“So for one, Geir, you’re going to compensate us for our donation  at the temple of Chemosh“, said Lars. “Then, you’re going to pry that tight fist of yours open a little further and pay us properly. Elsewise, you won’t see the goods, ever again”. His face was hard, but his bowels were water. He could run a great bluff, but there was no bluffing his adrenaline glands. There would need to be several stiff drinks after this.
 
The dwarven merchant spluttered. This updweller was spoiling the fine, hand-picked gnomish coffee he had selected to go with his breakfast. Pork steak and quince paste. It should have been perfect, but this manling upstart was threatening to turn it into a hard day of indigestion.
 
“What makes you think I’m going to pay you more money, thug? I’ll have you clapped in irons, then my cousins in the duke’s dungeon will shatter your finger bones until you squeal”, he barked through a mouthful of beautifully rendered pork fat.
 
***
 
The dwarf’s barking retort brought yesterday’s messy ambush roaring back to the front of Lars’ memory. ‘Wella had lodged herself in a tangle of kobolds down at the bottom of the hollow, forcing Lars to charge in and help. The frontline had never been his place in life and he’d paid for it. The feather-plumbed leader of the warband had brained him with an axe, which luckily was rusty and blunt. Even still, Lars had gone down like a sack of dried kine-dung.
The memories were fractured from there … a wave of heat had washed over him as a flaming ball of magic bounced down the hill and flash-fried half the little fiends in short order. Immediately after, Garpo had flung himself into the fray from who knows where, scattering lizard-heads around the firepit like lawn bowls. The goblin then snatched a moment to pour something foul and acidic into Lars’ throat to stop him dying.
 
Things happened very quickly from there. One of the little beasts crept up behind Garpo and brought one of the ‘cheap’ cooking pots from the wagon crashing down on his head. Flakes of black paint flew everywhere, causing the mithril underneath to gleam in the sun.
 
“Strong silver” Garpo had gasped, shrugging off the bump on the head. He wrenched the pot from the kobold and tapped its brains out onto the ground.
 
“Mithril“, cried ‘Wella, as a fuming acidic arrow lashed one of the remaining kobolds.
 
“Molkai bend me over, and part the mists of time”, cursed Lars through a mouthful of tooth chips. He’d been fooled before but never, ever, had he been tricked into smuggling something like this. The penalty for mithril smuggling was death on site. No trial, no sympathy from the duke.
 
***
 
“Well”, grinned Lars (how can he not see that this grin is pasted on, he wondered), “First of all there’s my letter”.
 
“Letter?”
 
“Yes”, he continued to smirk, “the letter I’ve written to the Overlanders Guild, who don’t seem to know about any mithril shipment in these parts. You see, if I don’t check in with my friend tomorrow morning, that letter does to the Guildmaster. How is he going to feel when his heavies comb your books over and match those ‘cheap’ cooking pots on your register to the cleverly disguised lumps of mithril I’ve got holed up in the Creep somewhere”.
 
“You wouldn’t dare”.
 
“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just pay up. The fee on a job like this should be 100 gold drakes each, not the fifty silver swans you coughed up. I would dare, and you know what? It’s not just your gnomish forest-coffee that’s at stake here Geir. One sniff of this and the duke’s men will burn every damned holding of the Overlanders Guild to the ground. In fact, without my co-operation from here on, beardy, one of your two deceits is going to come to light and either way, you’ll hang by your thumbs. That’s why you’re not only going to front the 300 drakes; you’ll also write us a contract for three more jobs, 50 goldies each per outing, the task is up to you but we get veto power. Right?”
 
The thick, earthy blood drained straight out of the merchant’s face and Lars knew he had won.