Chapter 3

Harlan moved quickly. The slimes had already dispersed across the farm, vanishing into barns, fields, hedgerows, and drainage ditches to continue whatever work they had decided needed doing. Some hunted rats and other pests, their gelatinous bodies sliding effortlessly through the tall grass as they cornered the squeaking rodents. Others cleared weeds, gathered fallen fruit, or searched the surrounding land for anything they considered useful, their translucent forms shimmering in the morning light. After witnessing the results of their first expedition, Harlan was no longer prepared to dismiss their movements as harmless wandering. These creatures were a force of nature, a bizarre hive mind of domestic productivity that defied all logic and reason.

That left the family with the treasure.

The farmyard looked as though a merchant caravan, an armoury, and a royal treasury had collided at speed. Coins covered the earth in glittering drifts, forming literal hills of gold, silver, and copper that caught the sun and threw blinding reflections against the side of the weathered cottage. Swords, shields, bows, and tools lay tangled among folded clothing, cooking pots, books, sacks, seeds, and ornaments. Diamonds flashed between clumps of grass, some as large as a man’s thumb, catching the light like fallen stars. The enormous dragon tooth rested apart from everything else, pale and curved, too strange to be placed beside common goods. It looked like a monument to a forgotten age, a stark reminder of the dangerous world that existed beyond their quiet fields. They needed to organise all of it before nightfall, lest some wandering peddler or nosey neighbour stumble upon a hoard that could buy a kingdom.

Harlan began with the weapons. Anything sharp was moved away from the children and stacked beside the barn. Swords were separated according to condition, with rusted blades placed in one pile and usable weapons in another. He ran his calloused thumbs over the edges of the good steel, marveling at the unnatural sharpness that seemed to defy years of neglect. Bows were unstrung where possible, arrows bundled together in thick sheaves, and heavy oak-and-iron shields leaned against the wall in a makeshift barricade. Several pieces appeared far too valuable for common farmers, their fittings worked in silver or decorated with heraldry none of them recognised—lions rampant, twin-headed eagles, and mythical beasts etched in glittering enamel.

The clothing came next. Marta inspected each garment before folding it into separate groups, her hands trembling slightly as she touched fabrics softer than anything she had ever felt. Work clothes were placed together, followed by winter garments, heavy leather boots lined with fur, thick woollen cloaks, and the finer pieces that might once have belonged to wealthy merchants or nobles. There were silks that flowed like water and velvet doublets embroidered with gold thread. Nothing carried bloodstains or obvious damage, but that offered little reassurance. The slimes had claimed the objects were unowned, though no one knew how the creatures defined ownership. To a slime, a dead man in a dungeon probably counted as relinquishing his property rights.

The gold presented the largest problem. Harlan stood over the heaps with his hands planted on his hips, staring as though the coins might explain themselves. A single handful represented more money than the farm earned in months of backbreaking labour. The full amount could purchase livestock, fields, buildings, and perhaps half the village besides. Even counting it would take hours, perhaps days, of sitting in the dirt and tallying coins from empires that had likely crumbled to dust centuries ago.

There was no sensible way to hide such wealth indefinitely. Neighbours would notice improvements. Traders would ask questions when a simple farmer tried to pay for a sack of flour with an ancient gold sovereign. Tax collectors might become interested, and in this part of the world, tax collectors arrived with armed guards and a mandate to inflict pain. Rumours would spread the moment Harlan attempted to exchange an unfamiliar coin or sell one of the larger gems. They might even need to contact the local lord.

The thought sat heavily over the yard, dampening the initial euphoria of the discovery. Approaching a noble with sudden wealth carried its own dangers. A fair lord might confirm the treasure was lawfully theirs, take the required tax, and offer protection. A greedy one might seize everything, declare the family thieves, and confiscate the farm for good measure, leaving them to freeze in the winter mud. Even an honest official would want to know where the hoard had come from, and an army of intelligent slimes was not an explanation likely to produce calm reactions.

Harlan continued sorting while the possibilities multiplied in his anxious mind. The seeds were moved into the dry storehouse, carefully cataloged by Marta. Tools went to the shed, heavy iron plows and pristine axes that would cut their labor in half. Books and papers, bound in strange leathers and filled with glowing script, were carried inside for later examination. Coins and jewels were placed in barrels, covered with grain sacks, and moved beneath the house into the root cellar until a better solution could be found.

By sunset, the yard had regained some semblance of order. The family had become wealthy beyond reason in a single afternoon. Unfortunately, wealth created problems almost as quickly as it solved them. Still, Harlan could see what it might do for the burgage plots scattered along the village road. Some were respectable, with repaired roofs, fenced gardens, and chickens scratching beneath the windows. Others were hovels, their walls bowing outward, their thatch black with rot, and their floors turning to mud whenever rain came through.

The treasure could be distributed carefully, never enough at once to draw dangerous attention. Timber could be purchased from the logging camps upriver. Roofs could be repaired before the autumn storms hit. Seed, livestock, and tools could be passed among families who had spent years surviving one failed harvest at a time. Harlan had no intention of making the village rich overnight—that would only breed laziness and attract bandits—but he could make it stronger.