CHAPTER 110: A KING’S RANSOM

I pushed myself off the rock, my long, dark coat swishing in a way I had been practicing. It was all in the hips.

"I am not here for a battle," I declared, my voice echoing across the mountain pass. "Not yet."

I was here for a negotiation.

A hostile, aggressive, and probably very one-sided negotiation. But a negotiation nonetheless.

I had learned my lesson from the war with Sarah. A kingdom conquered was good. A kingdom acquired, with its skilled personnel and priceless infrastructure intact, was better.

I wanted this Dwarf.

I wanted his forge, his skills, and his glorious, magnificent beard.

And I wanted him alive.

"Pixia," I commanded. "Broadcast my message. Full power. I want every single, stubborn, rock-eating hermit in that mountain to hear my magnificent, booming voice."

My tiny pixie advisor nodded, her eyes glowing. She held up a small, crystal amplifier that looked suspiciously like a karaoke microphone.

My voice, magically enhanced, boomed through the mountain, a sound like the grinding of tectonic plates.

"BEHOLD, YOU STUNTED, BEARDED SIMPLETONS!" I began, because a little theatrical flair is always a good opening.

"I am Ragnar Vhagar! The Tyrant of Aethelburg! The conqueror of Gorgon, the slayer of Alyssa, and the new, undisputed ruler of this entire godsforsaken prefecture!"

I let the silence hang for a moment, letting my impressive, self-aggrandizing resume sink in. It was a very good resume.

"I am here for your king," I continued. "I am offering him a choice. Surrender your domain, your forge, and your loyalty to me, and you and your people will be granted a place of honor in my growing empire. You will have unlimited resources. You will have my protection. You will be the master craftsmen of the new world order."

I smiled, a sharp, fanged thing that held no humor.

"Resist," I purred, "and I will have my new friend, Grak the Unbreakable, punch your pretty little mountain until it is a pile of gravel. Then, I will sift through that gravel until I find your king, and I will use his beard to polish my boots."

"You have one hour to decide," I finished. "The clock is ticking."

The ultimatum was delivered. Now, we waited.

The hour was a tense, simmering thing.

My Troublemaker Party immediately began to live up to their name.

"THIS AIR IS THIN," Grak roared, his voice shaking loose rocks from the cliff face. "AND THE MEAT RATIONS TASTE LIKE SADNESS. WHEN DO WE EAT REAL FOOD?"

"You braise it, you uncivilized brute," Sarah retorted from her perch on a slightly-less-pointy rock, her voice dripping with a condescension that could curdle milk. "With a nice Chianti and some fava beans. It is a matter of basic culinary decency."

Kevin, seeing his chance to mediate, struck a pose. "Indeed! A warrior’s soul is fueled by the quality of his sustenance! We require a feast worthy of our station! A banquet of champions!"

It was exhausting.

Just as I was about to order them all to be quiet by threatening to make them listen to Kevin’s poetry, a low, grinding sound echoed from the final gate.

It was opening.

From the darkness beyond, a group of dwarves emerged.

They were not a war party. They were a delegation.

And at their head was a figure so unexpected, so utterly contrary to every expectation I had, that I was momentarily stunned into silence.

The Dwarf King was a girl.

She couldn’t have been older than twelve.

She had long, braided white hair that shimmered like mithril, and eyes the color of molten gold.

She wore a pair of greasy overalls, and a bright yellow safety helmet was perched on her head at a jaunty angle.

She was also, I noted with a flicker of professional respect, radiating an aura of power that made the very air around her hum.

She stopped about twenty feet away, her hands on her hips, her expression one of weary, adult exasperation.

"You’re the one making all the noise?" she asked, her voice a deep, surprisingly mature rumble. "I was in the middle of a very delicate calibration. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get the arcane resonance of a soul-forged axe just right?"

I stared.

This was Akira. The legendary Dwarf King. The master craftsman I had marched an entire army across a prefecture to find.

And she was a child. A very powerful, very grumpy child.

"I am Ragnar Vhagar," I said, recovering my composure. "And I have come to offer you a position in my organization."

"I’m not interested in a new job," she said flatly. "I like the one I have. It comes with a forge and a distinct lack of loud, dramatic vampires who give speeches."

She looked at my assembled army, at my powerful, monstrous commanders. Her golden eyes lingered on Isabelle for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"However," she continued, "I am a pragmatist. And you have brought a very large, very pointy argument to my front door. I am willing to... negotiate."

"I am not here to negotiate," I corrected her coolly. "I am here to accept your surrender."

"And I am here to tell you that I don’t trust you as far as I can throw one of my golems," she retorted. "You’re a conqueror. A tyrant. Your promises are worth less than the slag in my forge."

She reached into a pouch on her belt and pulled out a single, intricate object.

It was a collar, forged from a dark, swirling metal, covered in glowing, complex runes.

"This," she announced, "is a Collar of Pledge. A binding magical contract. I will place it on the neck of your most trusted subordinate. You will then swear an oath, upon their life, that you will uphold your end of the bargain. That you will ensure the safety and livelihood of my people. If you break that oath, the collar will activate, and your most beloved commander will be... unmade."

She smiled, a small, cunning expression that did not belong on a child’s face.

"So, Tyrant of Aethelburg," she said, her golden eyes locking onto mine. "Who is it? Who do you trust with your life? Who is the one you would risk everything for?"

Her gaze swept over my commanders. Over Grak, over Sarah, over the idiotic Kevin.

Then, her eyes settled on Isabelle.

On my former-hero commander. On my secret lover.

She pointed a small, grease-stained finger.

"Her," she declared, her voice ringing with a final, absolute authority. "The Saint. Put the collar on her."

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The world seemed to stop.

The wind, which had been howling through the mountain pass, fell silent.

The low, rumbling snores from one of my napping Ogres ceased.

The only sound was the frantic, panicked thumping of my own, currently non-beating, heart.

The Dwarf Queen, Akira, stood there, her small, grease-stained finger pointed directly at Isabelle.

"Her," she repeated, her voice a clear, childish bell that rang with the finality of a death sentence. "The Saint. She will be your guarantee."

The air in the cavern, which had been thick with the tension of an impending battle, now crackled with a new, far more dangerous energy.

It was the energy of a simmering, psychosexual cold war that was about to go nuclear.

And my dick was ground zero.

Chloe, who had been a silent, perfect shadow at my side, was a shadow no more.

She took a single, almost imperceptible step forward. The air around her grew cold. Her hand rested on the hilt of one of her dark daggers, her knuckles bone-white.

I could feel her thoughts through our Bloodkin bond. They were not pleasant.

The Dwarf is clever. A trick. The human is a liability. A weakness. She will fail you. She will betray you. Let me wear the collar. Let me prove my devotion. Let me cut the little Dwarf’s throat for her insolence.

It was a beautiful, terrifying, and deeply problematic stream of fanatical devotion.

Sarah, my other former-queen subordinate, let out a soft, amused laugh, a sound like the tinkling of poisoned glass.

"Oh, this is delicious," she purred, her eyes dancing with a malicious glee. "A loyalty test. How delightfully dramatic. Do choose carefully, my Lord. It seems your entire harem is watching."

Grak the Unbreakable, who had been quietly trying to eat a rock, looked up, his brutish face a mask of profound confusion.

"WHY COLLAR ON SMALL WOMAN?" he roared, his voice shaking the very mountain. "COLLAR SHOULD GO ON STRONGEST! I AM STRONGEST! PUT COLLAR ON GRAK!"

And then, of course, there was Kevin.

My chuunibyou intern, my newly evolved Vampire Noble, saw his moment.

He strode forward, his cape swishing with a flair that was frankly offensive. He dropped to one knee, his hand over his heart in a gesture of profound, theatrical sacrifice.

"My Lord!" he declared, his voice ringing with a sincerity that was almost painful to witness. "Let me bear this burden! It is the duty of your most loyal, most trusted aide to be your shield! My life is yours to spend! Let this collar be the symbol of our unbreakable bond! Our... stuff!"