature – a surprisingly elegant scrawl from the gnarled hand of Dagmar Stonefist – Eirik mentally tallied the commitments.
Silas Mender: 30 units - 750 talons.
Aksel & Sons: 20 units - 500 talons.
Stonefist Company: 30 units - 750 talons.
Knife's Edge: 20 units - 500 talons.
Total: 100 units. 2,500 silver talons.
Two thousand five hundred. The number echoed in Eirik's mind like the tolling of a victory bell. But he could only collect about 1,000 talons upfront today while having to pay Fisk his share of 500. Finishing the system request hinges on timely delivery, which means he’d have to turn himself into a non-stoping Ice-machine for the foreseeable future.
Ah, the things we do for money.
