Chapter 6: Caravan of Greed

The morning light did not bring warmth; it only turned the sky a flat grey.

Jack stood by his window, watching a small trail of gray smoke rise from the hearth. The pine splinters Karen had scavenged had burned out hours ago, leaving nothing but cold, white ash. He could feel the familiar, icy tickle returning to his throat, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating agony of the previous morning. His core was stable, resting quietly in his chest like a smooth pebble in a frozen pond.

Behind him, Rusty, Dusty, and Bones stood perfectly still.

“Alright,” Jack whispered, turning back to his undead servants. “Karen will be coming up soon with whatever water she can melt. You three need to head back down.”

He walked over to the corner of the room, dragged the balding bear-skin rug aside, and pulled the iron ring. The stone slab slid open with a low, scraping groan, releasing another draft of soothing cold.

“Go down to the bottom of the steps and wait,” Jack commanded mentally, sending the thought along the three thin, grey threads connected to his soul. “Do not move. Do not make a sound. If you hear the door open above, stay absolutely still.”

Rusty went first, descending the steep stairs with slow, deliberate steps. Bones had to duck his massive, six-foot-four frame, his long leg bones folding awkwardly as he squeezed into the shaft.

Once the last ivory heel vanished into the dark, Jack hauled the stone slab shut and kicked the bear-skin rug back over the seal. He had barely leaned his weight back onto his brass-headed cane when a sharp, brassy blare cut through the howling wind outside.

Ahooo!

It was a horn. A heavy, off-key sound that bounced off the icy stone walls of the castle.

Jack hobbled back to the window. Down in the snow-choked courtyard, the wooden gates were swinging open. A line of miserable, shivering pack mules was filing into the yard, their iron horseshoes sliding precariously on the slick ice. Each beast was laden with bulging burlap sacks, their heads hanging low, their breath rising in thick, rapid plumes of white steam.

At the front of the line rode a man wrapped in three layers of thick, luxurious beaver pelts. He was plump, with a round, red face that looked like an apple, and a thick mustache that was currently frozen stiff with white frost.

Merchant Gary had arrived.

And behind him, emerging from their dark, freezing hovels, came the villagers.

Jack watched as Old Miller, Giles, and dozens of others gathered near the castle walls. They didn’t approach the mules immediately. They stood in the snow, their arms crossed tightly over their chests, staring at the bulging sacks of grain with a desperate hunger that made Jack’s chest ache. The children, their faces smudged with soot and pale with starvation, peered out from behind their parents’ threadbare coats. They looked at the mules not with curiosity, but with the terror of the empty-bellied.

“They won’t survive the week without that grain,” Jack muttered to himself. “No matter how much coal I dig.”

A sharp knock rattled his bedroom door.

“My Lord!” Karen’s voice was frantic, breathless. “The… the merchant caravan! Gary is here! Giles is leading him into the Great Hall right now!”

“I hear them, Karen,” Jack called back, calming his voice. “I am coming down.”

By the time Jack made his way down the winding stone stairs and entered the Great Hall, the room was already filled with a tense, shivering crowd.

The single green log from the previous day had finally died, leaving the massive stone fireplace completely black. The draft in the hall was so cold that Jack could see his own eyelashes freezing if he blinked too slowly.

Merchant Gary stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by three of his leather-armored guards. Gary was busy unwrapping a long, woolen scarf from his neck, exposing a thick gold chain that rested against his grease-stained velvet tunic. He smelled of dry cloves, stale beer, and roasted pork—scents that felt incredibly offensive in a room filled with people who had spent days eating nothing but watered-down turnip broth.

“Ah, Lord Jack!” Gary boomed, his voice dripping with artificial warmth as he saw the young lord hobble into the room. “Praise the gods you are still with us! When I heard the rumors down in the valley that the last Frost-Grip was on his deathbed, my heart simply bled. Truly, it bled!”

“I am alive, Gary,” Jack said, his voice flat as he settled into the high-backed wooden chair at the end of the hall. He rested his hands on the brass head of his cane, staring down at the merchant. “Let us skip the pleasantries. My people are cold, and your mules are loaded.”

Gary’s smile didn’t fade, but his small, dark eyes narrowed, gleaming with the sharp instinct of a vulture circling a dying beast.

“Straight to business. I like that,” Gary said, clapping his gloved hands together. “Very well. I have brought twelve pack mules of high-grade wheat, three sacks of dried salt-pork, and two barrels of dried peas. Enough to keep your lovely little village fed and happy until the spring thaw.”

A low murmur of hope rippled through the gathered villagers. Old Miller’s wife clasped her hands together, a faint sob escaping her lips.

“And the price?” Jack asked.

Gary sighed in a dramatic way. He shook his head, looking down at his leather boots as if he was the one suffering. “Ah, Lord Jack. The mountain pass… it was a nightmare. We lost two mules to the northern ravine. The frost was so bitter my men demanded double hazard pay just to keep walking. The risk… it was astronomical.”

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“The price, Gary,” Jack repeated, his voice dropping a register lower.

Gary looked up, his greasy smile returning. “Four silver coins per bushel of wheat. One gold piece per sack of salt-pork. And the peas… let’s say thirty silver pieces a barrel.”

The Great Hall went dead silent.

Giles, who was standing near the edge of the crowd, took a sudden, aggressive step forward. His massive fists clenched at his sides. “Four silver a bushel? That’s four times the imperial rate! You sold it to us for one silver just two months ago, you parasite!”

One of Gary’s guards instantly shifted his weight, his hand resting on the hilt of an iron shotsword. Giles didn’t flinch, his eyes blazing with fury.

“Now, now, Master Giles,” Gary said, waving a dismissive, gloved hand. “Then, the pass wasn’t buried under six feet of ice. I didn’t have to risk my own life to bring food to this frozen tomb. If you do not like my prices, you are welcome to walk down to the southern valleys yourself and buy it at the market rate. Of course… you’ll have to carry your children through a raging blizzard to get there.”

The threat was clear, cold, and entirely true. Gary had a monopoly on their survival, and he knew it.

“I do not have that much gold in the castle treasury,” Jack said, keeping his voice steady despite the furious hammering in his chest. “You know our financial situation. The mines have been closed for years now.”

“Indeed, I do know,” Gary said, his eyes drifting toward the high stone walls, lingering on the ancient tapestries and the tarnished silver candle-holders lining the pillars. “Which is why I am a flexible man. I will accept ancestral silver. The old tableware, the family signets, the decorative swords… or, if you prefer, I can take the title deed to the southern timber woods.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. The southern timber woods were the last legal land asset the Frost-Grip family owned. If he gave those up, they would have no way to rebuild, no way to trade for iron, and no way to establish an empire. Gary didn’t just want to sell food; he wanted to strip the bones of the Frost-Grip estate clean.

“Give me an hour,” Jack said, rising slowly from his chair, using his cane to support his frail frame. “I will gather what silver remains in the castle vaults. We will settle the payment in my private quarters.”