Chapter Text
Chieftain Hamal double-checked the ledger, then held it over the fire until it burned right up. The mountain wind roared as it lashed against his tent, drowning out the children giggling, the labourers grunting, the elders gossiping. Hamal wasn’t keeping it a secret that his tribe had raised forty goats for the winter but needed seventy if they were to make it through alive, he was just very busy procrastinating telling them.
He hung the kettle over the fire and plopped the last of the dandelion into the water. Whistling, he got his daughter’s cup out of a drawer and filled it, just in case it was today she’d come back.
“Chieftain!” Farmer Jokul burst into the tent.
Hamal jumped, splashing scalding water all over himself, his heart pumping adrenaline.
“Farmer Jokul!” He leapt to his feet. “Could it be — I mean, is she—”
“She’s crazy!” Jokul clawed at the tangled mess of hair on his chin. “I tried to stop her at the wall, but she just got out a rope and grappled herself up the mountainside while blowing raspberries at me.”
“Why would you ever stop her?” Hamal shook him back and forth. “You should have welcomed her back with open arms!”
Jokul dropped his crook; it clattered against the ground. “If you wanted me to welcome every wares-peddling outerlander that passes by our settlement, then why’d you make me stand out at those bloody rocks every day? We could put up a sign! With an arrow!”
“Outerlander? I thought you meant—”
“Yes, chieftain. Uh, you’re crying, chieftain.”
“No I’m not,” cried Hamal.
“No, I see that now, chieftain.” Jokul offered him a handkerchief. “Must have been the condensation from the tea, chieftain.”
“Is this really the time to run your mouth?” Hamal swatted his hand away. “Not only have you barged into your chieftain’s tent and let an outerlander into the settlement, you’ve also abandoned the border at the slightest upset, leaving us completely defenceless against trolls, dwarves, or anything else that feels like wandering in!”
“That seems about right, chieftain.”
“Go!” Hamal whacked him upside the head with the blunt end of the crook.
Jokul took it and sprinted away past the gathering crowd in the centre of the village.
An outerlander was shouting at them like a manic auctioneer. She was clad in teal armour and slinging around a sack the size of a small tent. Whenever she turned, the sack’s contents clinked and scraped together like a thousand angry violins. The crowd, for its part, was doing a good job of respecting the ban on speaking to outerlanders by turning away from her and listening to everything she said. Hamal marched onto the scene.
“Gilded chisels, hammers, and the classic gilded armour set, guaranteed by real wizards to ward off trolls,” bellowed the outerlander over the wind. “Come on, somebody, anybody, step right up and try it on! People, this is the genuine stuff right here, dwarf-grade adamant and gold, the shield could stop a yak at full pelt and not even crack a dent! All yours for the low, low price of 500gp.”
The crowd bristled their hands together in a suitably ambiguous way that might’ve resembled clapping.
A crone, spying the chieftain, said, “We do not trade with your kind, outerlander. Begone.”
“Madame, consider your future,” cried the outerlander, holding up a gilded teal knitting needle. “Winter’s not far off, and these’ll knit goat fur faster than they can grow it. Just 100gp to keep your grandchildren warm—”
Hamal cleared his throat, and the crowd fell silent.
“Outerlander,” he said, standing up straight, “I am the chieftain of this settlement. Forgive us, but we speak only with our own kind. If you wish to trade, you will have to move on.”
The outerlander rummaged in her sack and brought out a knight’s helmet. “How about it, your chieftainliness? I reckon you’ll look chieftainly in it. Just for you, I’ll go as low as 400gp.”
“We don’t have any money,” Hamal explained, as though to a small child.
“Oh, don’t let a little thing like that get in the way of your dreams,” beamed the outerlander. “There’s this new tech they’re trialling at the Bank of Varrock. It’s called credit. I think you’re gonna—”
“No thank you,” said Hamal. “We pride ourselves on our rugged lifestyle, and have no need of modern comforts.”
“But I could use some new needles,” whispered the crone loudly enough for everybody to hear. Suddenly, there seemed to be quite a lot of loud whispering going on about how their old tools were getting kind of worn down anyway, and you know, good quality adamant was hard to come by these days, and you know, the chieftain had been kind of buggering the whole running the town thing recently.
The outerlander’s smile grew wide, and she practically pounced upon the old woman with the needles.
“Outerlander!” Hamal tugged on her sack, immobilising her. “As chieftain, I control our camp’s small treasury. Please, come into my tent and — and let’s discuss this matter over some tea.”
“Tea?” said the outerlander, immediately ignoring the crowd. She followed Hamal, the sack tracing a line through the mud behind her.
They sat either side of the fire, the outerlander leaning on her sack, and against his better judgement, he gave her his daughter’s cup.
“Dandelion water,” said Hamal, pouring it in. “I would very much like to offer you more, outerlander, but scarce herbs grow on the mountain.”
“Thank you,” said the outerlander with an uncanny chipperness. Shadows flickered off her face. She was about his daughter’s age. “You can stop calling me outerlander, by the way. The name’s Hildegarde—wandering merchant—but between you and me, I wouldn’t mind if you called me Hilda.”
“Forgive my rudeness for not introducing myself. My name is Hamal. I wish I had more to offer a merchant like yourself, but what I said before about our settlement is true. We are better off without money.”
Hilda’s face screwed up as she sipped the tea, and when she thought Hamal wasn’t looking, she emptied the cup into the mud.
“There is a town to the east called Rellekka,” said Hamal. “They will buy your wares, for sure.”
“Rellekka?” Hilda took out a list from her sack that was full of scrawled out city names. “Let me tell you, the market is saturated. Same with the whole of Misthalin. Too many people. It uh, it just can’t be done, so I’m here.”
Hilda stared into the flames, and for a moment, her smile wavered.
“Is that so?” said Hamal. “Economics is not my strong point. I admire your ambition, Hildegarde, but I’m afraid there’s nothing our camp can do for you.”
“Hilda to you, your chieftainliness,” said Hilda, holding the cup out for him to fill it back up.
Hamal took the kettle off the fire. “That was the last of our tea.”
Hilda lay back onto her sack and stared at the ceiling as it was buffeted by the wind.
“Last of the tea, huh,” she said. “I’m sure there’s plenty to hunt and scavenge on these mountains.”
“It’s too dangerous to stray far,” said Hamal. “And anyway, we can’t move on from here.”
She grabbed his hand. “My gilded adamant could change their lives, and you know it.”
Hamal studied the gauntlet she was wearing, holding it up to the fire. He wiped a thumb over the golden accents and smudged them around before bringing it up to his nose and sniffing.
“That gold smells like onions.” He let it go. “The adamant that our ancestors described was dark green, not teal.”
“This stuff’s teal.” Hilda shrugged. “It’s probably a fashion thing, looks better, you know, and that gold trimming still wards off all sorts of monsters. Kept me safe from bears on the way up here.”
“Why is it smudging?” said Hamal, flatly.
Hilda waved a hand and chuckled as if she were speaking to a child, which flared up magma in his chest because he had just been trying to do the same to her and she was doing a better job of it.
“It’s magic gold,” she said carefully. “Constantly in a state of flux, it’ll never solidify. It’s like, an enchantment—”
“We have vowed never to use magic,” snapped Hamal.
Hilda waved her hands frenetically, almost fanning the fire onto the tent. “LIKE an enchantment,” she stressed, “But conveniently one hundred percent based in agricultural science! Which is why it smells like onions!”
“You disrespect our ways, outerlander!” Hamal shouted. “I can be patient with you no longer. Why do you persist in this farce?”
“Because—” Hilda’s stomach rumbled, loud as a foghorn. “Hey, who’s disrespecting who, here? When I go to villages like this they normally offer travellers a meal, but all you gave me was a cup of water.”
“Are you mentally deficient?” He got right up in her face. “Let me say it for the final time. We have nothing to offer you!”
“No, you don’t, do you?” said Hilda, calmly. “Everybody here looks like they’re about to pass out and starve to death.”
“Why you—” Hamal gripped her neck and tried to throttle her while lifting to her feet, but she peeled his hand off like it was a fallen leaf and yanked him to the ground.
“See what I mean?” asked Hilda, locking her armoured arm around his head. “You’re all bones. I’m actually serious here. If you don’t buy some equipment off me and move on to someplace with a bit more greenery, your tribe won’t survive.”
“You don’t understand,” said Hamal, trying to push her away, feet scrabbling in the dirt. “We’ve moved on many times before. That’s our custom. But we can’t this time.”
She let him go. “Why?”
He opened the tent flap and peered out over the settlement flanked by mountains, and further out onto the moorlands beyond it, and he looked like somebody who’d been expecting friends to come over in the morning and even though it had long turned night he was still looking out the window.
“My daughter has gone missing,” he said. “We’re waiting for her to come back.”
Hilda’s stomach growled. She stood up, slinging the sack over her shoulder.
“Well, good luck and all that,” said Hilda. “Thanks for the tea, I’m gonna split.”
“Wait,” cried Hamal, latching onto her sack, but she just kept dragging him along. “Your armour—is it really true that it can ward off all kinds of monsters and protect you from harm, making walking in these lands as tranquil as a walk in the park?”
“It can do all that and more,” said Hilda. “1000gp for the set, how about it?”
“I just have one more question,” said Hamal. “The effects work on you, right? Keep you safe?”
Hilda chuckled. “Same for me as for everybody.”
“Then it should be no trouble for you to look for her,” he said. “With my daughter back, our village could move on, and we would be able to trade you for your wares!”
“Um, uh, I mean, who do you think I am, some kind of heroine?” Hilda broke into a half-run.
“Please, we’re desperate,” said Hamal, clinging on like a limpet. “Heroine or not, you have the armour! It should be no trouble for you!”
“Sorry, I, uh, I just remembered I left the range on at home, so—” said Hilda.
“We’ll trade you anything you want if you find my daughter,” said Hamal. “Anything!”
Hilda scoffed. “How about her hand in marriage?”
“She’s engaged,” said Hamal. “But, listen — if it’s romance you’re after, I’ve heard that Farmer Jokul is single.”
“That guy?” said Hilda. “He smells like goat.”
Hamal hung his head. “That’s what they all say.”
Hilda stopped suddenly, her stomach rumbling like a rune altar. In front of her, the settlement had gathered, a crowd spearheaded by the crone, and they all watched her with gleaming hope in their eyes. Every fifth man held a pitchfork.
“Did you come to an agreement with the outlander, chieftain?” asked the crone.
“Well—” coughed Hilda.
Hamal bellowed, “The outerlander has agreed to use her overpowered armour to search for my daughter so that we may move on to greener lands! Even better, all she has asked for in return is to be provided with food while she conducts her search!”
The crowd stared blankly at him. A few of the pitchforks raised a little higher.
“And after that,” yelled Hilda, “The chieftain said I’ll be respected enough in your community that you can buy my wares without disrespecting your teachings!”
Everybody cheered and threw their hat into the air, which was a bad move in retrospect, because they all blew away and the crowd had to disperse to run after them. Except they all found them very quickly and ended up huddled together around the crone, but Hamal just figured they were asking her to repair them or something.
“I suppose we’ve reached a compromise,” said Hamal, extending his hand.
Hilda patted the chainmail over her stomach. “What kind of food? All I have to do is look for your daughter, right?”
“Goat goulash,” said Hamal. “All that we can spare.”
A sliver of drool escaped Hilda’s mouth. “What are you waiting for, then? It’s time to chow down, lead the way!”
“All that we can spare is in fact, a small ration dispersed throughout the town in the evening,” said Hamal. “Please don’t be late—the children tend to beg for the leftovers, and I’m not very good at saying no.”
Hilda stared up at the sun, which hung dead centre between East and West. She swayed on her feet.
“In the meantime, you can use that amazing armour of yours to look for my daughter,” suggested Hamal. “Thanks.”
Hilda sighed. “Well, I doubt I’ll be able to make the climb back down the mountain today. This probably won’t take long. Do you know where she might have got off to?”
Hamal gestured to a steep, winding path that ran up the side of a cliff adjacent to the village. Far at the top, he could just make out the wooden fence that marked the edge of the lake.
“Head to the lake up there and speak to my son-in-law, Ragnar. He was the last person to see her, so he can tell you more than I can.”
“Can I at least trade him something for a decent lunch?” asked Hilda.
Hamal shrugged. “I’ll send a smoke signal up telling him to expect you and to have something prepared. Thank you, adventurer. Have a safe climb.”
“I’m not an adventurer,” snapped Hilda, and set off up the path, stooping over as she struggled under the weight of the sack.
Hamal waved her off, then retreated to his tent before any of the villagers could waylay him with questions. He shut the tent flap tight. He drew up a new ledger that they would now require eighty goats for the winter. He boiled the kettle again; reached for the dandelion pouch to sprinkle some in, but there wasn’t any dandelion left.