Chapter 41: Profits

“Tell Barnaby to sharpen every skinning knife in the village,” Jack said. “We have a lot of harvesting to do.”

Giles did not hesitate. He turned and sprinted back up the wooden ramp, shouting orders before he even crossed the gate.

Within minutes, the entire village was mobilized. The terror of the night completely vanished, replaced by an frantic energy. Men, women, and older children poured out of the gates carrying ropes, wooden poles, and empty handcarts.

To the people of the Frost-Grip fief, the hundreds of dead beasts lying in the snow were not a horrifying sight. They were a massive mountain of food, clothing, and wealth.

The first major problem was the spike pit.

Dozens of dire wolves and mountain cats were stuck at the bottom of the deep trench. Dragging a four-hundred-pound animal up a steep wall was impossible for a single man. Giles quickly organized teams. They dropped hemp ropes down into the pit, tied thick loops around the hind legs of the dead beasts, and used the village’s collective pulling strength to heave the carcasses up over the edge.

Once the beasts were pulled onto the snow, the butchering began.

Barnaby had brought out every blade he owned. He set up wooden skinning racks right outside the village gates. The work was incredibly difficult. Dire wolf hide was thick, and the freezing temperature made the animal fat stiff and hard to cut.

Jack stood near the gate, watching the organized chaos. He leaned lightly on his cane. His body felt surprisingly energetic. The intense, burning pressure in his chest was completely gone, replaced by the cool, stable density of his new Iron Core. For the first time since he had arrived in this world, his breathing was entirely steady.

“Keep the pelts intact!” Giles shouted to a group of young men working on a large snow cat. “Do not hack at it! Slice clean under the fat.”

The snow outside the village quickly turned a messy red. The women worked just as hard as the men, their sleeves rolled up despite the bitter cold. They separated the internal organs, saving the usable fat to be boiled down into oil for their lamps. Nothing was wasted.

By mid-afternoon, Jack called Giles and Barnaby away from the skinning racks.

“We have a problem,” Jack said, pointing his cane at the raw meat.

“A problem, Lord Jack?” Giles asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We have enough meat here to feed the village for the rest of the winter and halfway through the spring.”

“That is exactly the problem,” Jack replied. “How are you going to keep it from rotting?”

Giles frowned and gestured to the snow around them. “The winter is a natural icebox, My Lord. We bury the meat in the deep snowdrifts.”

“And what happens in two months when the snow melts?” Jack challenged. “We will have thousands of pounds of rotting flesh. Furthermore, if we just bury it outside, the smell of raw blood in the snow will attract every surviving predator in the mountain range directly to our walls. We cannot eat it all right now, and we cannot freeze it forever. We need to preserve it properly.”

Barnaby sighed heavily. “To cure this much meat, we would need barrels and barrels of salt. We don’t even have a handful of salt left in the kitchen stores.”

“Then we will smoke it,” Jack said simply.

He looked at Giles. “I need you to build five small, airtight wooden sheds against the inside of the palisade wall. Do not waste the good timber, use the scrap wood and the bark from the ruined huts. Make sure the roofs have small vents that can be opened and closed.”

Jack then turned to Barnaby. “We now have a good supply of coal from the mine. Coal burns hot and long, but it does not make good smoke for food. I want your men to gather the damp pine branches from the forest floor. We will build small coal fires inside the sheds and throw the wet pine branches directly on top of the hot coals. It will create a massive amount of smoke without catching fire.”

Giles nodded slowly, understanding the design. “We will hang the strips of meat from the ceiling of the shed. The smoke will dry the meat out and cure it. It will turn tough as leather, but it will last for years without rotting.”

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“Exactly,” Jack said. “Get the sheds built before nightfall. I want that meat off the ground and curing immediately.”

For the next two days, the village smelled entirely of burning pine wood and roasting fat.

Giles’s crude wooden smoke sheds worked flawlessly. The villagers sliced the dire wolf and mountain hound meat into thin strips and hung them on wooden racks inside the dark shacks. The constant, choking smoke from the damp pine branches drew all the moisture out of the flesh, transforming the massive pile of raw meat into endless baskets of cured jerky.

With the meat secured, Jack turned his attention to the leftover materials.

He walked down to the blacksmith’s shop. Barnaby was standing outside in the snow, staring at a massive pile of bones. The sheer size of the dire wolf femurs and ribcages was intimidating.

“It feels wrong to just throw them in a ditch,” Barnaby muttered as Jack approached. “These wolf bones are incredibly dense. The beasts survive by falling down rocky mountains and fighting each other. Their skeletons are almost as hard as cheap iron.”

“Then we will treat them like iron,” Jack said.

Barnaby looked at him, curious.

Jack pointed to the ballista, which was once again in the village square for some repairing. “Iron is our most precious resource. We cannot afford to waste it to cover the points of ballista bolts. If we shoot an iron-tipped bolt into the woods and lose it in the snow, it is a massive loss. But we have hundreds of dire wolf bones.”