Chapter 32: 32. Frostwind Trader’s Post

Blizzarding snow whipped up around the party as they pulled ropes tied to the wagon.

The Frontier had informal roads that ran through its great expanse. It was a time-honored tradition to carry a rock with you when going long distances and placing down on soft ground. Over time, this resulted in semi-paved roads. Of course, there was a blanket of snow across the land, but with winter proper still a month or so away, the snow on heavily walked paths was broken and compacted enough for decent travel.

But not today.

It had started snowing almost as soon as they left the fort’s walls and continued every step since. And now a powdery topping lay atop the ground, swallowing the wagon’s wheels as they struggled to press on.

Every hand was needed to help the horses pull, and the group followed Trayox’s lead as he heaved to a count of 1-2-3.

By midday, they had to stop. Sweat formed patches beneath their arms, and their muscles tightened.

The Imperator had packed plenty of meat, at least. And they ate salted steaks by the roadside as they recovered.

“Never got a chance to ask you what you think about all this,” Callum said as he chewed.

“About the Imperator’s plan?”

“Yeah, what else?”

“It’s better than anyone else's,” Erin shrugged.

“Perhaps… But what are a bunch of craftsmen going to accomplish? Like, I mean, I get it. Kinda. We hadn’t had a fresh supply from the Imperium for months, and he filled our storeroom by trading with the ferals. Gotta give the man credit where it's due. But what now? It’s obvious we can already make whatever they need. What’s this going to achieve?”

“You mean, what are we going to achieve by recruiting skilled craftsmen? Do you even listen to yourself talk sometimes?”

“You know what I mean. It’s more mouths to feed. Not to mention the furs.”

“What are we going to do with all these furs?”

“Well, winter is coming, isn’t it?”

“What? Just how many layers do you think you’ll need?”

“I dunno. Just thinking aloud.”

“I mean, really. Have you forgotten about the battle already? You know, the one that the ferals won for us?”

“No, of course not. I was on the wall, unlike someone.”

“Don’t remind me,” Erin rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe they still wouldn’t let me carry weapons. At least the Imperator had enough sense to let me sneak a crossbow out in the wagon.”

“Yeah, that’s something.”

“Something? Why did you insist on coming if you’re going to be so mopy?”

“To test myself.”

Erin leaned back, a smirk playing on her lips. “What? Are you some badass now? I came here to test myself,” Erin mocked, putting on a deep, tough-guy impersonation.

“What, it’s true?”

“Okay,” Erin rolled her eyes as she held in a giggle.

Callum snorted and shook his head. “You know what? You are annoying.”

“See, told you,” Trayox said, nodding as he ripped a mouthful of meat away.

They stopped several times as they traveled to trade with ferals along the road. Most were more than willing to, even running back to their camps to collect furs in exchange for an axehead or a few nails.

**Trolls**

Deep within the Dagger Mountains lived the trolls. Towering a foot above men on average, their frames are strewn with muscle, and their bodies heal unburned wounds capable of killing a man in mere minutes.

These proud and deadly creatures are held back only by their meager numbers.

With lifespans of about one hundred and fifty years, they spend two years in gestation, five years as infants, thirty as children, and don’t reach adulthood until their fifty-fifth birthday.

Hidden away in their mountaintop caverns, the trolls pray to the stone god, Rockharden—as it is translated from their language—and pride themselves on their traditions and customs.

So when the warlord Vargh Tok united the ten great tribes and subsequently betrayed them by bowing a knee to the wargs and declaring The Seven-Head Wolf God as their own, many rebelled.

But with numbers against them, they were cut down by the combined forces of Vargh Tok and their warg allies.

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However, not all were so cowardly as to surrender their traditions or too rash to challenge a superior foe. Tath Gorak, a proud chieftain held up in the far western edges of the Daggers, delayed his correspondence. He promised to meet soon and bow to his new warlord and god as he prepared his people.

With supplies packed, they marched out of the warmth of their volcanic mountain, laden with hot springs, into the blizzard in search of an honorable future.

Raised with faith, Tath Gorak believed that he would find the answers to his questions, that his gods would not betray him now, and that it was his duty to lead his people to greener pastures.

Pulling carts by hand, his small tribe of eleven trolls began their descent from the treacherous mountains in broad daylight because the night was the warg’s ally.

They would have to move fast and cross the foothills before night came. Thankfully, the trolls made large, powerful strides, covering land at remarkable speeds.

Tath Gorak looked back at his ancestral home as the tribe passed across a winding edge of the mountain. It would be the last time he would see it unless he managed to save his kind from Vargh Tok’s sacrilege.

He made a silent prayer to his ancestors, begging them for forgiveness. His actions were just, but he couldn’t say whether or not they would accept the loss of their home, the caves his people had lived in for a thousand years. They traded and married into other tribes as they participated in the troll council. And now they would leave that all behind to seek help from ancient enemies in the hope that they could find an ally against the wargs. In the hope that they could survive without surrendering everything they cherished.

There was no doubt it was controversial, but he saw no other way forward. It was either this or giving up on everything they believed in.

**Trade Caravan**

Determined to keep pace, they barely slept. After a few hours of shut-eye, they were dragging the wagon through the snow again.

It got easier as they reached some well-trodden paths that led to a couple of small camps—mostly trappers.

Trayox and the other barbarians found a spot not too far from the path but well hidden by trees to hide in, and Callum and Erin drove the wagon the last few hundred yards.

Unlike Fort Winterclaw, they approached open gates. However, they were far from unsecured. Men stood on the walls with crossbows, and several figures were standing by the entrance. And they weren’t all in the employ of the Imperium. In fact, most weren’t. They lacked the Imperial crests that acolytes, masters, and Imperators alike wore. Instead, they were gowned by leathers, furs, and cowled cloaks.

The men eyed them warily as they approached, but no one said anything or tried to stop them. The trading post was known to be open to all who wished to enter, like a free fort, except for barbarians, who were likely the only people these guards were here to keep out.

Inside, wagons were pulled up to most of the log buildings, and a few people—mostly men—stood around.

Erin spotted a hanging timber sign and nudged Callum. “There it is, The Widow’s Bane.”

“Alright, lead on, boss.”

“Ooo, boss. I like how that sounds.”

“They are looking at us,” Callum said, ignoring her remark as they walked toward the inn and tavern.

“Ignore them. We might be in a free zone, but no one is going to try anything against a couple of acolytes with an Imperial barracks in sight.”

“Right,” Callum nodded as he tried to avoid the stares of fortune seekers.

“Okay, you watch the wagon,” Erin said, gesturing to the hitching post beside the Widow’s Bane. “I’ll visit the Merchant’s Guild first. See if I can’t get them to offer a decent price for these furs. Then we can visit the Widow’s Bane together.”

“I suppose that sounds as good as any plan,” Callum nodded.

"Good. And if something does happen, I guess you should scream."

"I'm not screaming for your help, Erin," Callum deadpanned. "I have too much pride for that."

"Men and their pride," Erin shook as she turned for the Merchant's Guild.

The Merchant’s Guild looked no different from the other cabins except that it was bigger, and a timber sign was nailed above its entrance—the abundance of logs and little else meant that they were used to build just about everything.

A guard stood beside the door, and she watched his eyes glance down at the Imperial emblem stitched into her robe and looked away.

Citizens and free people didn’t necessarily treat the Law of Hierarchy with as much respect as direct employees of the Imperium. Still, they knew well enough not to cause anyone above them trouble.

Erin eyed him a moment as she entered. While she might not have chosen this life for herself, she at least saw the light at the end of the tunnel, being an acolyte. It was hard to rationalize why a free person would intentionally choose to come here.

Inside, the main room was mostly filled with barrels and chests, and a single bench, partially hidden behind a stack of barrels, was stuffed in the corner.

Another guard was inside, but he didn’t pay her much attention as she approached the bench.

“Hello, anyone?”

“One moment,” came a reply from somewhere beyond. The building didn’t appear to have many or even any walls. Just one big storeroom with thick logs dotted through to keep the roof up. But aisles zigzagged through the rows of barrels and chests that formed their own makeshift walls.

“Imperial, what can I do ye for?” a goateed man appeared, eyeing her robes as he wiped his hands with a cloth.

“I’m looking to sell furs.”

“Furs?” The man’s brow rose. “You don’t look much like a trapper.”

“I’m here on behalf of my Imperator. He’s looking to sell out our stock.”

“Is he now,” the man stroked his chin. “Got a sample?”

Erin nodded and pulled a pelt from her robes.

“Hmm, decent enough,” the man said, taking hold of it and rubbing it between his fingers. “How much do you want for it?”

“Bounty out front says six crowns per pelt.”

“For guild-employed trappers, it is. I never seen you in my life.”

“Why should that matter? The goods are the same.”

“How many you got, Acolyte girl?”

“Forty high-quality pelts and another sixty not-so-high quality.”

“I’ll give you five each for the lot of them. Take it or leave it.”

The Imperator had asked her to make sure she made enough to hire the help they needed and any supplies the craftsmen might need to get started. And five hundred crowns was far more than they had expected to get.

Erin considered trying to push the man, but the deal sounded too good to screw up. Besides, even though she doubted they would do anything here, there wasn’t anything stopping the guild from sending a couple of mercenaries to follow them out of the trading post and deal with them.

“Alright, you’ve got a deal,” Erin nodded.

“One more thing,” the man raised a finger.

“I thought we had a–”

“Shh, we do. But I’d like to know how your storeroom got hold of so many furs. Imperators aren’t exactly known for being skilled trappers.”

“Sorry, but I’m not in the mood for a discussion.”

“Wait. It’s fine. Keep your secrets,” the man rushed after Erin as she turned to leave. My clients back in the Imperium are always in need of more furs. It feels endless sometimes. Really. If you can get furs in large numbers, I’ll be happy to keep paying. And if your Imperator needs coin…”

“For six crowns a fur?”

“Clever girl,” the man chuckled. “Deal. Next time you bring me furs, I’ll pay six crowns each.”

“I’ll have to talk to my Imperator. But I’ll tell him your offer.”

“Please do. There’s a lot of money to be made if you go looking in the right place. I’m sure if your Imperator is astute enough to send you here in the first place, he will understand the opportunity that presents him.”

“Perhaps,” Erin nodded as she left.

He’s quite the salesman, Erin sighed as she stepped back into the cold.