As snow depth and lichen levels changed through the year, the animals—arctic foxes, snow hares, the reindeer we depended so heavily upon—migrated across the North. But filling our plains with hunter outposts out of greed would only repeat my mistake, but on a larger, and perhaps irreversible scale.
Twenty of the original trapper families, roughly thirty members each, still held on to their craft despite the hardships they faced, and so we divided them between five villages set roughly two days apart from each other and Nordrstjarna. It was an isolated life, but the Snoutlings were used to it. These valuable communities were exempted from military service for life.
We left two on the bends of the frozen river where they could double as fishers when game was scarce. Two remained on the way to the ice sheets in the north. And at last, a village between Nordrstjarna and the eastern mountains.
Aside from supplies, tools, and an assigned village chief from my household, I left them additional instructions to redirect any migrant Snoutling tribes to our city in order to reduce local competition for game.
At this point, snowbuilding was widespread technology among Nordrstjarna’s Snoutlings. In Fjallsleidis—the mountainward village—construction had already started by the time I was ready to return, yet I chose to linger a little longer.
The night sky was clear for a change. Aurora shone above the distant mountain ranges, marking the end of my domain.
Every village, though built from the same cold bricks and by the same gentle people, was special in its own way. Or that's how I saw it.
Ice sheets, crowned mountains. Even the river bent differently, shaping each settlement.
“Chieftain.” The village chief approached me.
I snapped out of the aurora. “Yes?”
“Everyone's settled down now. Tribute should arrive in Nordrstjarna in a month.”
“Thanks, Mogg.” I glanced back at the naked wilderness. “I’ll get a road going for you guys someday, I promise.”
He smiled. “I know you will. Thank you.”
“Are you sure you'll be alright without your family?”
He scratched his nose, blushing. “I… actually met a girl in the village.”
“Oh…” My eyebrows arched. “That was fast.”
“The poems helped.”
“Alright.” I scoffed and mounted on Predslava. “You take care now, and… good luck.”
Mogg nodded. “You too, Chieftain.”
We rode off to Nordrstjarna, leaving the trappers to work. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
The palace came into view in the distance. Stars shone above the city, smoke rising from the buildings as I suspected the Snoutlings were roasting some fish for supper. Even from here it was quite big.
“Is this still all part of your business plan?” Predslava asked beneath me.
I frowned. “What plan?”
“Get an economy going to sell sculptures.”
I shook my head. “Silly.”
Predslava giggled mischievously.
I also suspected she'd keep reminding me of that forever.
“I didn’t give up, for your information.” I leaned back on the saddle. “One day that art seller will empty his pockets upon seeing my art, you’ll see.”
“Oh, he better. Or I’ll—”
“Punch him in the face, yeah… please don’t.”
“Aw…”
Something came to mind.
“Speaking of Bjornhavn.” I scratched my chin. “You better pray that the Grayfangs never find out about your little… misadventure in that alley, for the sake of us all.”
“Were those two Rurik’s werewolves?”
I covered my mouth. “I have no idea…”
“They all look the same, though!”
“Shhh! Don’t be rude.”
“But there’s nobody—” This story is hosted at g.com.
“Still. It’s mannerless.”
The houses were quiet as we entered the city, the streets mostly empty, except for a few Snoutlings who looked at me apprehensively.
“Where’s everyone…?” I asked with a frown.
They pointed to the palace.
I hadn’t seen it in the dark, but a massive crowd gathered at the gates.
“Let’s go, Predslava.”
“Aye.”
We bolted towards them
“Chieftain!” they cried out as we appeared at the hill, stepping aside for us to pass. “Chieftain is back!”
I stared at them, confused.
We rode in through the open gates. “Grommo—”
It was quiet inside, despite the somber mood. The household staff was all there, including the one I sent with the caravan. He sobbed as he talked to Grommo.
I dismounted and approached them. “What happened?”
Grommo turned to me, worried. “The caravan, Chieftain. Rurik took them hostage.”
Blood drained out of my head. “You delivered the tribute, right?”
“We did.” The caravan master nodded. “But Rurik won’t release them until next year to make sure…”
“Make sure of what?” I asked. “We honored our word.”
“To make sure you pay more,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “The Grayfangs want double. Sorry, Chieftain.”