Tales of the Vangen: The Siege of Middengard (Book 2)

Chapter 19: Calculations

{Gold. There's nothing else like it. Men have died for it. Kingdoms have risen and fallen because of it. No other metal has brought such ruin to this world, save for the bronze in our swords and the iron in our axes, the thrum of stomping boots matched only by the blacksmith's hammer. The marching song of war.}

-Chronicler Practus, an excerpt from "The Economy of War."

"I do apologize," Libro blinked down at the numbers scratched down on the writ of sale one of Ohban's wisemen had produced. His eyes trailed over the zeroes, lips moving silently as he counted each one of them off, and by Nido's pearly tits but there were a lot of them. "Could you run the math over just one more time? I haven't quite wrapped my head around it all."

Ohban smiled and spread her gnarled hands out across the table. "It really is all quite simple, my dear Captain. I am offering you twenty-five of my Thunderheads for personal use in your siege against the Middengards at an asking price of twenty hundred dwans a unit. A magnificent deal if I say so myself." The mercenary pressed a fingertip to her knowing smile. "And I say so from experience. Above all else."

"So if I add that up right, there's one, two..." Regis muttered under his breath, scrubbing at his scalp with one hand while the other was used for counting.

Next to Ohban, her other wiseman in the red sash was busily working away at some strange wooden contraption. Several poles were connected on both sides to a set of handrails, each holding a multitude of brightly painted wooden beads which he endlessly flicked back and forth with blinding, dextrous grace.

"Fifty thousand," he concluded.

"And, of course, you will be needing my services as well. The provisions to create my Dwylo and the wages of my wisemen who make this all possible." She cradled her fingers and leaned forward. "Speaking of. How long do you expect this little campaign to go on?"

"Till the end of spring," said Libro. He winced. For some strange reason, he had the distinct feeling he'd made a terrible move. Maybe it was the growing smile on the mercenary's face. Maybe it was the hungry look in her dark, sunken eyes.

"Well, well. We can expect you to be here for nearly half a year. A long, fulfilling contract, it seems. If we add everything up, what with all the powder and provisions needed, it could well end up being," and the Wiseman worked furiously over the beads, fingers twisting, clicking, sweat beading down his spotty, wrinkled brows.

"Four hundred and fifty thousand," he declared.

"Half a million dwans?" Civis shot up from his chair, his face twisting back in equal parts horror and disgust. "Do you really expect us to have that kind of money?" We're a military company, not a goddess-damned banking house!"

"You're Empress would have plenty, I gather?" asked Ohban. The tent fell into an icy silence. Libro leaned back, cringing as a lance of pain shot through his spine. Already he was starting to feel the muscles in his calf tighten up. A sore night ahead of him, he reckoned.

"Aye, she might." Regis leaning over, fingers spreading across the grain of the table, his face as grim as thunder. "But there's one question you've got to ask yourself. Is she worth it?"

Ohban lifted one of her gray brows. "In my line of work, it usually is."

"Both my Tribunes provide an excellent point," cut in Libro, hoping to assume control over the conversation lest his companions raised any more objections. "The cost is very high considering the services you offer. One that I will have to take up with her Majesty. How soon must you have your answer?"

"As soon as someone pays me more." Ohban laughed, and the wooden toggles around her neck and wrists laughed too, drumming against her breastplate, clicking and clacking in a mocking rattle.