The second moon of the deep freeze had just crested the jagged mountain peaks when the Salt-Gatherers finally arrived, exactly as the ancient trading cycles dictated...
However, the size of the nomadic group that descended into the valley was far greater than the icy incline leading to Frodo’s cavern could accommodate.
Dozens of bone-framed sleds, pulled by dire-dogs and men, were forced to set up a temporary camp at the base of the gorge, waiting for the vanguard to finish unloading their goods before the rest could move up.
Watching the bottleneck from the cave’s ledge, Frodo quickly realized that his current infrastructure was insufficient.
If he was going to turn this mountain into an economic powerhouse, he would have to carve out a fortified trading post on the lower slopes.
Despite the hiccups, this moon cycle had been a massive industrial success for the tribe.
Vash and her newly formed light-industry team had successfully produced over two hundred clay shells filled with the summer-scent balm.
Because they were mass-producing it under the pressure of a deadline, this trade batch lacked the perfect, smooth consistency of Frodo’s original prototype.
The fat was slightly grainier, and a few specks of pine bark floated in the red paste, lowering its aesthetic quality.
But compared to the absolute lack of any luxury goods in the freezing wasteland, it was a monumental leap forward in mass production...
The Salt-Gatherers had brought exactly what Frodo demanded: a massive haul of greenish copper ore, unworked obsidian chunks, and dozens of hardwood trunks hauled from the southern forests.
Frodo directed the nomadic laborers to stack the logs near the cave entrance.
To expedite the construction of a new drying-rack facility, Frodo had Bael demonstrate the heavy compound levers.
As the crippled hunter split frozen pine trunks in a matter of seconds, the nomad chieftain, Orok, stood paralyzed in shock.
In just a few weeks, the broken tribe Orok remembered from last winter had transformed into a confident force.
That evening, Frodo hosted a grand feast around the central fire, formally welcoming the Salt-Gatherers’ leadership.
It was during this feast that Frodo introduced the nomads to Bael’s invention for the first time.
"Every time my people travel to this mountain, your tribe has conjured some new madness. The rumors did not lie to me," Orok boomed.
He stared at the prickly brick of crushed powder in his hands. "Even the meat is unnatural... this..."
"Pemmican," Frodo corrected.
"Yes, Pemmican!" Orok barked a laugh, taking a bite of the fat-bound dust. "Compared to this, chewing on frozen, stringy venison is like chewing on tree bark!" With a wide, greasy grin, Orok swallowed the ration. "Mountain boy, you must trade me a dozen gut-bags of this magic dust."
"I think its texture is far too dry. It scratches the throat," an elderly female shaman of the nomads murmured, setting her piece down. "The fresh, bloody cuts are much better suited for a proper meal."
Frodo smiled politely. "That is a matter of survival preference. The density of this crushed meat is not for everyone’s palate. I do not plan to trade it in large quantities just yet, but since we had a surplus, I thought it only fair to share our harvest." Visit NovelPing for the full chapter.
In the Paleolithic era, hunting and immediately consuming fresh kills was the absolute mainstream of survival...
But desiccating and packing meat offered a terrifying military potential.
Pemmican was the ultimate logistical weapon.
An army carrying this lightweight, indestructible ration could march for weeks without ever needing to stop and hunt.
However, for the present moment, it was still too early to export such a massive strategic advantage to neutral parties.
"Frodo, I bring dark news from the eastern winds, regarding the warlord you asked me to monitor," Orok began. "After Kael’s Blood-Walkers conquered the lowlands, they did not stop to rest. Currently, they are facing fierce resistance from the River Clans. Because of this, Kael has pulled all his elite warriors back to his main palisade, but even with their numbers, they haven’t been able to completely crush the river people in the last two moons."
Orok leaned closer to the fire. "In addition, the elders of the River Clans sent a desperate plea to the neutral tribes. They warned us that Kael’s goal is no longer just stealing meat. He wants to conquer every hunting ground in the east. The River Clans begged us to form an alliance, to combine our spears and drive the Blood-Walkers out of the valley."
"How did your people respond?" Frodo asked.
"Our high chieftain immediately refused the proposal, denouncing the River Clans as fools who want to drag us into their graveyard," Orok shrugged his shoulders. "This matter has caused a fracture among the nomads. Many of our younger hunters support the alliance. After all, Kael hasn’t shown any sign that he respects the ancient borders."
"Is Kael leading the eastern raids himself?"
"The rumors say yes. Kael is personally marching his monsters through the eastern forests," Orok said, a look of dread crossing his face. "I heard that his war bands attacked the eastern fishing camps. They stopped at nothing. They slaughtered the elders, and even the neutral traders who were camped there were butchered."
Orok lowered his voice to a whisper. "They say the Blood-Walkers are no longer just stealing winter caches. Now, they are taking the people. And after they take the strong, they burn the forests to the ground. They are turning the entire eastern hunting ground into a white, dead wasteland so no one can ever challenge them from that direction."
Normally, hearing that a rival warlord was bogged down in a messy eastern campaign should be a tactical relief.
But when Frodo heard that Kael was capturing populations and salting the earth, an urgency gripped his chest. "Those who managed to escape the burning forests..."
"Are you interested in them?" Orok smiled knowingly. "After seeing your new drying racks, I guessed you might want to trade for a large number of slaves to do your heavy lifting. But the free people of the River Clans will not willingly submit to the collar, even to escape the cold."
"I need them as citizens," Frodo corrected.
He realized this was a golden opportunity to drastically expand his workforce, even if the intelligence was a few weeks old.
"As long as these people are willing to climb this mountain and follow my laws, there will be a warm fire and a roof for them, and they will earn their share of the meat. How many survived?"
"Most of the prime-age hunters were either killed or dragged to Kael’s slave pits," Orok replied. "But there should still be nearly two hundred stragglers gathered in the freezing eastern gorges. Most of them are just starving women, cripples, and terrified youths."
"Perfect. I will send my own people to screen them," the boy-leader stated. "If I bring them into my territory, will I face hostility from your high chieftain for interfering?"
"No, you will not," Orok waved a dismissive hand. "The high chieftain will sing your praises to the spirits for taking them away. Otherwise, the starving refugees will eventually beg at our camps, and we do not have the winter fat to feed two hundred mouths. If they stay in the gorges, the hunger will eventually turn them into cannibal raiders." Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
***
After the feast concluded and the nomads returned to their tents, Frodo retreated to his alcove and summoned Jax, the fastest runner of his Reconnaissance team.
This incident made Frodo painfully aware of how localized and reactive his intelligence network currently was.
If he had received knowledge about the River Clans’ collapse a month ago, he could have prepared a proper extraction.
At present, his understanding of the wider Ice Age relied entirely on the rumors brought by nomadic caravans that only passed through once a moon cycle.
A transmission rate like that was simply unacceptable for an industrialized military campaign.
Even with Silas and Orin establishing optical relays on the nearby ridges, he was only monitoring his immediate borders.
If he really wanted to dismantle Kael and secure a monopoly on the valley’s survival, he would have to extend his intelligence network into the deep east.
Right now, Frodo did not have a standing army to deploy spies across the frozen continent.
Therefore, he had to start by laying a foundation...
He needed someone to embed themselves with the neutral caravans, traveling to the outer regions.
Knowing Jax’s background as a swift youth who had survived on the absolute fringes of the tribe before Frodo took over, the boy-leader knew he was the perfect candidate for a deep-cover operative.
"You want me to follow the Salt-Gatherers into the eastern gorges?" Jax gawked.
"That is exactly right. You have two duties," Frodo commanded, his eyes locked on the teenager. "Your first mission is to make contact with the starving refugees of the River Clans. I will assign ten of Tor’s heavy spearmen to go with you; they will be in charge of escorting the refugees back to this mountain. I will give you the specific criteria for who we accept before you leave."
"Yes, Frodo!"
"Second," Frodo continued. "When the refugees are secured and sent back, you will not return with them. You will stay behind in the eastern gorges. You will blend in with the neutral wanderers, follow their camps, and collect information on Kael’s troop movements for me. Since you already know how to stay invisible in the snow, you know how to survive."
Frodo reached into his furs and pulled out a gleaming object.
"Furthermore, Orok’s caravan will provide you with whatever cover you need. I have paid him heavily in summer-balm. If you need to bribe a neutral hunter for information, use the balm."
Frodo then placed the object on the flat stone between them.
It was the first copper dagger the tribe had ever produced, forged from an earlier test batch of smelted ore!