Chapter 33: 33. Hired Help

Mark felt like a mad scientist mixing different concoctions for his homemade Greek fire. His recipe included sap, lantern oil, sulfur, and charcoal. And after many failures, he mixed up a fresh batch and poured a little into a metal bowl.

Passing across his cabin, he took a candle and gradually lowered it down to the mixture. It caught immediately.

Perfect!

There were many steps he had to get right for this to work. Burning for a long time and not going out was just one feature. To use the substance in a flamethrower-like device would require it to catch as it passed through a flame. That meant it needed to catch fast—very fast.

The flames continued to burn, turning clear blue after a second. From a bowl at his side, Mark took a little snow and dropped it atop the flame. It flickered but remained alight. He took more snow and dropped it, receiving the same result.

I’ve done it. He still needed a delivery device, which would require a skilled craftsman. But at least he was one step closer to a weapon that could turn a battle against the wargs in his favor.

Leaning back as he watched the fruit of his labor burn clear, Mark’s thoughts about the throne ship burrowed back to the forefront.

The current situation made him feel stuck, and he had been applying himself to anything that would keep him busy while he waited for news on Imperator Eamon. And it was starting to frustrate him.

Despite their rather small numbers of around a couple hundred or so people living in and around the fort, his scouts were fairly confident that no new threats from the cultists were brewing and were unlikely to appear before winter. And with only a few weeks remaining until the real winter arrived, Mark knew that his time to go exploring for this lost treasure was running out. He just needed to confirm that Imperator Eamon had no immediate plans to attempt to arrest him.

Atlas might have given up toward the end, but Mark was fairly certain he was no fool. Retrieving the throne ship before winter had to be a priority.

**Acolytes—Erin**

Downtrodden gazes fell upon Erin as she entered the inn and tavern flanked by Callum. They had sold all of the wares they brought with them. Both of them now carried heavy sacks of crowns. But they weren’t particularly worried about someone directly robbing them with an Imperial barracks outside. However, it still wasn't wise to leave goods unattended in a wagon. Many of these people were struggling, especially with how much prices had increased, thanks to the danger on the frontier roads. The situation would make easy loot too tempting for many.

At the far end of the drinking hall was a noticeboard with all kinds of jobs posted—written on scrolls nailed to the board.

Most turned away once they realized they were just a couple of acolytes, returning their attention to their ales.

“So, do you or the Imperator have a plan for what’s next?” Callum whispered from the side of his mouth.

“Kinda,” Erin said and made for the bar. “Barkeep,” she said, tapping a crown against the bench.

A middle-aged man with a naturally crooked brow and spotted skin stared silently at Erin as he dried a mug with his apron.

“Hello?”

“Eh, order?”

“No order. I’m after information.”

“Oh,” he grunted and turned away from her.

“Alright, fine. Food. Stew or something. As long as it comes with a few questions.”

“Eh,” he turned and nodded, then banged the wall several times and yelled a barely intelligible mumbled sentence into the kitchen. “Questions? He turned back to Erin.”

Erin smiled, “For you.” She held up the crown.

The man eyed it briefly and then slowly made his way over.

“All yours, big guy,” Erin said, handing the coin over. I’m actually looking for craftsmen—all trades. Do you know any?”

“Aye,” he nodded and pointed a stubby finger. “Tailor, weaver, mason, fletcher,” he said, moving his hand to point at each of them as he spoke.

“Thank you,” Erin said, turning to Callum and nodding toward the craftsmen. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"We haven't hired them yet," Callum grumbled.

**Payon**

His hammer collided with a rain of sparks against the glowing metal in the little. He worked in a little rented smithy, and as Payon straightened the little piece of metal, he threw the nail using his tongs into his finished pile.

With that, he reached his nail quota and picked at the partially worked sheet of metal he had saved at his aside.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The metal was a project he had started to keep himself from going insane—banging out nails every day. It was to be a fine long sword. He continued the process he had already begun—heating and folding the metal as he worked carbon into it. It was to be a great blade. Great enough that he wasn’t too worried about finding a seller with or without a contract. Someone would be interested. That much he was confident about with a sword of this quality.

He hammered at the metal until the muscles in his forearms tightened to the point of paralyzation and dropped it into a bucket of water with a mighty hiss and flush of steam.

“That’ll do,” he exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You’re coming along nicely,” Payon added as he used his tongs to pull it free from the water and inspect it beside a lantern. "A fine blade like you is going to need a name."

He placed the cooled blade in leather, wrapped it up, and then tied his bag of nails closed.

It was a short walk to the guild. And he got a handsome sum for dropping the commissioned nails off. But there were plenty of vices in the trading post hungry for the wages of the men living here.

But as much as Payon had a taste for ale, he steered clear of the working girls. In fact, he found it amusing. Men came in search of wealth, but regardless of how hard they worked, most left poor. On the other hand, the girls offering their services to these men were some of the wealthiest inhabitants of Frostwind Trader's Post.

Finally, it’s time for a drink.

**Acolytes—Erin**

“Who’d have thought negotiating with craftsmen at the edge of the civilized world would be so hard,” Erin sighed as she and Callum took a table.

“At least the mason sounded like he might be interested.”

“Great, we might be able to bring the Imperator back someone who can carve rocks we neither have nor need,” Erin slumped. “Second mission. Failed.”

“Lighten up. At least he picked you to lead. I basically had to beg him just to let me leave the fort.”

“Yeah, well, this time. Who knows what he’ll be thinking when we come back empty-handed.”

“We’re not going to come back empty-handed. Stop being so melodramatic. For one, the mason isn’t useless—assuming we can get him. The Imperator said any skilled craftsmen, remember? If he said that, there’s likely a reason. Secondly, people come and go from this place every day. Just because we haven’t found exactly what we’re looking for straight away doesn’t mean we won’t.”

“I suppose,” Erin rolled her eyes. “I just wanted to impress him. That’s all. You know, after everything that’s happened. I did kinda shoot Radic, remember?”

“Think I don’t?” Callum chuckled.

Erin smiled and shook her head. “This is serious, Callum. They still don’t want me carrying a weapon. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit through the winter and whatever monstrosities are coming from the Daggers with empty hands.”

The door to the tavern sounded, and the two of them perked their heads as they twisted to see who had entered.

A short, stocky man with the thickest, muscle-rippled forearms either acolyte had ever seen entered. His face was tough and grizzled like rock, and sweat-matted hair clung to his forehead.

“Look at him. Reminds me of Old Willy from back home. Except meaner,” Callum aimlessly remarked. “He was a good smith, though.”

“Smith?” Erin’s brow rose.

“Yeah, made just about everything in town—everything that was made of metal. That is.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Jacom’s Reach is a tiny little town. We don’t get many merchants visiting. You know, most of our stuff is made locally.”

“No,” Erin shook. “Not what I meant. Why does he remind you of Willy.”

“Huh?” Callum turned to look at the man as he ordered ales at the counter. “Hmm, I dunno. Similar build, I guess… Actually, I know. Those forearms. They’re huge. Never seen anybody with forearms like that save Old Willy. That’s got to b—”

Erin got up mid-sentence and started walking toward the man.

“Rude,” Callum said.

“Excuse me,” Erin cleared her throat.

Pushing coins toward the bartender, the man took his ale, drank from it, and turned to Erin with foam filling his beard. “An acolyte?”

“Yes, I am,” Erin nodded. “And you, you wouldn’t happen to be a smith by any chance, would you?”

“I am,” the man curiously nodded.

“Acolyte Erin, a pleasure to meet you,” she said, sending a hand shooting forth.

“Payon, the Smith,” the man said, taking her hand with a vice-like grip that felt like solid stone.

Grimacing, Erin rubbed her hand as she removed it. “Would you have a moment to speak with us?”

Payon looked over her shoulder at their table, where Callum was waving with a dumb grin. “Mind if I drink?”

“Of course, be our guest.”

“Fine. I've got time for a few words.”

“Brilliant,” Erin stepped aside and gestured for him to make for their table.

“Acolyte Callum,” Callum extended a hand as the smith reached the table.

“What do a couple of acolytes want with a smith?” Payon said as he crumpled Callum back into his chair with a sturdy shake.

“We’re actually looking to hire a smith for our fort. You would be reporting directly to our Imperator,” Erin said, emphasizing who he would be reporting to. And while the Law of Hierarchy didn’t change without official promotion, reporting directly to someone at the station of Imperator for a mere citizen was a great honor.

“And why would I want that.”

“Why would you want what?” Erin gave a befuddled furrow.

“To report to an Imperator. Those guys have a habit for draconian rule-following. What makes you think I want that for myself?”

“I ah,” Erin stammered. She hadn’t expected this. But maybe it was for the best. If he wasn’t a fan of how Imperators usually behaved, perhaps he would fit in perfectly at Fort Winterclaw. “Well, he’s not like that—not exactly,” she said, lowering her voice.

Callum just nodded.

“Not like an Imperator?” Payon said. It was his turn to be confused now.

“Right,” Erin nodded. "Not like an Imperator—not most, at least. He’s reasonable and willing to find compromise and pragmatic solutions—even when they are questionable—from a law perspective, that is.”

“An Imperator that doesn’t follow the Imperium law?” Payon curled his brow.

“I didn’t say he doesn’t follow the law. He’s just a little more compromising than most.”

“Oh…”

“She’s right,” Callum butted in. “Erin even shot another acolyte, and look, she doesn’t have a scar on her,” he added, bouncing his brows.

“Callum!” Erin dug her elbow into his side.

“Oww, what was that for?”

“You know,” she hissed between gritted teeth.

“You shot someone?”

“It’s complicated,” Erin forced a cheezy smile and laced her fingers. “The point is we’re telling the truth. The Imperator is a good man. I think you’d like him.”

“How does letting you shoot people make him a good man?"

"It's a long story. The important part is that he found a solution that worked for everyone."

"I see," Payon stroked his beard.

"So, are you interested?"

"I have never met an Imperator I liked,” Payon growled. "However, I’m willing to hear what you have to offer.”

“Crowns,” Callum beamed.

“Exactly," Erin added. "Come work for us. You’ll get paid. Run your own smithy and even get a couple of apprentices.”

Payon coughed as he drank ale. “What?”

“It’s true. We can even offer a fifty crown signing bonus.”

“Fifty crowns,” Payon sprayed ale across the table as he blurted. “And accommodation?”

“A cabin. You’ll have to share at first, but the Imperator has promised that master craftsmen who join his fort will eventually have private cabins built for them.”

“I ah… can you do seventy-five?” Payon said sheepishly.

“Seventy-five?” Erin looked up briefly, crinkling her brow. “Yes, okay. Fine. But that’s the final offer. 75 crown signing bonus, and you can leave with us as soon as we're ready. Deal?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, las,” Payon boomed and extended a hand.

Grimacing, Erin took it, bracing for what was to come.