From the hoard of the troll-cave Ryan had gained 5,300 gold coins. Already he had spent two thousand upon the raising of soldiers, two thousand one hundred upon arms and armor, and a thousand more upon grain and stores.
Now in his keeping lay but two hundred coins and a handful besides.
For a common man it would be wealth beyond dreaming, a fortune that no labor of a lifetime could win. But for Ryan, poised upon the threshold of founding an army, it was perilously little.
For it is not the buying of weapons that bleeds a lord's coffers, but the keeping of men—their daily bread, their drink, their shelter, their wages. Arms endure for years; food and silver must be given anew each month.
Ryan had no realm to tax, no lands from which tithe might be drawn, no steady source of wealth. A remedy must be found, and swiftly.
He thought of plunder—raiding Orcs and the hill-tribes—but without trained soldiers, such ventures were folly. And to forge his raw recruits into a fighting force would take three or four months, time he did not possess. Thus he must seek another path: trade.
Of all ventures, the surest profit lies ever in those things men cannot forgo. As weapons-smiths thrive because Orcs and brigands prowl the North, so too could Ryan prosper if he touched upon a true necessity.
And so an idea came to him, one Middle-earth had never known: brick.
….
The peoples of the West built in many fashions. The Dúnedain of old raised their halls from hewn stone, great walls and towers standing like mountains. The Elves of Gondolin built their whole city of white marble. But the folk of the North—common farmers and villagers—dwelt mostly in timber and packed earth.
If Ryan could bring forth brick, strong and uniform, it would be a new industry altogether—a pillar of wealth that could enrich him beyond measure.
So he set to work.
Riding the lands about Dessen, he came upon a wide marsh. The clay there, black and white, was rich and fine, with little grit—perfect for firing bricks.
He gathered stout young men from the town, and with their labor raised kilns and tools over half a month. Many times they failed, but at last he drew forth sound bricks, blue and white, hard and fit for building. He tested them well, and found them equal to the work of raising houses.
The cost was near to nothing, for mud and fire are freely given. With skilled hands, the bricks could be made in great number.
At once he sought out Grinwald, laying before him one blue brick and one white.
The old lord looked down, puzzled.
"Lord Ryan, what is this thing you place before me?"
"Lord of Dessen," Ryan answered with a smile, "behold a new craft. These are bricks—strong, enduring, shaped for building. With them your town could rise again in a single month."
He explained their uses and their virtues, though not the secrets of their making. Then he added with quiet weight:
"And if these are sold beyond Dessen, across all the Westlands, the profit—"
"—Would be beyond reckoning," Grinwald whispered, wonder in his eyes. He gazed at Ryan as though upon a jewel of untold worth. "Sixty years have I lived, and never have I seen a man with a mind such as yours."
So they spoke, and before long they struck a pact.
Bricks should be made in Ryan's kilns. The House of Dulod would sell them, keeping three parts of the profit in ten.
When all was sealed, Grinwald said:
"Lord Ryan, my daughter, Isabel Dulod, returns this very night from Rivendell. I intend to hold a feast in her honor. If you would grace us, I should count it joy."
"Of course," Ryan smiled. "I am honored by your invitation."
He took the contract and departed, for much remained to be done. Workers must be hired for the kilns, the progress of Idhrion and the others in recruiting must be learned, and by his count his captains would soon return with new-levied men.
As he rode from the castle gate, he beheld a small company: six Elven riders with hair black as jet, escorting a maiden.
She was fair indeed—golden-haired, clad in pale yellow, her features fine and noble, her eyes like blue amber bright with hidden thought. In beauty she stood equal to Ailin and Alaina, yet with another grace: calm, wise, and serene, like sunlight on still waters.
But it was not her beauty that held Ryan's gaze for a moment. It was the Elves who guarded her. For these were Noldor—high among the Eldar, keepers of lore, the greatest of the Elves in strength of old. Few of them remained in Middle-earth, for many had sailed into the West. Yet here they were, in Dessen.
And he recalled what Grinwald had spoken: his daughter Isabel had dwelt in Rivendell. Then this maiden must be she.
The thought stirred unease, and Ryan frowned, though he soon shook his head. This is not my concern. Not yet.
He turned away, guiding his horse forward.
But he did not see that Isabel Dulod, halting in her steps, had fixed her bright eyes upon him, and watched with quiet interest as he passed.