Chapter 16: Conditions

The black-and-white dog-headed creature before him did not appear fierce; from a distance, it resembled a husky standing upright, with a hint of silly charm. In truth, the entire dog-headed tribe looked quite docile when not baring their teeth or glaring; most of them had the appearance of golden retrievers, while a few muscular, misshapen ones were reminiscent of pit bulls. After all, they were dog-headed folk, not savage breeds like boar-men or jackal-men.

Leo gazed at the black-and-white dog-headed creature and, after a moment’s thought, broke into a smile and declared firmly, “No!”

The black-and-white dog-headed one—let’s call him the Husky-man for now—immediately flashed a menacing glare and bared his teeth, growling in a threatening manner. Behind him, the golden retriever-men and pit bull-men joined in with barking.

Leo quickly interjected, “We don’t want your food, nor your homes. We are a peaceful people!”

The Husky-man was taken aback, his ferocity waning. He muttered, “We don’t believe you. Your smile is sly. Humans are sly. Your common tongue is poor.”

Leo straightened his expression and said seriously, “Trust us. We are a peace-loving people. We can trade—your iron for our food. Your homes remain yours.”

The Husky-man hesitated, glancing back at his kin. The golden retriever-men stood indecisive, while the pit bull-men, clearly bearing the traits of berserkers, continued to snarl, always ready for battle.

Not to be outdone, Leo stretched his neck forward, patting the artery at his throat.

The pit bull-men fixed their gaze on his neck, then shifted their attention to the chain mace hanging at his waist, emitting nervous whimpers and retreating into their ranks.

Clearly, they could not best this “peace-loving” human.

Seeing he could not persuade them, Leo turned to the militia and said, “Hand over all your rations!”

Since they had not known the distance to the kobold lair before setting out, Urian had provided each militiaman with two days’ worth of dry rations, in case of emergencies.

Fifty people’s rations for two days amounted to a considerable pile.

Leo tossed the collected rations onto the heap of acorns; as hard bread scattered across the ground, a chorus of gulping sounded from the dog-headed tribe.

Leo pointed to the food and said, “We offer you food in exchange for your iron. We can live peacefully together.”

“You see, we came here only to farm, not to fight.”

“You farm, we iron,” the Husky-man muttered, falling silent.

As he raised his head, about to accept the proposal that brought no harm to his people, Leo added, “However, I have a small condition.”

“Woof?”

“You must send at least twenty pups to our camp to learn our language. Only through communication can we maintain peace.”

The Husky-man bared his teeth once more. “Humans, sly! We leave! Dog-headed folk will never be slaves! Woof!”

“Full board and lodging, adult dog-headed folk can come too, unlimited numbers, free to come and go,” Leo unveiled his trump card.

At his words, the dog-headed tribe’s eyes lit up, like a pack of golden retrievers spotting food.

“If you cannot accept my condition, I must ask you to leave.”

In the end, after much whispering among the Husky-man and the golden retriever-men, they agreed to Leo’s terms.

Dog-headed folk were prolific breeders, each litter producing four or five pups; provided with enough food and nutrition, they could fill the land with their young.

Moreover, their growth was rapid—each pup matured in just three years.

This small tribe had lived for generations at the source of the Anzelo River, surviving by hunting small prey, fishing, and gathering.

Their main food sources included, besides rats from the mines, acorns from the southern oak woods and pine nuts from the northern red pine forest.

One could hardly expect these primitive-minded groups to possess any sense of foreboding.

During the abundant summers and autumns, they mined and forged iron carefree; in the lean winters, they huddled in caves, starving as pup after pup succumbed to hunger.

When these humans entered their sacred gathering grounds, conflict inevitably arose.

Now, as the defeated party, the dog-headed folk were prepared for harsh terms. Sending twenty pups as hostages seemed acceptable, especially considering a winter migration would likely mean death by starvation for most of their young.

Furthermore, with the option to trade iron ore for food, they would no longer need to venture out daily in search of sustenance; everyone could joyfully mine.

Leo’s offer was simply too tempting; many golden retriever-men were reluctant to leave their home.

Centuries ago, the dog-headed folk of the northern lands were vassals of the beastmen, scattered across the north of the Anzelo River, with countless settlements in Wolfdriven Plain. They had a mature clan culture, shamanistic doctrines and magical traditions, and even established a city.

But when the southern clans of Anzelo joined the Orantis Empire, bringing mighty imperial armored cavalry and elite infantry, the beastmen were driven into the northern snowfields, and the dog-headed folk’s culture vanished.

Most died or were enslaved during the wars; the remainder, like other vassal races, scattered into the dense primeval forests, settling in the southeastern foothills of the Grand Barrier.

Centuries passed, and these small tribes reverted to a primitive state, living as wild men.

The southeastern foothills beneath the Grand Barrier were filled with such small alien tribes, cautiously surviving at the fringes of human society.

Only when a tribe grew too large to support its population would it attack nearby human villages.

During his years at the western outpost, Urian’s supposed duty was to guard against dragon attacks, but his real adversaries were these small alien groups.

To some extent, the dog-headed folk always hoped to return to the days of being vassals to a powerful race, to gain a sliver of space to live, ideally free to mine and forge iron.

Here’s a joke: Dog-headed folk will never be slaves!

Alas, humans had no interest in them, always thinking first of how to exterminate, drive off, or capture them for profit.

Even novice adventurers liked to target dog-headed folk to hone their combat skills.

The Husky-man, accompanied by nine golden retriever-men and twenty fluffy pups, walked with Leo along the mountain road to the riverbank camp.

Dog-headed folk had a decent aptitude for languages; half of them could speak a little Imperial tongue, but lacked the courage to approach human camps, so their new chief—the Husky-man—would lead them personally.

Twenty strong villagers carried ten baskets of iron ingots and ten baskets of selected iron ore.

Calling them ingots was generous; they were merely heaps of scrap iron, the result of dog-headed blacksmiths’ primitive earth-pit smelting, resembling dirty, misshapen black sponges.

The spongy iron, roughly processed, was coarse and full of impurities, but soft enough for forging.

The Husky-man explained that a piece of sponge iron, after ten days of repeated forging by a dog-headed blacksmith, could become an iron spearhead or pickaxe head.

Every adult dog-headed folk was granted a small iron pick, enabling them to joyfully mine for the shiny treasures they coveted.

Each dog-headed warrior received a hunting spear—much like the javelins the militiamen now carried.

These iron tools, made with the most primitive smelting techniques, remained powerful weapons in the wild, essential for survival, enabling them to hunt prey of equal size, fell trees, mine ore, drive off wolves, and guard their homes.

Leo looked at the baskets of sponge iron and ore, as well as the sacks of dried fruit, and fell into deep thought.

“Where did your baskets and linen sacks come from?”