Chapter 17: Chapter 17 - You’re a Nasty One, Aren’t You?

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 918/2000]

Thwack!

Eirik Stormcrow brought the Fenrir longsword down in a brutal overhead chop, impacting the thick, scarred practice dummy with enough force to send wood chips flying. His breath came in ragged gasps, pluming white in the frigid air of the empty Stormkeep training yard. Dawn was just a pale smear on the eastern horizon.

Thwack!

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

He adjusted his grip on the leather-bound hilt, ignoring the raw sting developing in his palms. Sweat soaked his tunic despite the biting cold, plastering it to his back. He felt the burn in his shoulders, his biceps, his core. Every muscle screamed for rest. He ignored them.

Thwack!

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 920/2000]

Too slow. Eirik gritted his teeth. The number barely inched upwards. He needed 1080 more points. Each swing earned him one measly point. At this rate… He calculated grimly. Even swinging non-stop, accounting for fatigue and slowing him down, it would take hours more today, and repeated effort tomorrow. And he only had three days left before the wargame rehearsals started eating all his time.

His mind flashed back to the quest notification burned into his consciousness:

[Tutorial Quest #6 (out of 7): Skills Mastery]

[Quest Type: Learning]

[Objective: Getting at least 1 skill to C- rating (0/1) and 3 other Skills to D rating. (1/3)]

Swordsmanship was D rank. Getting it to C- was the obvious priority. It was his primary weapon, the skill that gave him victory against Leif. Raising it would give him another critical edge against Marshal Gunnar’s veterans and Garrick’s spite.

The other D-ranks… that was the problem. Which ones? The system had said “getting 3 other skills to D rating,” so he naturally assumed that swordship, once if became a C- skill, would not count as one of the D-skills required to finish the quest. He’d need skills that he could realistically grind in the next six days, and skills that wouldn’t just be useless fluff.

Thwack!

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 921/2000]

He switched to a lateral slash, aiming for the dummy’s neck. The Frost-steel blade hummed faintly, leaving a trail of cold mist.

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 922/2000]

A familiar heavy tread crunched on the frosted gravel path circling the training yard. Eirik didn’t pause his swing.

Thwack!

[PROGRESS: 922/2000]

Harkin stopped at the edge of the yard, watching Eirik’s relentless assault on the dummy.

“Lord Eirik,” he called out, “You need to see the alchemist.”

Eirik finished his current swing, driving the blade deep into the dummy’s torso. He paused, leaning on the pommel, sucking in great lungfuls of cold air. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the frozen ground. “You found one? Good. Bring him to the storehouse later.”

“Won’t come, m’lord,” Harkin stated flatly. “Found him alright. Name’s Fisk. Runs a… shop… down in the Rat Warrens, near the old tannery pits.” Harkin’s nose wrinkled slightly. “Smells worse than a Skral latrine down there. Anywhy, the man’s… eccentric. Doesn’t leave his hole. Says his ‘art’ requires his unique environment.” Harkin’s tone made it clear what he thought of Fisk’s ‘art’ and environment. “He said, and I quote, ‘If the young lordling wants my genius, he can brave the fumes himself.”

Eirik straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm.

“And his skill? Trustworthy?”

Harkin shrugged massive shoulders. “Yes, Lord. His shop was a disaster. Jars everywhere, weird stains, things bubbling that shouldn’t bubble. But… he knew his terms. Knew about purifications, reactions, specific salts I’d only heard veterans mention for cleaning wounds or rust. Said he supplies ‘discreet services’ to certain less-scrupulous merchants. He’s actually good and just… odd.”

“Alright, Harkin,” he said, sheathing the Fenrir sword. “Point me to the Rat warrens. I’ll brave the fumes.”

———

Guided by Harkin’s terse directions — “Past the third stinking tannery pit, turn left at the alley choked with frozen vomit, look for the sign with a cracked green flask” — Eirik found himself before a structure that seemed moments from collapse. It was wedged precariously between a rotting fishmonger’s stall and a boarded-up well. The promised sign hung askew, the green flask painted on it indeed cracked and faded. A narrow, grimy staircase descended into darkness beside the building, reeking even more intensely of sulfur, vinegar, and something metallic.

He descended the steps, the worn wood groaning ominously under his boots.

The stench intensified dramatically at the bottom. Eirik forced himself not to gag. It was a single, low-ceiling room, packed impossibly full. Every available surface — shelves sagging under their burden, rickety tables, the packed-earth floor — was covered in glass jars, ceramic pots, clay amphorae, and bundles of desiccated plants. Colored liquids bubbled gently over small braziers; powders spilled like variegated snowdrifts; strange, unrecognizable objects folate in murky fluids. The air hung thick with vapor and dust motes dancing in the single shaft of light struggling through a filthy high window.

At the center of this chaotic menagerie, perched on a wobbly stool behind a counter made from an old door, sat a man who instantly reminded Eirik of a particularly anxious ferret. Thin, wiry, perhaps in his late forties, with restless, darting eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He had a receding hairline compensated for by bushy sideburns and wore stained leather gloves and a heavy, once-white apron smeared with a rainbow of chemical stains. He was meticulously grinding something green and pungent in a mortar, humming tunelessly under his breath.

Eirik cleared his throat softly.

Fisk’s head snapped up. His eyes, sharp despite the setting, instantly locked onto Eirik, sweeping him from boots to slightly wind-tousled hair.

“Afternoon, friend!” Fisk chirped, setting down his pestle with a surprising deft motion. His voice was surprisingly smooth, almost oily, yet oddly compelling. It held a practiced cheerfulness, like a merchant welcoming a valued — and potentially profitable — patron. “What can Fisk’s Fine Philtres and Practical Potions do for you on this frosty morn? Need a salve for saddle sores? A little something to keep the missus warm at night? Or perhaps…” his eyes narrowed slightly, “...something with a bit more… bite?”

Eirik took a deliberate step further into the cluttered space, careful not to knock anything over. He kept his posture non-threatening but alert. “Fisk, I presume? Heard you’re the man to see for discreet solutions.”

“Discretion is my middle name, friend! Though, strictly speaking, it’s Bartholomew. But who needs that mouthful, right? Fisk is fine. What sort of discreet solution might a…” Fis’s gaze flickered again to Eirik’s worn boots and functional cloak, “... gentleman of action require? Let me guess. Trouble with creditors? Needs a little nudge? Maybe something to make negotiations go smoother?”

Eirik shook his head. “Not persuasion. Defense. Non-lethal defense.”

Fisk raised a bushy eyebrow. “Non-lethal? Interesting. Most folks come down here looking for the opposite. Or ways to make the lethal easier.” He chuckled. “Self-preservation is a noble pursuit, friend. Very noble. Tell Uncle Fisk more. Situation? Environment? Numbers? Are we talking about tavern brawl? Guard duty gone sour? Or something… messier?” He rubbed his gloved fingers together slowly. “The price, you understand, scales with the complexity. And the discretion.”

“Hypothetically,” Eirik began, “Say a man found himself outnumbered in a confined space. Say that man needed to create an opportunity to escape or gain the upper hand without drawing steel or breaking bones. Something that burns… incapacitates… creates panic.” He mimicked a spray with his hand. “Like… a cloud. A sudden cloud of agony.”

Fisk’s eyes lit up. “A cloud of agony! I like the phrasing! Very evocative. Non-lethal, incapacitating, panic-inducing… Hypothetically.” He tapped a stained fingertip on the countertop. “Hypothetically speaking… you’re describing something akin to the irritant qualities of certain plants… but amplified. Dramatically amplified.”

He swiveled on his stool, surprisingly agile in the cramped space, and reached for a shelf laden with dried roots and shriveled berries. He plucked a small, shriveled red fruit that looked like a tiny, angry pepper. “Meet Old Scarlet,” Fisk said, holding it up. “Grows wild in the southern foothills after summer storms. Nasty little beggar. Rub it near your eyes, and you’ll weep for a week. Eat it?” He set it down, then picked up a small vial containing a fine, pale yellow powder. “Sunspice Dust. Derived from a specific lichen scraped off north-facing rocks at dawn. Causes violent sneezing, choking fits if inhaled.”

Eiriked nodded, projecting keen interest. “Hypothetically… could you combine irritants? Make something… portable? Something that could be deployed quickly? A spray? A grenade that bursts into a cloud?”

“A cloud!” Fisk exclaimed. “A burst cloud! That’s ambition, friend! I like ambition!” He sprang up, buzzing with manic energy. “Hypothetically? Yes! Possible! Very possible! But challenging!”

He started pacing his tiny available floor space, dodging precariously stacked jars. “The irritants need suspension… a medium to carry them as a fine mist… something that doesn’t degrade them… and a delivery system! Pressure! It needs pressure!”

He spun back to Eirik. “Think of a wineskin! But instead of wine, it holds… let’s call it… Gasp! Or… Choke? Needs a catchy name, branding is important! But inside, a carefully balanced suspension — Sunspice, finely ground Old Scarlet, perhaps a touch of powered Frostwort root for a lingering chill sensation… suspended in a mild alcohol solution to preserve and aid dispersal…”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

He grabbed a cracked flask and a funnel, gesturing wildly. “Sealed tight! Very tight! Then…” He mimed attaching a tube and a nozzle made from a hollow reed or bone. “A secondary chamber! Sealed! Containing… vinegar! And powered Shalechalk! Common stuff. But mix them…” He mimed combining the two. “Reaction! Fizz! Pressure builds! Open the valve…” He pointed the imaginary nozzle at Eirik and hissed, “Psssssssssh! Cloud of agony! Right in the face! Hypothetically!”

“Hypothetically,” Eirik said, feeling a surge of triumph. “That sounds precisely like what a man in that… situation… might need. How effective? How long-lasting?”

Fisk’s manic energy shifted into salesman mode. He leaned back on his stool, steepling his stained fingers.

“Effectiveness? Oh, friends, it’ll drop a charging bull-hog! Eyes swell shut instantly, blinding! Burning sensation like frostbite on fire! Choking, gagging, involuntary weeping! Breathing feels like swallowing shards of ice! Disorientation! Panic! Utter incapacitation for…” he tilted his head, calculating, “...minimal exposure? Five, ten minutes of pure misery. Heavier dose? Up to an hour of impaired vision and discomfort. Absolutely non-lethal, though they might wish they were dead!” He grinned. “Disappears relatively quickly, especially in open air. Minimal trace. Discreet!”

“How fast could such a thing be produced? And what would… such a specialized solution… hypothetically cost? Per unit?”

Fisk’s eyes glittered. “Production speed depends on quantities, friend! And the quality of components! Old Scarlet is finicky! Needs careful drying and precise grinding! Sunspice dust is labor-intensive! The suspension medium needs pure spirits! Pressure vessels need sturdy leather bladders and tight seals! Specialized nozzles! Craftsmanship!” He shook his head, sighing theatrically. “It’s not a simple tincture. This is bespoke alchemy! Hypothetically, of course.”

He leaned forward again. “For a small batch? Say… ten units? For a discerning client… hypothetically facing imminent… hypothetical trouble? Considering the urgency, the specialized nature… let’s call it… five talons per unit. A modest investment for assured escape and tactical superiority!”

“Five talons,” Eirik repeated flatly, letting a note of skepticism bleed into his tone. He slowly, deliberately, pulled his cloak aside, revealing the ornate pommel of the Fenrir longsword. “That seems… steep, Fisk. Hypothetically, a man needing such a tool might only have two talons per unit.”

A momentary flicker of unease crossed Fisk’s face before the salesman snapped back into place. “Two?! Noble friend, you wound me! This is art! Dangerously volatile art! The components alone—”

“—Are sourced locally,” Eirik cut in smoothly. “Sunspice Lichen grows on rocks north of here. Frostwort is a weed in frozen marshes. Shalechalk and vinegar are cheap as dirt. The alcohol? Probably sourced from whatever cheap grog doesn’t poison you.” He took a half-step closer. “The real cost is your skill, Fisk. Your brilliant, discreet skill. And your time. I respect that. Hypothetically.”

Fisk paled slightly beneath the grime. “Two… per unit… is… unprecedented hardship.”

“Unprecedented hardship often leads to unprecedented solutions, Fisk,” Eirik stated, “You spoke of pressure. Precise grinding. Delivery systems. Components are cheap. The real cost, as I see it, is in the time and specialized assembly of those pressure bladders. That’s your ‘bespoke alchemy’.”He took a slow step back. “So, hypothetically… what if we simplified the delivery?”

Fisk’s brow furrowed. “Simplified? How? The pressure is key for the cloud, noble friend! Without force, you just have… nasty soup. Useful for pouring doorsteps, perhaps, not for blinding an angry warrior!”

“Fifty angry warriors,” Eirik corrected. “Let’s expand the hypothetical. Instead of one man needing to escape, what if a small force needed to break a large formation? Create panic not in one face, but across dozens? What if… instead of precise spray hitting a few…” He mimed a throwing motion. “... you had something that could be lobbed into their midst?”

Fisk blinked. “Lobbed? Like… a rock?”

“Like a jar,” Eirik clarified. “A sturdy clay jar. Sealed tight. Filled not just with your ‘Gasp’ suspension, but perhaps… thickened? With something sticky? Tar? Tree resin? Something to make it cling, to spread the effect? And inside, alongside the irritants… the vinegar and Shalechalk powder? Sealed together?”

Understanding dawned slowly on Fisk’s face, followed by dawning horror and then… reluctant admiration.

“Oh… oh, you’re a nasty one, aren’t you, friend?” A shaky grin spread across his thin lips. “A bursting jar! Impact breaks the clay, releases the suspension and the reactants together! Instant mixing! Instant pressure build-up! Not a directed spray, but a… a cloud bomb! Less precise, oh yes, far messier… but the area! The sheer chaos!”

Chaos. Precisely the weapon I need against disciplined ranks from Gunnar’s side. Eirik felt the idea taking shape. “Exactly. A sudden, expanding sphere of misery right where the enemy is thickest. Blinding, choking agony erupting in the center of their line. How effective would that be, hypothetically?”

Fisk drummed his stained fingers on the countertop.

“Hypothetically? More dispersed than the direct spray. Someone right where it bursts? They’d get the worst — blinding, choking, maybe even burns if the reaction is hot enough. Someone a few paces away? Eyes watering, sneezing, disoriented, panicking. Formation shattered instantly. Takes longer to dissipate too, especially if you add sticky stuff. Troops trampling each other to get away from the burning fog… hypothetically.” He looked at Eirik with new, wary respect. “But… mass production? Clay jars? We’re not talking ten units anymore, noble friend. You need dozens. Hundreds?”

“Let’s start with feasibility,” Eirik countered. “You mentioned the pressure system for the bladders was the costly, time-consuming part. For a throwable jar… the pressure builds inside when the reactants mix upon breaking. No need for leather bladders, complex valves, or nozzles. Just a sturdy container, the irritant mixture, and the reactants sealed separately within it until impact. Correct?”

Fisk nodded slowly. “Simpler construction, yes. No delicate pressure vessels to craft. Just… a good thick jar. The seal is crucial, though. Needs to hold until it breaks on target. If it leaks or ruptures early…” He shuddered dramatically. “Not good for the thrower.”

“Ingredients? Can you get these in bulk in a short amount of time? Realistically?”

Fisk scratched his chin. “Hmm. Can find enough if I send my… associates… scurrying.” He looked up, a calculating gleam returning to his eyes. “The bottleneck, hypothetically… would be preparing and filling. Grinding the irritants fine enough. Mixing the suspension safely — getting that wrong makes very bad vapors. Filling the jars: needs care to keep reactants separate until sealed. One jar exploding in your face is… career-ending.”

“How many jars could your operation produce in five days? And what would the cost per jar be, considering the bulk ingredients and the… occupational hazard?”

Fisk puffed out his cheeks. “Five days… cautiously? With just me? Two, maybe three. Pushing it. But…” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I know a few fellows. Down on their luck. Experienced with… volatile substances. Discreet. If coin flowed freely for hazard pay… perhaps ten, fifteen jars? If we worked through the nights? Frostbite risk, you know. Fingers get clumsy in the cold.”

Fifteen jars. Eirik evaluated rapidly. That’d be more than enough to throw on the enemy forces.

“Now, cost per jar?”

Fisk’s eyes flickered. “Well now, friend! Considering the bulk discounts on raw materials… but the labor! Specialized labor! The risk! The secrecy surcharge! Quality control! Hypothetically… perhaps… ten talons per jar?”

“Ten talons… for a simple clay jar filled with weeds and common powders,” Eirik mused. “We both know this number is bullshit. Why not cut the foreplay, and talk about real prices. If I like the number you offer me next, I might just give you a good deposit today and let your little production line start humming. Or, now that I am somewhat versed on both the ingredients and the manufacturing process of this hypothetical operation, I could just walk to another store, and spend less than half of what you just requested. So, tell me now. The real cost.”

Fisk flinched at the threat. His gaze dropped to Eirik’s tapping finger, and then darted nervously to the sword pommel again. He licked his lips.

“Six talons per jar for fifteen jars. Final offer, hypothetically.” He held up a finger. “But! Deposit! Half up front! Non-refundable! To procure materials and secure… enthusiastic labor. Forty-five talons.” He said it quickly, as if ripping off a bandage.

“Agreed. Forty-five today. The remainder in six days. Fisk. Do not disappoint. My hypothetical situation is… time-sensitive.”

Eirik watched Fisk’s eyes widen, glued to a pouch of silver Harkin produced from under his garments. The alchemist scooped the coins up with surprising speed, dropping them into a heavy iron lockbox hidden beneath the counter with a loud clunk.

“Discretion, speed, and potency, friend! Fisk’s Fine Philtres delivers! You won’t regret it!”

I’d better not, Eirik thought grimly, turning towards the reeking stairs. He emerged into the marginally fresher air of the alley, blinking in the weak daylight.

———

Thwack!

He swung the Fenrir longsword in a controlled arc at a snow-laden bush marker he’d set up. It was awkward, unbalanced. A horse jolted beneath him, and the sword point missed the target by a handspan. His legs squeezed instinctively, sending a fresh ache through his thighs. Riding was hard. Especially trying to fight.

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT SWORDSMANSHIP LEVEL: 1,085/2,000 (D → C-)]

[RIDING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 1]

[PROGRESS TOWARDS NEXT RIDING LEVEL: 47/1000 (F → D)]

Feels like my spine’s rattling loose, Eirik thought, forcing himself upright again. His better yet still low agility meant that coordination on this bloody moving platform wasn’t going to be pleasant for a long time. Yet he needed this dual-tasking, for it allows him to progress two skills at the same time.

He urged the horse into a cautious trot. The world lurched. He concentrated on the rhythm: Down, up, down, up. He adjusted his grip on the reins in his left hand, feeling the pull. Like steering a boat through rapids blindfolded.

Thwack!

This time, the blade struck the bush squarely, shearing off snow and a few brittle twigs. A smoother connection. He felt the gelding respond subtly to the shift in his posture.

[SWORDSMANSHIP EXPERIENCE +1]

[RIDING EXPERIENCE +1]

[MANA FRAGMENT + 2]

Better. Now, faster.

He pushed the gelding into a canter. The increase in speed was terrifying and exhilarating. Wind tore at him. He leaned forward, knees gripping hard, trying to become one with the animal’s motion. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Tomorrow. Recruitment.

His thoughts slammed into the obstacle harder than any bush. He slowed the horse to a walk again, breathing heavily. The quiet stretch of road felt suddenly claustrophobic. Gunnar gets fifty hardened garrison veterans. Men who’ve fought Skral raiders, drilled for years. Garrick… he’ll pick fifty household guards. Probably pampered, but armored, disciplined, loyal to the golden son.

And me?

He pictured the storehouse. Twenty-five Fenrir guards were coming. Isolde would send them. Loyal? To House Fenrir, maybe. To him? Eirik Stormcrow, the bastard who just broke their heir and took their sword? Unlikely. They’d obey orders… technically. Half-hearted obedience loses battles.

Then there were Olaf’s recruits. Branded men. Thieves and brawlers who survived the Frost Pit. Desperate? Yes. Skilled? Maybe, in dirty, back-alley ways. Reliable? Not a chance. They’ll see a young noble playing mercenary. An opportunity to maybe steal something valuable and vanish.

Unity? Discipline? Loyalty to a commander they just met? Forget it.

So, fifty men. He nudged the horse back towards Stormkeep. Half forced, half criminal. All potentially looking for a chance to betray me, steal from me, or just melt away when things get tough. Traps and trickery like the log barriers and Fisk’s bombs are vital, but gimmicks alone won’t win the wargame. If his own forces crumble at the first real clash, if they panic, if they don’t hold the line when the pressure hits… then all his clever plans are just elaborate suicide.

He needed them to fight for him. But how? With what?

The gelding’s rhythmic hoofbeats on the frozen earth became a dull drumbeat. The cold air bit deeper. He needs something radical. Something to bind them… fast. He felt a familiar surge of frustration — the need for an impossible solution. How do you turn prisoners and pirates into elite warriors in a week? You don’t. But…

A memory surfaced. Dredged from history texts read in his previous life in Blackridge, seemingly useless information that now flared with urgent relevance.

Shaka.

The name landed in his mind like a hammer blow. Shaka Zulu. Early 19th century South Africa. He took a collection of fragmented tribes, broken men, and forged them into the most fearsome fighting force the region had ever seen. In months. He revolutionized warfare. How?

Eirik reined the horse to a complete halt near the Stormkeep gatehouse. He closed his eyes, shutting out the grey walls and the cold, forcing the dusty knowledge to the forefront.