Chapter 22: No Choice

Ulyan fell silent for a moment, then suddenly burst into hearty laughter. “You worry too much. None of that concerns me. I’ve never had any desire to become some ridiculous noble.”

“What?” Knight Romon looked up, astonished.

“But do you know what things are like on the Northern Glacier now? Countless orc clans are marching south, their raiding parties swarming like locusts. And what is the Empire doing? Cutting military spending! Disbanding the standing army! The garrison at Wind God Fortress has been reduced from the minimum of five thousand to less than a thousand. That’s not even enough men to fill the fighting positions atop the walls!”

“Maybe Grand Duke Mitchell knows things are urgent, pulling troops from every count’s domain, but those damned southerners don’t care in the slightest. They’re just waiting for the orcs to invade in force, so they can strike from the south and snatch their share of the spoils!”

“There’s little hope left for the North. I can only lead my people south, and this is as far as I can go.”

“My goal was never to become some pioneer knight or lord. I just want, while I still live, to settle my daughter and my people somewhere safe. Even if the land is granted to someone else—so be it. It’s still better than being slaughtered to the last by the orcs.”

Romon listened quietly, saying nothing more.

Others might not understand, but Romon knew better than anyone. With Ulyan’s abilities and the wealth he had accumulated over ten years of service, he could easily take his daughter and flee far away, settle down in some southern town, live a life of ease and leave a generous dowry for his daughter to marry well.

But to bring along hundreds, even thousands of people—everything becomes uncertain. Romon himself couldn’t imagine if he had the courage or ability to do such a thing.

Though Romon came from a town knightly family and had little affection for the ignorant and apathetic rural folk, he was no fool, and could somewhat grasp Ulyan’s thinking.

In the frigid, isolated lands by the Northern Glacier, how far could kinship ties really stretch?

In every village, people were often related—closer cousins through their fathers, distant cousins through their grandfathers. Add in neighboring villages, and there was no shortage of aunts and uncles. When people came begging at your door, as an imperial soldier, a village head, perhaps even a clan chief in essence, could you really bear to flee alone?

The people of the North valued blood ties above all. The Odalov family had maintained a thousand-year rule, mainly because they were “the eldest bloodline of Tyr, the God of War.” So all Northerners descended from Tyr, for a thousand years, could only rebel in protest, never in revolution.

Even Romon himself, if one day Icenburg could no longer be defended, could not abandon his own kin and escape by himself.

Having said all this, Ulyan patted Romon’s shoulder. “You think about whether this investment will pay off. Me, I think about how to keep my people alive. There’s no other choice.”

Romon was silent for a moment, then spoke solemnly. “Captain, I understand. I’ll do my best to persuade my father to agree.”

The next day, Romon, led by Ulyan, toured the camp. He listened to Ulyan boast proudly about his “kingly aura leaking out, kobolds bowing in worship,” then carefully raised some suggestions from the locals, before boarding a fishing boat packed with iron ore and heading downstream.

The prices and terms of the iron ore trade were handled by a steward specializing in such matters, who negotiated with Ulyan.

The iron ore from the Kobold Valley was sorted into three grades according to quality, which could be exchanged for an equal weight or up to double the weight in grain.

Though Fisha of the Husky people worried that cunning humans would pick faults, she selected the best iron ore for the Riverbend camp. The rest of the kobolds, less shrewd, didn’t bother. Driven by greed, some even carried rocks that barely contained any iron, simply because they were big and heavy, hoping to exchange them for more grain.

The rocks discarded by villagers responsible for receiving goods weren’t useless, though—they were perfect for building river embankments and house foundations.

The selected high-quality iron ore would be transported to the smithies of Icenburg, forged into tools, parts, and weapons, then brought back to Riverbend for further trade.

The deal was already quite fair. The North wasn’t truly lacking in iron ore—it was short on labor, miners, and transport. The ore’s value was only part of the equation; the cost of shipping it back and forth a hundred miles by small fishing boats was substantial.

So, until Riverbend could repair its thirty-odd miles of roads, the trade could only be conducted on a small scale.

If not for Ulyan’s ties to the Petukhov family, no one would be interested in such risky, troublesome, small-volume transactions.

This time, Romon brought nearly a ton of wheat and a boatload of iron tools, rivets, saw blades, and other supplies for pioneering.

Seeing the grain carts refilled, the villagers were all cheerful, working with renewed vigor.

Ding! Because of surplus grain, your residents’ happiness has increased!

This was not the sour, coarse, hard-to-swallow rye, but the fine wheat produced along the banks of the Anzeno River.

As for rye, Petukhov’s steward explained tactfully that in Icenburg, rye made up a very small proportion of the crops, and generally was harvested for the stalks before it could mature, to feed donkeys and horses.

A ton of wheat sounded like a lot, but divided among three hundred people, no matter how much it was mixed or rationed, it would barely last a week.

The real treasure was the iron tools and steel swords Romon brought—these were the materials the camp most urgently needed.

Especially the steel swords gifted by Romon—military-grade, thick-bladed single-handed swords in the classic northern style. Their value far surpassed the iron bar swords forged by rural smiths or the worn-out blades passed through a hundred hands, at least tenfold.

In the market at Icenburg, such a steel sword was worth as much as a ton of wheat.

As Ulyan’s chief enforcer, Leo received the first steel sword, which greatly improved his impression of Knight Romon.

“If he’d strip off that armor and give it to me, I’d support Uncle selling—no, marrying you off to him.”

Seated atop a large wooden barrel in the camp kitchen, Leo gripped the steel sword, flicking the blade with his fingers, feeling its heft and the quick-dissipating tremor, clicking his tongue in admiration.

The sharp blade and point could easily cut or pierce the hides of beasts and foreign races.

Two deep blood grooves reduced the weight and balanced the sword.

The thick and flexible spine ensured the blade wouldn’t easily bend or break.

By contrast, his previous beloved iron sword often bent from thrusting too hard, forcing Leo to straighten it with his foot before continuing to use it. He dared not hack with it too fiercely.

Frequent chopping through bone and other hard objects wore down an iron bar sword as fast as a candle melting.

If only he’d had such a steel sword back then, and donned Romon’s light armor—never mind the kobold leader, Leo would even have dared to challenge Ulyan!

“Hmph, just look at you!” Olivia didn’t bother talking to him, busy checking supplies.

Beneath her skirt, the kobold pups seemed to sense “Mother’s” mood, poking their little heads out, baring their teeth and barking at Leo, only to be scared back under the skirt by his glare.