chapter 20.5

Alcard followed the Dwarven warrior deeper into the heart of the underground fortress of the Steelhammer Clan. The corridors grew narrower and more winding as they descended further into the depths, but every inch of stone was carved with exceptional craftsmanship. The walls bore intricate engravings that chronicled the long and storied history of the clan—their glorious past, the wars they had fought, and the legacies they had forged. The dim torchlight flickered against the stone, casting shifting shadows that made the entire place feel less like a fortress and more like a monument to the unyielding might of the Dwarves.

At the end of the corridor, a massive wooden door reinforced with silver inlays loomed before them, its surface adorned with the unmistakable crest of the Steelhammer Clan. Without hesitation, the warrior escorting Alcard knocked three times in a distinct rhythm before pushing the heavy door open.

As the door creaked on its hinges, the scent of aged wood mingled with the sharp tang of metal greeted Alcard. The room beyond was more than just an office—it was the very nerve center of the Steelhammer Clan's power. Bookshelves lined the stone walls, filled with scrolls, documents, and maps detailing centuries of knowledge and strategy. In the center of the chamber, a massive desk of blackened oak stood covered in neatly arranged parchments, quills, and ink bottles. Suspended from the ceiling, a large iron lantern bathed the room in a golden glow, casting long, dramatic shadows that underscored the weight of the discussions that took place here.

Seated behind the grand desk was Tharvin Steelhammer, the leader of the clan. Even by Dwarven standards, he was an imposing figure—broad-shouldered, with arms thick enough to wield a warhammer as easily as a quill. His long, silver beard cascaded down his chest, partially bound with iron rings etched with intricate patterns. His sharp, eagle-like eyes locked onto Alcard the moment he stepped into the chamber.

Resting atop the desk, positioned deliberately to be the first thing one noticed, was the small pouch Alcard had brought—the one filled with gold coins and precious gemstones. It sat there like a silent challenge, daring Tharvin to weigh its worth against whatever price he deemed appropriate.

"So," Tharvin finally spoke, his voice deep and gravelly, carrying both amusement and scrutiny. "This is what you've brought?"

His gaze flickered toward the pouch, his expression inscrutable—somewhere between indifference and intrigue, as if he had yet to decide whether its contents were worthy of his attention.

Alcard met his gaze without flinching. "I was sent to secure additional supplies," he stated plainly, his tone steady and unwavering. "Tell me how much this can buy."

Tharvin's lips curled into a knowing smirk, the kind a seasoned merchant wore when dealing with someone who understood the true nature of bargaining. "The price of metal and weapons has been rising," he said, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of a man who had spoken these words countless times before. "We can't just hand over our goods because they're meant for The Wall."

Alcard let a brief silence settle between them, allowing the weight of Tharvin's words to linger in the air. He had played this game before—this was not merely a trade negotiation; this was a test of power, influence, and leverage.

Then, in a voice as cold as steel, Alcard replied, "And I know that you intend to exploit the situation for as much gain as possible, even if it means jeopardizing the safety of Middle Earth."

Tharvin's smirk faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. The measured control in his demeanor did not waver, but Alcard could see that his words had struck their mark. Before the Dwarf could respond, Alcard pressed forward.

"Don't forget," he continued, his voice carrying more weight now, "these supplies are not for political maneuvering or territorial disputes. They are for defending The Wall against the threats from the South. You remember the severed Orc head we brought to the last Council of Ten Clans meeting, don't you?"

A tense silence settled over the room. Alcard watched as Tharvin's jaw tightened ever so slightly. He knew the Dwarf had not forgotten. That meeting had been a grim reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond The Wall—of the price that was paid in blood to keep them at bay.

But Alcard was not finished.

"Or perhaps you've already forgotten about the last large-scale assault?" he continued, his tone sharp and cutting. "Six mutated ogres. Dozens of twisted goblins. A two-headed brute that nearly tore through our defenses. What do you think will happen if The Wall falls? Don't pretend ignorance, Tharvin. Those creatures won't stop at us. They'll keep moving. They'll spread. And they'll consume everything in their path—including this proud fortress of yours."

Tharvin let out a long, measured breath. When he finally spoke again, his voice had lost its earlier amusement. "Fine," he said gruffly. "I'll lower the price—slightly. Not because of you, but because it serves everyone's interests."

The deal was struck. Tharvin began drafting the necessary documents to finalize the transaction, while Alcard added specific instructions. "This transaction must be kept separate from our regular supply shipments. This comes as a direct request from the central headquarter."

Tharvin scoffed, clearly displeased with the added conditions. "You Outcasts always make things more complicated," he muttered, stamping the documents with a hammer-shaped insignia. "Fine, I'll make the arrangements. But don't expect me to forget this."

Alcard rose from his seat, prepared to leave. But just as he reached for the door, he hesitated, then turned slightly. He leaned forward ever so slightly, lowering his voice just enough to shift the atmosphere between them.

"There's one more matter," he said in a near whisper. "A private one."

Tharvin's expression darkened, suspicion creeping into his gaze. His eyes studied Alcard carefully, searching for any hidden motive. "A private matter, is it?" he echoed, as if testing the words on his tongue.

For a long moment, he seemed to deliberate. Then, begrudgingly, he gave a subtle hand signal.

Immediately, the guards and attendants in the room began filing out without a word. The great wooden doors swung shut behind them, sealing off the chamber from prying ears. The heavy silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension.

Now, it was just the two of them.

Tharvin leaned back into his chair, his fingers interlocking as he regarded Alcard with renewed scrutiny. "Alright," he said at last. "What is it that you really want, Outcast?"

The air between them crackled with anticipation. Whatever Alcard was about to say next would decide the course of this meeting—not just as a trade negotiation, but as something far more significant, something that could alter the balance of power in Middle Earth.

****