Chương 575: It is a Good Contract, But it could be a Much Better Contract

Bronk had felt the change in the lands as the stolen summers were released far to the south of him. Like a melting glacier, Winter retreated and he was struck hard, deep in his soul. Linked to the winter lands, the change hit him like an angry Jotun's club. A big Jotun, and a very angry one. He hoped to never meet such a Jotun, and certainly never wanted to be hit so hard again. But he survived the blow, and chuckled. Whatever didn't kill him made him stronger. Literally in the case of ogres.

He realized he had made a tactical error. He'd anticipated that Glacia would lose this war, and had actively planned for it. But he had assumed there would be a gradual retreat of Winter, as armies were forced back and the Empire warmed again. That assumption was going to cost him long days of painful recovery. He chuckled now and then at his stupidity. He'd manipulated the Council into electing Glacia as their Leader and then the General of the army.

Set her up to fail, but not taken into account that she would catastrophically fail. He hoped she wasn't dead, so he could snap her thin neck and make a meal of her scrawny body. Her failure also meant that he had to accelerate his plans.

He had built an army of all the people of the north that he wished to get rid of: The Council of little wizards with oversized egos, the monsters whose appetites stripped the north of everything it produced, and the tribes of small folk who grazed their herds of horses and oxen in the best of the high valleys. The humans owned pastures that he needed for the mammoth herds that fed his own tribe. The fault of the meddling wizards.

He hoped that the catastrophe was so devastating that the army was destroyed, but he couldn't assume that. He had to plan for their survival and return, and work to prevent that. The Empire would pursue, it had to. A wounded enemy could return. Better to wipe them out entirely. It was time to leverage the favors owed to him by the Maple Priests, and time to talk to Jarl Brogthall.

The Jotun tolerated people smaller than them, but they had lost lands when the council gave some of the high valleys to the Barbarian Clans to secure their loyalty. There was enough land for the Jotun and his own tribe to share those valleys, and the two people got along well and had different needs. Niches, he'd heard a sage call them. Different life niches.

He thought of the sage for the first time in years, and their nights spent drinking in Shadowport, each pretending to be something different, and finding a kindred soul in each other. He thought of visiting the sage... then realized the man would be dead two centuries past. Humans lived for such a short time. Short-lived, demanding to be treated as equals, and sometimes far to powerful to ignore.

He had no hatred of them, as some of his tribe did, but he wanted them gone from the icy, northern lands and an end to a council of small folk and their oversized egos. But first, he needed information. He preferred to heal slowly, and enjoy the meditation on a windswept peak while his bones knitted. He learned more that way. That would take weeks and his plans demanded he move quicker. It was a small price to pay for the north that he saw in his visions.

Sinking into the mountain, he drew power from the glaciers and used stone to fix his broken bones, ice to cool his battered soul, and mud to heal his wounds. The boundaries of the lands he drew from were redrawn and his wards reinforced. After three days, he called for elemental sprites to act as his spies. The Wind Sprites refused to scout for him, saying that the winds were too warm now. Curiously, they offered to go to Sedgewick and Gadobhra.

That told him that those lands were unaffected by the sudden thaw, although Winter's hold on them had be tenuous. There were powers there that pushed back on the unnatural cold. Powers that he didn't understand, and had no desire to go to war with. He sent the Wind Sprites there, but with specific rules that would let them observe only, and not cause mischief. They tittered and smiled, something that confused him, and gladly accepted the rules. Then raced away.

He didn't waste time wondering about the stupidity of trying to understand the Sprites and their little whims. He turned his thoughts to the mud, and asked for the mud's aid. Mud sprites swam through the stone to him, eager to aid their larger cousin. Bronk always rewarded them well for any aid. They agreed to go south as his spies. The winter lands were melting and there was new mud for them to explore. They were not as quick as the Wind Sprites, but mud could move surprisingly fast when it wanted to.

Bronk almost ended his meditation, when he heard the sound of an angry child venting its anger at the world. It was far away, and only one elemental could be so powerful, and yet so stupid. The Ice Devil had survived, but it was hurt and trapped in a rocky chasm, too heavy to fly, and too stupid to know how to cleanse itself. He decided to leave it there for now. It might learn something and mature, but he doubted that.

Able to walk once more, Bronk began fast-striding across the land, moving from one rocky outcrop to another in the blink of an eye. It would take him a day to reach the glacial rift of Brogthall's tribe. He cut some time off of that when he came to the Ice Snake River, a long glacier that wound through the land. Legend proclaimed it to be a sleeping Jourmungdwurm.

Bronk knew that was untrue: He'd tried to speak to it, and been ignored, and hadn't even heard a snore, just the slow creaking of ice as it moved toward the seas. Normally, he would have avoided traveling along it. His "Brutish and Ignorant Monster" image would be questioned if people saw him skiing along the length of the glacier, enjoying himself as he jumped over crevasses and banked off snowdrifts. He made the best of it, having fun and speeding toward a meeting with Jarl Brogthall.

He had work for the mercenary, and like all Jotun, Brogthall wasn't picky about the work as long as the money was good. He thought over what he was going to say. Brogthall was not a typical monster of the north, and his wife was far worse. It would be very hard to slip one by her, and like all good Jotun wives, she held the purse strings of the household. Hopefully, Brogthall was tired of sitting on his ass in the snow, delaying his return so he could avoid the stupid war in the south.

Bronk thought he would jump at the chance for high-paying bit of work that let him stay in the north.

"No, I don't think so. More tea, friend Bronk? You look tired and the tea is sweet with honey and the herbs will give you back some of your energy." Bronk sighed and accepted a stoneware cup. The cold, thick beverage that the giants called tea was like drinking pure sugar. His teeth tingled as he drank, but it would have been terribly rude to abstain.

"What part of the contract do you not like? This is good mercenary work, and there is little danger for your tribe or any other tribe. The small folk have no fire wizards or demonic war engines. You will be fighting in the northlands, where the cold winds I command will give you power and healing. An excellent job." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Brogthall nodded, "Oh, on the surface, it certainly is. But I have my doubts that this is a good contract.

Certainly it could be a better contract." Bronk had expected this: what mercenary didn't haggle?

"Then let us make it a better contract. What bothers you." Brogthall scratched at one enormous ear, and stretched out his 'bad leg.'

"Well, the payment terms seem to be a little indistinct, and payment is to be made after the battle. It almost looks like you intend to not pay in gold and shiny gemstones. Perhaps; you could clarify what you mean by clause number 42."

"Ah, you caught my little surprise. Tell me, what would your tribe pay for control of the Ygrain Valley and the Yellowpool Valley?" The giant smiled, "We would pay nothing. Those lands belong to the small folk barbarian tribes. The council gave them those lands in my Grandpater's day, and we were given the Valley of the Frozen lakes for our high pasture."

"You don't value them? They were once yours, and could be again." Brogthall smiled, showing all of his teeth, and his eyes were no longer sleepy, "We would pay nothing, because we would take them in battle. Which seems like what you hope to do here, exiling the small folk from their valleys and having us fight to keep them from coming home. It seems odd to be paid for fighting their army and being paid with their lands. After all, we could just take their lands, and claim them by right of battle.

A much simpler affair, like in my Grandpater's day."

"But doing it my way, you will have my support, and the transfer of land will have the blessing of the new council. An important thing when you think about it. Your tribe has already claimed the lands of the Hungry Ones, and some might see taking more lands as a threat." Brogthall waved in the air, like he was shooing a fly.

"Bah, the Hungry Ones aren't coming back. You and I both know that was the reason to entice them south. I somehow think that you don't want anyone who went south coming back. Not a bad plan, really. I can do without the little wizards and their council. They still owe my clan money, and argue we shouldn't be charging them interest. Such a thought! And as to anyone feeling threatened by my tribe taking over empty lands, I do not care. Anyone who doesn't think my people are a threat is an idiot.

We are Jotun, and we walk where we want to."

"I'm glad you like my plan. And if the humans are not coming back to the north, I can think of no one better to take those valleys."

"Thank you for the compliment to my clan, friend Bronk. But, the barbarians have six fine valleys. I notice you offer us two, if the Jotun march to war against them. That leaves four more by my counting, good lands, and also owned by the Jotun long ago. What other fine people will take them? How many will go to the ogre and yeti tribes that owe you allegiance? I think we should firm such things up before we begin marching south."

"And by firming up, you mean?"

"I mean that the Jotun will be taking the Ygrain Valley. Give the Yellowpool Valley to someone else. I hate the smell of the sulfur springs there. We will take the Valley of Endless Snows, and the Valley of the Skytrees. Good wood for building in those trees, and a log from one burns all year in our deep furnaces where the dwarves forge our metals."

"You are asking for the three best and largest valleys." Brogthall grinned, "Because the Jotun are the best and largest mercenaries. That gives you three for your tribes, and I will cede the Yeti the Valley of Frozen Lakes. They will like it better anyway." Bronk sighed, but the suggestion of giving the northern most valley to the yeti was a good one, and he still gained three valleys for his tribes. He quickly used his fingernail to alter the writing on the large, stone contract.

"Done. I am glad to have satisfied your wishes."

"Who said I was satisfied, we are only getting started. I want assurances that both the yeti and your tribes will show up to fight. You will need to give us a payment of gold equal to half of the valleys worth up front, to be given back when we have the land. My wife will not allow anything less."

"Is that all?"

"Oh, hardly, have some more tea. And dinner will be soon. You have been invited and it will be rude to not sit with my family. We can discuss this new council you are forming that doesn't include human wizards or small folk or anyone else you don't like. I have a few suggestions you should think about." Dinner had not been something Bronk had considered. He had places to be, and deals to make. But he was hungry, as always, and the table of a Jotun wife was not something to turn down. He nodded, and sipped his tea.

"I will have to leave after dinner. I must speak to the other Jarls of your people, you may be the one signing the contract, but if this is going to work, they have to start marching south very soon." Brogthall rose, not limping at all, and stretched.

"What luck then! I invited Jarl Sturmaxe, Jarl IceSnake, and Jarl Fengurwurm to dinner. They arrived this morning and are playing dice on the floor of my steading while their wives discuss whose son will marry whose daughter. Such a happy coincidence." Bronk was actually speechless for half a minute.

"You knew? How?" Brogthall shrugged.

"Oh, I had some suspicions of what you were doing, but I am not a great thinker, especially with the pain from my leg. It was the wives that knew, and have been talking about what might happen when that army didn't return. When the skies lit up so bright and Winter ended in the south, she sent out the invitations. New marriages will unite all of the Jotun. After dinner, the wives will discuss who will be in charge and then tell me I will lead our forces in battle. The tribes are mobilized and ready to move."

"You anticipated my coming." Brogthall shook his head, "It was a possibility. But you might also have been dead. You are right that the Jotun wished to have our lands back. We were marching south to take them, whether you arrived or not. But this way is better. It is your plan, and you will make sure the ogres and yeti arrive to fight with us. The new council is a good idea, someone to take on the headaches of negotiating between the tribes.

I'm sure there is room for a Jotun upon it, even though we are not as clever as smaller folk. But enough of this. Let us go eat, and you can talk to the other Jarls, and we will discuss a few other parts of the contract to make sure everyone is happy. Then we will march south and retake our ancestral lands, and the small folk will have to find somewhere else to live." Bronk's stomach decided for him as the door to the steading was opened and he smelled roasted yak and blueberry churn milk.

Jarl Brogthall had said the important words: They would talk, and then they would march. Everything else was just a detail to carve into a contract.