Chapter 8: The Merchant's Price
Hamfast the Elder had a face like weathered oak—hard, lined, and absolutely unmoved by anything Aldric said.
"Iron ore." He turned the sample in his hands, holding it to the morning light. "Good quality. Not exceptional, but good."
"Better than what comes from the Grey Mountains these days," I said. "And closer."
"Closer to orc territory. Closer to danger. Closer to costing my caravans everything." He set the sample down with a thump. "Thirty percent above market for the ore. Fifty percent above for anything I send to you."
The numbers hit like a slap.
I'd done the math a dozen times on the road. Fair prices would save us. These prices would drain what little gold we had and leave us barely better off than before.
"That's robbery."
"That's risk." Hamfast spread his hands—merchant's gesture, placating and firm. "You're asking me to trade with a settlement I've never heard of, in territory known for danger, with a lord who appeared from nowhere. The Weather Hills haven't been safe for a generation."
"We're making them safe."
"So you say. What proof do I have?" He leaned forward. "A worn sword. A handful of guards. Samples of ore that could have come from anywhere. You could be a bandit lord for all I know, setting up the next caravan to be robbed."
He's not wrong to be suspicious.
I bit back the angry response that wanted to emerge. This wasn't a battlefield. Charging forward would only get me killed.
Think. What does he want? What can I offer that he can't get elsewhere?
"The road," I said slowly. "The East-West Road through the Weather Hills. How many caravans have you lost in the last year?"
Hamfast's expression flickered. "That's not—"
"How many?"
Silence stretched. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"Three. Two to bandits, one to orcs." His jaw tightened. "Good men. Good horses. Goods worth a small fortune."
"And since then?"
"We've stopped using that stretch. The northern route adds a week to any eastern trade."
I leaned forward. "What if I could guarantee safe passage?"
"You can't. No one can."
"My settlement sits at the old watchtower. Highest ground for miles. We've already fought off one orc raid—twenty attackers, seventeen killed." I met his eyes. "We're not just building a settlement. We're building a garrison. And a garrison needs trade to survive."
Hamfast studied me with new attention.
"You're offering escort services."
"I'm offering partnership. Fair prices for goods—both directions. Your caravans get protection through the dangerous stretch. My people get access to Bree's markets." I paused. "And you get a route back that saves you a week each way."
The merchant's fingers drummed on the table. I could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes—costs, risks, potential profits.
"One trial run," he said finally. "Fair prices for this shipment only. If your people can get my goods through safely, we talk about permanent arrangements."
"Done."
We clasped hands. His grip was stronger than I expected.
[THE PRANCING PONY — EVENING]
The common room buzzed with evening trade.
I sat in a corner, nursing a single pint of ale that I'd paid more for than I wanted to admit. The taste was worth it—rich, slightly bitter, nothing like the watered wine we'd scrounged at the settlement.
Simple pleasures.
I'd never been much of a drinker in my old life. Oliver Smith preferred coffee, maybe the occasional glass of wine. But Aldric's body had different instincts, and this ale was the first thing resembling comfort I'd found in Middle-earth.
"You're the one from the Weather Hills."
The voice belonged to an old man settling into the chair across from me. White-haired, weathered face, eyes that had clearly seen decades of inn-keeping.
"Old Butterbur?" I guessed.
"My son runs the place now, but I keep my hand in." He smiled, revealing gaps where teeth used to be. "I hear you made a deal with Hamfast."
"News travels fast."
"In Bree? Nothing travels faster." He leaned back, studying me. "I knew the Weather Hills when I was a boy. My grandfather told stories about Amon Hen-dîr—the Tower of the Watcher, they called it. Said Dúnedain lords used to hold the passes there."
My heart quickened, but I kept my face neutral. "That's the place."
"Mm." His eyes held something I couldn't quite read. "The Rangers used to come through more often. Protecting the roads, keeping the darkness back. Fewer of them these days. Or maybe they're just spread thinner."
"The darkness is growing."
"Always does. Always has." He sipped from his own mug. "But it's good to hear someone's finally doing something about it. Building instead of just fighting. That's what my grandfather used to say the old lords did—they built things that lasted."
I thought of the palisade. The forge. The militia drilling in the courtyard.
"We're trying."
"Try harder." The words came without malice. "The roads are worse than they've been in my lifetime. Bandits, orcs, worse things some say. If you can make even part of that better..." He shrugged. "Well. Bree would be grateful."
He stood, joints creaking. "Good luck, young lord. You'll need it."
After he left, I finished my ale slowly, thinking about roads and darkness and things that lasted.
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