Chapter 18 The Happy Kobold

When ten sacks of rye were placed before Frasier, she and the other nine golden breeds wagged their tails furiously. Ulyan pointed at the heap of grain, then at the pile of sponge iron beside it, and said, “These ten sacks of grain are in exchange for your twenty baskets of ingots and iron ore. The surplus is a token of apology for the previous conflict.”

“From now on, we don’t want ingots, just ore. Five sacks of iron ore for one sack of grain—yes, including the sack.”

The golden breeds wagged their tails even faster; humans were unbelievably generous!

For the kobolds, the valley was rich in iron ore, and mining was both entertainment and exercise, a pastime woven into their genes. They mined more out of a love for shiny things than any need for iron ore itself. Discarded iron ore littered the valley as waste or obstacles; only the highest purity ore would be selected by the blacksmiths for processing.

To kobolds, five sacks of iron ore were little different from five sacks of stones.

Processed sponge iron, on the other hand, consumed much manpower, time, and wood—it was the laborious fruit of their combined effort. Selling it felt almost regretful.

Food, however, was indisputably the top priority for any tribe’s survival.

And the accompanying linen sack—needless to say—for a tribe that neither cultivates nor weaves flax, an elegant linen sack wasn’t just a container; when torn, it could be cut open for clothes, bedding, curtains, or crafted into various courtship ornaments.

Linen sacks: luxury goods! Kobolds’ own Louis Vuitton!

Barter in the wild couldn’t be measured by human market prices; value depended solely on rarity.

To kobolds, a linen sack was worth far more than a sack of iron ore.

Ulyan, for his part, immediately saw that these rust-stained sponge iron pieces were no more valuable than good ore; no blacksmith in any human town liked costly scrap iron that needed reprocessing.

Instead, the kobolds’ hematite was of good quality, steady supply, and abundant—much easier to sell.

A sack of rye weighed less than fifty pounds, whereas an equally sized sack of iron ore was two hundred pounds!

A quick calculation: one sack of rye could be exchanged for a thousand pounds of iron ore.

Frasier quickly volunteered that the kobolds could handle transportation, delivering the ore to the Riverbend camp for trade.

It was as if fortune had dropped from the heavens—where else could you find such a deal?

Several knowledgeable leaders watched the jubilant kobolds, their eyes betraying a hint of pity and their hearts weighed with guilt.

Carrying ten sacks of rye, Frasier led the golden breeds home to deliver the good news, leaving behind twenty kobold pups who stared blankly at their elders’ departing figures.

They had been forgotten.

“Our grain is running low, isn’t it? Is this really a good idea?” Leo watched the kobolds disappear into the dense forest before turning to Ulyan.

They had only two carts of grain left; with these ten sacks of rye gone, nearly half a cart had vanished.

“It’s fine. Tomorrow I’ll head to town and find a few old friends to sell off this ore,” Ulyan, delighted, waved his hand. “I’m the local boss, understand?”

Leo could only sigh and gaze at the distant waterfall hanging in the sky.

Wildfolk—a peaceful race...

Soon, whistles echoed from the western woods as lines of kobolds emerged from the forest, each carrying a basket filled with iron ore.

Around twenty kobolds bore baskets, while others lugged chunks of ore as large as their heads.

These sturdy, short golden breeds didn’t enter the camp, but halted at the forest’s edge. When humans approached, they bared their sharp teeth and growled low from their throats.

Non-hostility was impossible; after all, the kobold tribe’s warriors and leaders had recently died at the humans’ hands—barely an hour ago, they’d been enemies.

Led by Frasier the Husky, they set down the ore, then carefully filled five linen sacks with it.

Kobolds weren’t large; their baskets were small, each holding less than thirty pounds. All the ore brought together barely surpassed a thousand pounds.

Once five sacks were filled, the golden breeds stopped, their watery, sparkling eyes fixed hopefully on Leo.

Leo hefted a sack of rye and tossed it at Frasier’s feet.

Two kobolds grabbed the sack, sniffing and inspecting it, then rumbled to their companions.

The kobold ranks erupted into whimpers and barking, as if celebrating a great victory.

Grain!

Kobolds were omnivorous like humans, but this tribe had clearly lost the art of cultivation.

Aside from gathering acorns and pine nuts, and occasionally finding edible seeds and wild beans, their harvests paled in taste compared to cultivated rye.

Though rye was among the least palatable grains, the kobolds neither knew nor cared—they weren’t picky.

A big sack of rye, poured into a cauldron with bark, acorns, pinecones, and mouse meat, simmered for half a day—enough for the whole tribe to feast.

What’s that? Rye needs to be hulled?

Kobolds thought hulling rye was wasteful; unhulled rye tasted just fine.

Now, kobolds could eat commercial grain!

Watching the kobolds crowd around Frasier as she shouldered the sack, joyfully heading home—remembering to take their five ore sacks—Leo breathed a sigh of relief.

The kobold threat was temporarily lifted, but that didn’t mean they’d stay docile.

Leo dared not believe that holding twenty pups as hostages and a simple trade could truly secure peace between the two small tribes.

Even now, Leo noticed that aside from Frasier and a handful of females, most kobolds didn’t care about their pups at all!

They couldn’t even tell which pup was their own!

In the end, only strength could guarantee peace.

Back at camp, the militia guarding the kobold pups came up, troubled. “What do we do with these puppies? In just this short while, they’ve already chewed through the pigpen.”

With the kobolds gone, the twenty pups were left unattended. The militia had tossed them into a newly fenced pigsty.

Within moments, a hole had been gnawed in the fence—kobold pups ran wild around the camp, with the militia hot on their tails.

Don’t be fooled by their fluffy, puppy-like appearance; though they rolled adorably as they walked upright, after weaning their teeth were fully grown. The militia wouldn’t let the camp children near them.

There were no pigs in the pen—it had been hastily constructed by a young villager hoping to win favor with the widow Agatha.

Agatha’s husband and mother-in-law had been killed during the beastfolk invasion, leaving her alone with two newborn piglets.

She raised them as her own children, even sleeping with them under the covers. Leo, the original owner, had tried several times to steal them, but failed.

She’d carried them a thousand miles south, all the way to Riverbend camp.

Now the half-grown black pigs still lived in Agatha’s tent, frustrating many hopeful young men.

Leo arrived at the pigpen to find a group of kobold pups and camp children staring dumbly at each other through the fence.

Leo opened the gate, tossed in a few sticks he’d picked up, pointed at the sticks, bared his teeth, then pointed at his teeth, tapped the fence, and made a throat-slashing gesture, saying coldly, “Understand?”

The kobold pups huddled together in terror, nodding fervently—they were smart indeed.