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Chapter Twelve (TIBK)
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 08:21:09 +0000 UTCThe thick oak door of Rurik’s old quarters groaned shut behind Eirik. The sudden warmth of the room, fueled by twin hearths, felt almost obscene after the raw fury and biting cold of the training yard. Eirik walked to the massive oak desk, placing the magnificent Fenrir longsword upon it with deliberate care. The silver wolf’s head pommel seemed to snarl at the room.
He needed to clean up, assess the bruising Leif had inflicted, and—
“Milord?”
Eirik turned. Harkin stood just inside the doorway he must have used moments before Eirik entered. The old guard looked weary as he executed the soldier's salute.
He’s probably not slept since yesterday. Eirik noted the dust on Harkin’s boots and cloak.
“Report.”
Harkin swallowed. “Milord… Marta. We couldn’t find her.”
A cold stillness settled over Eirik. Bad news. Very bad news.
“Details.”
“Jens and I, we searched everywhere she might hide, Milord. The old laundry, the empty grain silo near the outer wall, even checked with a couple of washerwomen she was known to chat with. Nothin’. Like she vanished into thin air.” Harkin’s voice was rough with frustration. “We even went discreet-like to the inn where her son sometimes ran errands. The innkeeper hadn’t seen either of ’em since yesterday mornin’.”
Eirik leaned against the desk. Fled successfully? Unlikely. A widow with a child, terrified, wouldn’t move that fast without leaving a trace. Garrick? The oaf was impulsive, direct. He’d likely send thugs to drag her back screaming, not orchestrate a clean disappearance.
A cold dread pierced Eirik’s satisfaction. Ingrid.
The implications were grim. Marta could be dead in a ditch already. Or worse, locked away somewhere Ingrid could… persuade her. Or use her son as leverage. This just became extremely messy. He had just humiliated her precious heir publicly and now held leverage over one of the vassal houses. She’ll be moving against me. Soon.
Harkin cleared his throat hesitantly. “Milord… there’s… another matter.” He shifted uncomfortably. “While you were… at the yards… a messenger came. From House Fenrir. Lady Fenrir’s personal scribe. Been waiting near an hour now in the outer antechamber, demanding an audience.”
Eirik’s head snapped up.
“Is that so?” Here was one pressure point he could exploit immediately. Or maybe he could wait a while for more returns.
“Aye, Milord. Seems mighty agitated,” Harkin confirmed. “Brought a sealed scroll and everything. Keeps muttering about… expediency.”
Expediency.
The desperation was palpable. Leif’s public disgrace and subsequent assault attempt had plunged House Fenrir from potential humiliation to outright disaster. Lady Fenrir wanted a deal. Fast.
Eirik pushed off the desk and walked to the window overlooking the snow-dusted courtyard. Guards patrolled like tiny figures in the deepening twilight. He let the silence stretch, savoring it.
“Tell him,” Eirik said without turning, “that Lord Eirik is occupied with pressing matters of state following the… incident. He may wait. Or he may return tomorrow. His choice.”
Harkin blinked. “But Milord… he’s a noble’s emissary… and he’s been waiting…”
Eirik turned, fixing the old guard with a piercing stare. “Harkin. Understand this. Negotiation isn’t about jumping when the other side snaps its fingers. It’s about control. About timing. They are desperate. Leif tried to murder me in front of half the keep. I hold their heirloom sword worth a small fortune, their family’s honor is in the mud, and their Steward Brynn faces the Ice Trench. My position has never been stronger. Theirs has never been weaker. Letting that messenger cool his heels reinforces that imbalance. Makes my eventual price seem even more… reasonable. Every minute he waits makes Lady Fenrir more anxious and more willing to concede.”
“Aye, Milord. I’ll… inform the messenger of your… occupation.”
“Good,” Eirik nodded.
Harkin bowed. He turned to go, and suddenly stopped. “Apologies! Milord!” He fumbled at his own belt pouch, pulling out a smaller, jingling leather sack. He tossed it to Eirik. “Yorrick’s stash. Recovered just as you ordered.”
Eirik caught the bag, feeling its satisfying weight in his palm. First tangible step towards the Warchest.
[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver (36/5000)]
———
He pushed back from the desk and began pacing. The thick rug muffled his footsteps as his mind churned through the implications. He summoned the system objectives faintly in his peripheral vision.
[Tutorial Quest #5 (out of 7): Leader of the Pack]
[Quest Type: Martial]
[Objective: Rally a warband under your banner and crush an enemy force of 50 souls or more in a single battle.]
[Tutorial Quest #3 (out of 7): Build A Warchest]
[Quest Type: Stewardship]
[Objective: Amass 5,000 Silver (36/5000)]
[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery]
[Quest Type: Learning]
[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (0/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (1/3)]
These are the three objectives before the final quest, which Eirik had expected would give him something powerful befitting a system. Is there a quick way to take care of all three quests at once and accelerate his progress into carving his independence in the north?
His gaze fell on the Fenrir sword resting on his desk. The silver wolf pommel gleamed in the firelight. A warrior’s weapon.
What if…
The idea struck him like lightning. His spine straightened as the pieces clicked together.
A Mercenary Company.
His breath hitched. It was so obvious, yet so radical within the rigid feudal structure of Stormkeep. Lords commanded sworn vassals and levied troops, and used sell-swords only absolutely necessary. But I am no ordinary lord, he thought, I am a legitimized bastard with no land, no loyal vassals, and enemies circling. And the system doesn’t care if my “warband” is sworn knights or hired swords. As long as I have victory.
Eirik’s pulse quickened. This could work. More than work—it could be the perfect solution to multiple problems.
Think about the advantages.
First, it would explain his sudden need for money.
Everyone understood that forming a mercenary company required significant startup capital. Weapons, armor, supplies, wages—it all cost coin.
Second, it gives him the muscle he needs to act on lucrative objectives. Not immediately. Not directly. But once he had even a small force of trained fighters, options opened up. He could pressure corrupt merchants. Seize bandits’ stashes. Take “contracts” that happened to target his enemies.
But most importantly…
It provided the perfect excuse the leave Stormkeep eventually. Mercenary companies wandered where the contracts led. WHen he headed north, it wouldn’t be fleeing — it would be seeking employment.
The company becomes both the means and the excuse.
His mind raced through the logistics. How much would he need to start? What kind of men should he recruit first?
His thoughts circled back to the Fenrir messenger cooling his heels in the antechamber. That negotiation would be his first test. Not just for the money—thought he needed every copper—but also to establish his reputation.
If word spreads that the bastard Stormcrow outmaneuvered House Fenrir in negotiations after beating their heir in combat…
That was the kind of story that attracted ambitious fighters. The kind of reputation that made men believe following him might lead somewhere.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. “Milord… House Fenrir’s messenger had requested me to check your availability again.”
“Send him in.” Eirik’s cold smile returned.
The game was about to begin, and he intended to win.
The door opened, and a thin, nervous-looking man in Fenrir colors entered while clutching a sealed scroll.
“Lord Eirik,” the messenger bowed stiffly. “I bear an urgent message from Lady Fenrir regarding… today’s unfortunate events.”
“Speak.”
The messenger cleared his throat and unrolled the scroll with shaking hands. “Lady Fenrir extends her deepest apologies for her son’s… lapse in judgment. She acknowledges the shame brought upon House Fenrir and seeks to make amends.”
“Amends,” Eirik repeated flatly. “Her son tried to kill me. With magic. In front of half of the keep.”
The messenger paled further. “Yes, Milord. Lady Fenrir understands the severity. She offers… compensation.
“I’m listening.”
“First, House Fenrir formally withdraws all claims to the wagered sword.” The messenger’s eyes flicked to the blade on the desk. “It is yours by right of combat.”
“That was already mine,” Eirik pointed out. “What else?”
“Lady Fenrir offers five hundred silver talons as blood price for the attack.”
Five hundred. Eirik kept his expression neutral, but internally he scoffed. For attempted murder? With magic? In front of witnesses?
“And in exchange?”
The messenger swallowed hard. “Lady Fenrir humbly requests that you… speak favorably to Baron Cedric regarding the incident. That you… emphasize Leif’s youth and heat of the moment. That you request leniency.”
Ah. Leniency. Attempted murder with magic was a capital crime. Leif’s life literally hung on Cedric’s judgment—and Cedric would likely ask for Eirik’s input as the victim.
“Five hundred talons,” Eirik mused aloud, “to spare the life of the heir who tried to murder me.” He let the silence stretch uncomfortably. “Tell me, messenger. What do you think Leif’s life is worth to his mother?”
The man shifted nervously. “I… I wouldn’t presume to—”
“Let me help you.” Eirik stood, moving around the desk with deliberate slowness. “Leif is her only son. The heir to House Fenrir. Trained expensively in combat and magic. Educated. Groomed for leadership.” He stopped directly in front of the messenger. “Without him, House Fenrir’s line ends. So I ask again—what is that worth?”’
“Then you’re wasting my time.” Eirik turned away dismissively. “Tell Lady Fenrir that I’ll be giving Lord Cedric a full, detailed account of the attack. How Leif ambushed me after losing fairly. How he channeled killing magic. How he showed no honor, no restraint, no mercy.” He paused at the window. “I imagine the Baron will find it all very… illuminating.”
The messenger’s face went white. His hands trembled as he clutched the scroll tighter.
“Please, Lord Eirik! Surely… surely we can reach an understanding! Lady Fenrir is prepared to… to increase the compensation!”
“How much?”
“One thousand silver talons!” the messenger blurted out. “And… and a formal apology!”
One thousand. That was better, but still nowhere near what Leif’s life was actually worth to them.
“Not enough,” Eirik said simply.
The messenger flinched as if struck. “Milord! Please! One thousand silver talons is a substantial sum! Lady Fenrir implores you—”
“Implores?” Eirik cut him off. “Her son tried to murder me. And she sends you with a paltry bribe wrapped in empty apologies? Your mistress mistakes desperation for leverage.” He gestured dismissively at the door. “Go. Tell her my next conversation on this matter will be with Lord Cedric.”
The messenger was sweating now despite the cold room.
“What… what would you consider fair compensation, Lord Eirik?”
Eirik pretended to consider this carefully. In reality, he’d already calculated multiple scenarios. The key was not to name a realistic number yet. That would give them something to negotiate down from. Instead, he needed to establish that the current offer was laughably inadequate.
“Five thousand silver talons,” he said finally. “Plus the Skyfrost Cloak.”
The messenger’s eyes went wide. “Five thousand… and the… the cloak? Nobody in the Barony has this kind of money! And Lord Eirik… you already took one of their family heirlooms!”
“Which I did fairly.” Eirik said. “And I am giving you a fair offer now.”
“I… I cannot possibly agree to such terms without Lady Fenrir’s direct approval!”
“Then get it.”
“But Lady Fenrir… she’s at the family estate, and the roads in this weather…”
Eirik felt a cold flash of irritation. She’s either stalling, or she genuinely doesn’t grasp how deep the pit she’s fallen into. He’d let this messenger dangle long enough. It was time to force the real player to the table.
“Enough,” Eirik declared. “This is pointless. You lack the authority, and Lady Fenrir clearly lacks the courage or the sense to understand the gravity of her position. Go back. Fetch your lady. Tell her I will speak to her, and only to her. Immediately.”
The messenger was stunned. “F-Fetch Lady Fenrir? Milord, where? Here? To these chambers?“ He gestured around Rurik’s quarters, the implication clear: it would be politically volatile and deeply humiliating for the noblewoman to be summoned like a servant.
“No. Not here,” Eirik stated. “Somewhere public but won’t be easily overheard.” He watched the messenger scramble for an answer.
“The… the market square?” The messenger offered hesitantly. “It’s bustling near dusk.”
“Too open. Too many prying eyes. And freezing.” Eirik dismissed it.
“The copper Tankard? The main tavern?”
“Full of soldiers. Too many witnesses prone to drunken gossip.”
The messenger wrung his hands. “Perhaps… perhaps the Foundry Quarter warehouses? But they’re deserted at this hour, Milord…”
Eirik was about to dismiss that too when the messenger’s eyes lit with a sudden, desperate idea. “There is one place, Milord! The Frost Pit! The combat trials begin soon. Tonight it’s condemned men against a young ice troll. It will be… loud. Very loud. Packed with common folk and off-duty guards. Lady Fenrir could attend discreetly. No one would question her presence in the private upper galleries, and the roar of the crowd…” He trailed off, the implication was clear: privacy amidst pandemonium.
The Frost Pit.
Eirik searched his memories which brought forth an image of a grim arena tucked near the outer walls. A brutal, bloody spectacle used to entertain the masses and thin the ranks of prisoners with serious crimes.
“Do it,” Eirik said. “The Frost Pit. One hour. Ensure she’s alone. If I see otherwise, or any sign of treachery, the deal is off, and I ride straight to the Baron upon my return.”
The messenger bowed shakily. “I… I will relay your message, Milord.”
“Good. Now get out.”
