Baron Eldrid's study had once again become the arena for family disputes. This time, the air was as thick as broth from an old boot, and it smelled not only of dust, but of expensive cognac, which the Baron was methodically draining while looking at his son with the expression of a man trying to solve a complex equation with one unknown and a bunch of completely unnecessary variables.
Valos waited patiently, standing in the middle of the room. Corvus, like a shadow, stood frozen by the door, his white hair and red doublet seeming like the only bright spots in this sea of brown tones and paternal disappointment.
— Let me get this straight, — Eldrid finally said, setting aside his glass. — You want me, Baron Tropan, to give you men and resources for an expedition into... the Nagas' dungeon. Correct?
— Precisely, father, — Valos nodded, maintaining a deliberately calm expression.
— To find there... — the Baron looked with mockery at the parchment before him, containing Valos's plan — a "Fire Spear-Staff, capable of enhancing fire spells." And... "a mithril vein of incredible purity." The very same mithril vein that the kingdom's best prospectors have sought for two centuries and never found?
— They were looking in the wrong place, — Valos countered. — Their maps are outdated. Mine... are not.
— Your sources, — the Baron snorted skeptically. — Which also claim that an army of the dead, led by a necromancer with an ancient grimoire, is already forming in the south and will soon visit our lands with anything but a friendly visit.
— Not quite, — Valos corrected. — It's already formed. And it will visit not only our lands. But our lands will be directly in its path. Lord Vigar, in case you haven't heard, is already panicking and looking for someone to blame. Or, in our case, to direct the undead horde towards.
Eldrid frowned darkly. News of Vigar's panicked message had already reached him. This was Valos's only trump card, and it worked, however slightly.
— Suppose this threat is real. Why the Nagas' dungeon specifically? Why not fortify the walls, stockpile provisions, hire additional mercenaries, as any normal ruler does on the eve of war?
— Because walls won't stop the magic that will make our own fallen soldiers rise and march against us, — Valos's voice grew firmer. «He recalled the relevant passages from the book; the picture wasn't pleasant.» — Provisions will run out. Mercenaries will flee at the sight of undead that rise after death. We need more than just defense. We need a weapon that will break their will. And resources to buy allies you can't buy with gold.
— The dwarves, — Eldrid said with slight contempt. — You want to buy the dwarves.
— I want to offer the Ancient Hammer clan what they've dreamed of for five hundred years, — Valos corrected. — Pure mithril, from which they can forge not just weapons, but legends. They'd sell their souls for that. And we'd get their axes, their armor, and their engineers, who could turn our walls into an impregnable fortress in a week.
He paused, letting his father digest the information.
— And the Spear... the Spear is our trump card. The only thing that can burn the undead. Without it, we'll just be beating back waves of corpses until we collapse from exhaustion.
Silence fell in the study. The Baron looked into his empty glass, as if hoping to find an answer at the bottom.
— You describe this as if you've already seen it with your own eyes, — Eldrid finally said, and for the first time in the conversation, his voice held not irritation, but weary curiosity.
— In a sense, I have, — Valos replied evasively. «He couldn't admit to knowledge of the plot, but he could let his father draw his own conclusions about "prophetic dreams" or "revelations."»
— The risk is colossal, — the Baron stated. — Sending my heir and my best warriors into a cursed place, known only through legends and children's horror stories. For artifacts no one believes in.
— The risk of inaction is certain death, — Valos countered. — Proven and guaranteed. I, at least, am offering a chance. A small, foolish, desperate one... but a chance.
Eldrid sighed heavily, rose from his desk, and walked to the window. He looked out at his lands, at the peacefully smoking chimneys, at the peasants in the field. At everything he would have to protect.
— Very well, — he exhaled, without turning around.
— You'll have your squad. Fifteen men. No more. And minimal equipment. The rest... is your concern.
Valos felt a weight lift from his soul. «The first and hardest battle was won.»
— Thank you, father.
— Don't thank me, — the Baron turned sharply. — If you die there, your mother will never forgive me. And if you come back empty-handed... — His gaze became hard as granite. — ...you'll find it far more comfortable being a failed drunkard than being the heir who doomed his men to death in a senseless venture. Understood?
— Clear as day, — Valos nodded. He had expected the threat. It was almost reassuring.
Leaving the study, he and Corvus walked silently down the corridor. Only when they were in relative seclusion did Valos allow himself to exhale and run a hand over his face.
Corvus maintained a stony expression.
— Gathering a squad of "volunteers" won't be easy, — he stated. — Most will prefer to sit it out behind the walls.
— We'll gather them, — Valos said confidently. The plan was already forming in his head. — Tell them that every survivor gets a share in the mithril vein. Such a share that their great-grandchildren can swim in gold. And the cowards get nothing. Money, Corvus, — he smirked — is the best motivator. Far better than patriotism or duty.
— And if the vein doesn't exist? — Corvus asked with deadly directness.
— Then, — Valos clapped him on the shoulder with familiarity, — it won't matter to us anymore. Because we'll either be eaten by monsters in the dungeon, or by the undead on the surface. So let's act as if it's there. Seems like a perfect plan to me.
He turned and walked away, leaving Corvus in the corridor.
And Valos, descending the stairs, thought about how the hardest part wasn't convincing his father. The hardest part was finding people in this world who would believe the ravings of a crazy isekai'd soul enough to follow him into certain death.
«Well then» he sighed mentally, approaching the tavern. «Let's see what the thirst for profit and the faint hope of survival can do. Welcome to my personal hell, gentlemen. I'll try to make sure you're not too bored there.»