Garde des Bois
Mountainous Area, West of Three Hills
Inside the cave where the Mountain Clans had fled, the sound of stonework echoed without pause. Masons worked in shifts at the mouth of the cavern, chisels biting into rock as they widened cracks and weakened the rough boulder gate. Others sharpened tools or hauled debris away. Progress was steady, but slow. Stone yielded only to patience, and everyone knew it would take time before the barrier finally gave way.
Outside the cave, the encampment settled into a quieter rhythm, as if conserving its strength.
Men came and went on scouting and patrols, keeping watch on the jungle paths and ridgelines. Others gathered herbs, searched for bird eggs, or picked nuts and wild berries along the forest edge. A few ranged farther out, checking traps or observing the usual routes that led deeper into the jungle.
Those who remained within the camp turned to other kinds of activities. Some learned the basics of medicine, listening closely as the more knowledgeable showed them how to treat wounds or fever. Others practiced reading or writing, scratching letters onto rough boards by firelight. A few experimented with simple poultices made from crushed herbs for common skin ailments. Those with steady hands carved wood they had found, shaping small objects for use or comfort.
Near the shelters, groups patched leaking cabins, while farther off, another group tended fish hung over low smoke, caught from a swampy pond two days’ walk away.
Despite the activity, the camp remained mostly tranquil, filled with birdsong and the soft rustling of leaves from the ancient trees outside.
Inside the main hall, the air was cool and calm. Smoke from a small hearth in the kitchen drifted lazily upward, clinging to the stone before slipping out through a narrow vent.
"You are quite good at this," Farkas said as he and the others gathered around the low wooden deck, watching Ted work. The young man sat on the floor, shaping pasta with simple wooden tools he had carved himself.
"We need to learn something like this," another muttered. "If things ever go bad, we could still make coin this way."
"The key is the wheat," Ted said without looking up. "You need the right mix. Once you have that, the rest is easy." He pressed the dough forward, and a thin sheet of golden pasta slid free beneath his hands and onto a wooden plate.
"Can we eat it straight, without drying it?" someone asked.
"Of course," Ted replied. "It just needs less boiling time and gentler heat."
The old orangutan who lingered nearby watched with quiet curiosity. She took a small piece of the dough and gave it a tentative bite, then quickly lost interest. Plain, raw dough did not suit her taste.
Her presence here, along with her children, had long since made them feel like familiar neighbors rather than guests. Her young ones now slept soundly after someone had given them ripened green bananas gathered from the jungle.
"All right," Ted exclaimed as he finished working the dough and rose to his feet.
A few men who had just returned from a long-range patrol could not help but notice his growth spurt. He had grown taller in a remarkably short time, his limbs longer, his frame filling out in a way that drew comment.
Rumor had it that he drank the orangutan’s milk. It was certainly untrue, but the men enjoyed joking about anything to dull the boredom. Some had even tried fermenting fruit to make liquor, only to end up doubled over with severe stomachaches.
Since then, Farkas, acting as captain and commander, had banned any further attempts at making liquor.
“The orangutans seem rather attached to you,” Farkas said, still seated on the wooden floor, while the jungle neighbor followed Ted out to the porch, where he laid the plates of pasta to dry in the sun.
"I am not sure what to say," Ted replied. "She is the one who keeps coming close to me."
“She looks at you the same way she does her son,” Farkas remarked.
"Or her prince charming," another chimed in.
Chuckles broke out, but Ted only snorted and answered the commander’s words first. “I am not that young,” he said with a grin. “I am taller than him, even,” he added, nodding toward the man who had chimed in earlier.
The men now cackled, watching the retort land on the stout man, average in height at best.
They watched Ted cleaning up his pasta-making tools and setting aside a plate to boil for a snack with some hard cheese, when suddenly the watchtower came alive.
Short bursts of trumpet calls rang out, snapping everyone to attention. Faces tightened as men who had been in the midst of every kind of activity hurried toward their quarters to grab their gear. Some rushed to the gate, others rushed to the cave entrance, bringing their swords or crossbows.
Their cook rushed in from the kitchen, asking, "What happened?"
"Likely our patrol spotted something," Farkas said, rising slowly, without concern.
"Last time it was supply carts from Three Hills," his aide commented.
“More supplies?” the cook asked, eyebrows furrowed in doubt. The last resupply had been barely two weeks ago, and it was substantial, including spare weapons, tunics, battle boots, and leather capes for the rain.
"They just finished their harvest," the stout man offered as an explanation.
As they speculated, a sentry hurried straight to Farkas and reported, "Captain, the patrol sent word that they have sighted troops coming to reinforce us."
"Reinforcements?" Ted blurted out as he returned to the hall, struggling to fasten his richly colored brigandine. The orangutan had taken a liking to it and kept tugging at the bright cloth.
“Well, it is about time something happened,” Farkas said and headed for the gate.
Without waiting for further orders, his men rose as one and followed him toward the gate, their earlier ease replaced by alert readiness.
Within the hour, flanked by the tallest and strongest members of the Black Bandits, Farkas stood before a tight formation of reinforcements. Five hundred men in total, they were worn from the march, faces and hair dust streaked and sweat soaked, yet they stood ramrod straight.
The men looked at him with a mix of doubt, fear, and anxiety.
Off to the side, the hundred or so escorts stood apart, calm and almost merry now that their task had been completed. Their relaxed posture was proof enough to any perceptive eye that these captured men turned volunteer troops had caused no trouble along the way and were deemed worthy of trust.
“I am Captain Farkas, commander of the Shogunate force in this area,” he addressed the newly arrived troops. Then he raised his voice. “Gentlemen. Welcome to the jungle.”
***
Lansius
It was around noon when Francisca brought more reports from her people. The Lord of Umberland had granted permission for a tribe to settle in the Nazo Highlands of Midlandia, and the last group of eleven half-breeds, hauling mountain goats and wild boars on carts they pulled themselves, had crossed the Great Plains safely under escort. With their numbers now large enough to be called a tribe, construction on their village had begun in earnest. Goat pens and fences went up, yams were planted, and barns were raised to store hay and shelter animals through the winter.
“Mountain goats and wild boars?” Lansius asked.
“Yes, My Lord. A sufficient number was required to breed them,” Francisca answered with open delight.
“But the forest around them already has wild boars?”
“Ah, the local boars are not as tasty as ours. For generations, we have bred them for richer juice and fattier meat. Still, many of our people are curious to cross them with the local stock, to see if we can create a new variety, hopefully with better traits.”
Lansius nodded. Their way of thinking was sound, and it reminded him of the books and teachings from the monastery. They were advanced, almost scientific in nature. From the terms the author used, he had long suspected they were written by someone from a different world, much like himself.
“The tribe would also like permission to breed ducks,” Francisca added.
Lansius blinked several times before looking straight into her large, wolfish eyes. “Pardon?”
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“Giant ducks, My Lord. Not the war breed. The ones intended for consumption.”
“Of course. The egg and meat ducks.” Lansius nodded.
Francisca stifled a smile, clearly aware that the Lord was still wary of ducks.
Alongside the new SAR training camp, the Umberlanders tribe, as they were officially recorded to distinguish them from the Umberland people, would provide an additional layer of security to the vital silver minters’ village.
In exchange for land to settle, the tribe would join the House of Blue and Bronze in many capacities, as educators, scribes, scholars, or squires. They would receive training and tutelage from their senior kin.
While the move and settlement had been carried out in secret, Lansius used his Orange Skalds to spread word that more beast-kin like Francisca would arrive, and it was generally received as good news. Many Midlandians were willing to pay simply to drink and talk with them. Some establishments even asked whether they might employ one.
Once he learned of this, Lansius added a rule stating that all half-breeds within the Shogunate were to be considered either apprentices or retainers under his House. As such, they would receive stipends and were required to seek permission from the ruling House and the tribe before taking on other work.
He feared that without such limits, some would be drawn into questionable lines of work that would leave a bitter taste behind.
With muscles still stiff, his back bruising and limbs aching from training, and his right wrist still in bandages hidden beneath his long sleeve, Lansius continued to review a myriad of other reports. Once his routine was done, he examined the newly arrived batch of silver coins from the minters. He was satisfied that their thickness and width remained consistent. He wanted the standard kept high, so everyone would trust the new silver coinage.
Lansius sent the batch to the council for further review. The council, in turn, invited masters from two different guilds and a trusted silversmith from the city to give their expert opinion. They found no issues. With that, Lansius approved the new batch of silver.
Once the decision was inked and sealed, six large chests of silver coins were deposited into the Shogunate Bank under the House account. From there, the coins would be used to supply withdrawals for those drawing cash from their accounts.
As a safeguard against any doubt over the new silver’s value, half of the stored old silver coins were taken out of circulation.
They were placed in a separate vault for trade with outer provinces that might distrust the new coinage. Coins deemed too old or worn were set aside to be smelted down and reminted.
After lunch with his family and a daily visit to Felis and her newborn son, Lansius returned to work. There was still much to attend to before his departure to Korelia.
Next on his schedule was the review of the first finished steel armor produced by the three armorers. The suits were intended for his officers and vanguard.
“My Lord,” the armorers greeted him with open eagerness as Lansius and his entourage made their way to the drill hall at the far end of the courtyard.
“Meisters, it is good to see you again. How were the materials I sent you?” Lansius replied warmly as he stepped toward the long table where plates of armor were laid out in neat rows.
“Most exquisite material, My Lord,” one meister said at once.
“Truly,” another added. “The finest metal we could ask for.”
“As hard as an old dwarven chisel,” the eldest armorer commented last.
Lansius snorted softly. “I am relieved you found it useful. Then I have fulfilled my end of the bargain by supplying you with the best metal. Now it is time to see your end of it.”
“Please,” they said together, each gesturing to the armor arrayed across the long table.
Lansius, accompanied by Sterling and Karl, examined the breastplate and backplate that formed a complete cuirass. He quickly noticed the different sheen of the metal. It was steel, unmistakably so. There was a clear difference in feel and touch. The moment he lifted one, Lansius was surprised. Because of the superior hardness of crucible steel, the armorers dared to make it lighter.
“It is lighter,” Karl blurted out as he felt it for himself, drawing glances from the guards and officials present in the hall.
“Indeed,” the armorer facing him replied. “The material My Lord sent us has incredible hardness, greater than even hardened iron. We did not need to make it as thick to achieve the same protection. Our testing shows that this piece offers better protection than thicker hardened plates."
Karl did not accept it at once. He glanced toward the other armorers, expecting a counter remark or some challenge, but they remained silent, which spoke loudly enough.
“Is it really that good a metal?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
“It is actually easier to harden,” another armorer added. “It behaves more predictably under heat treatment, and it responds consistently to quenching.”
Karl glanced at his comrade. As usual, Sir Sterling said nothing. He quietly examined the plate from every angle, his gaze tracing the curves and edges. He could find no fault. Then, noticing Lansius’ attention on him, the young knight turned and reported, “The form and shape are precise. It has arrow traps and thick, rolled edges. It is well made.”
Lansius nodded. “Then it is time to see how it performs.”
Without needing further instruction, his men were already gathering the necessary gear and heading toward the archery range. In the House of Blue and Bronze, armor was treated as something almost sacred, and every test on new pieces was conducted with the greatest care. Unlike other Houses, where men procured their own equipment, armor here was issued by the House itself, and to be bestowed a suit was a rite of passage, a mark of prestige, and a badge of honor.
Thus, not easily impressed by the luster of the metal or its polished, silvery surface, they tested the new armor against crossbows and arbalests. Shot after shot thudded into the plates.
With each successful strike endured, the armorers’ expressions shifted, wavering between mild pale and quiet pride.
Only after repeated tests, and with no cracks found in most of the armor, was everyone fully satisfied.
The breastplate made of crucible steel endured nearly everything, failing only under a very short-range windlass crossbow firing a heavy bolt.
“This survives better than hardened armor,” Sir Sterling said, a note of rare amazement in his voice as he inspected the plate, now marked with dents and scuffs. Even so, it remained fully serviceable, with no serious deformities.
“The smooth, curved surface makes all the difference,” Karl said, speculating on what gave it such toughness.
“I think it is the steel itself,” Sterling said. “The surface is so hard that even when an arrowhead gouges it, the mark is shallow.”
Lansius snorted softly. The armorers stood ready nearby, and the matter could have been put to them at once, but he knew his men preferred to puzzle it out themselves, trading theories as they tried to explain the armor’s superior quality.
He himself was with his scribe and guard captain, consulting the records. They kept careful accounts of past tests and the damage suffered at various ranges, and so far, the new armor surpassed all previous results by a wide margin.
The results were so successful that Lansius felt a quiet pride in having played a part in it. It was his crucible steel that had made the difference.
For now, it was only cuirasses. Helmets and the other pieces of a full harness had yet to follow, but soon the same steel would find its way into weapons as well. Swords, spear tips, bolt heads, pikes. With steel of this quality, longer blades and steel lances could finally be made without compromise.
Lansius ended the meeting by giving his formal approval, ordering the finished armor to be fitted to his vanguard. At the same time, he approved payment for the completed pieces and released funds for additional batches of breastplates, along with helmets, pauldrons, and gauntlets, which were just as crucial.
The decision was received with clear relief and satisfaction by the armorers’ representatives. Some were even visibly excited.
As they returned to the drill hall, Lansius overheard Karl speaking with them. They explained that when temperatures dropped, iron and steel sometimes behaved differently, and that working the metal in the cold could, on rare occasions, yield superior results.
While the hall filled with discussion among eager guards and the rest of his entourage, Lansius sat at the far end, reviewing documents, his staff gathered around him.
When he finished, his scribe spoke up. “My Lord.”
“Yes.” Lansius turned to the senior scribe, one of the few who rarely left his side.
“Should we inform the iron makers of this decision?” the man asked.
“Certainly.” Lansius arranged for a messenger to ride to the Valley of Forges, informing them that they were cleared to continue producing steel year-round. Even through winter, the blast furnaces and crucible houses were capable of operating without pause, enough to meet the armorers’ growing demands brought on by the large order.
They had already assured him that as long as raw materials were stockpiled in advance, working through the cold posed little difficulty. In fact, it was often welcomed, as the chill offered rare relief from the heat of the furnaces.
With Lansius sealing the melted wax over the documents with his signet ring, swordsmiths and others would soon follow.
It was not dwarven armor, but it was the next best thing.
More and more, his plans took shape. His army grew stronger by the day. What had once been impossible, too costly, or too difficult to attempt was now within reach.
His vanguard ate well, trained hard, and marched regularly to build strength and endurance. His officers studied tactics. His knights refined strategy. His commanders worked through logistics.
Lansius had given them every possible fighting chance against a more numerous opponent.
He knew that in a crisis, the Shogunate might be forced to fight on two or even three fronts at once.
Other nobles claimed his House had no taste for luxury or wealth, but they were wrong. The House of Blue and Bronze did crave a luxury, and that luxury was the ability to fight on two fronts at the same time. It would be a costly endeavor, a herculean goal even, but Lansius had the clarity to pursue it.
Once achieved, it would be the greatest luxury.
Now, as he set himself on the path toward that goal, he realized something else. Before long, he would become the weakest link.
In his old world, a general’s lack of martial prowess would not have mattered much. But in a world where magic exists, it would be foolish not to account for it. And so, once the meeting was over and before supper was called, Lansius walked toward the main keep, climbed the stairs, passed through the long corridor, and entered the dreaded hall.
He went in alone. The scent of polished wood and old leather greeted him.
“You are here?” came a voice from the corner. Seated upon an iron chair padded with a red cushion was a female figure, her eyes sharp. The waning sun cast its light across her face, half veiling her expression and lending her a presence that felt almost mythical.
“Why are you here?” Lansius asked, surprised. “Who is with Gilly?”
“He is with Mother. As for why I am here, I was inspecting the repairs to this hall and found a beautiful spot to watch the sunset.” Audrey paused. “If you are here, does that mean you are serious about training tonight?”
“What can I say?” Lansius said, feeling his right hand tremble at the thought of it. “I was beaten so thoroughly that I finally understand what was wrong with my approach. Only now do I see how vulnerable I was.”
Audrey’s expression was hard to read, but the corner of her lips curled into a faint smile.
“Tell me again,” Lansius continued, “about how strength without control is useless.”
“Your dwarven gem grants you the strength of a mage," she began, "yet you wield it as if you are still learning the weight of a sword. Your stance is immaculate, your strike refined and powerful, but without edge. I saw a trickle of doubt cloud your every move.”
“Fumbling like a trainee, you mean?”
She chuckled. “Yes, but that is not your fault. Your new gemstone gives you far greater strength than before. The previous one barely raised you to the level of a good wrestler. Now, you could likely match strength with one of Francisca’s kin. You simply have not adjusted yet. You are like a foal in the body of a warhorse, needing weeks of running before it understands what it is capable of.”
“Then train me,” he said.
Audrey snorted, reacting to the sharp turn from a man who once avoided training as stubbornly as a child dodging bitter medicine, to one who now embraced it fully. “That is the right mindset, but your body still needs time to recover.”
“Our opponent will not give me time to recover,” he retorted.
She exhaled deeply. “But you will be injured again. Bengrieve’s envoy will arrive in three or four days. We must depart soon, or it will look suspicious.”
“Leave that matter to me,” he said, then walked to the bench and picked up a weapon, intent on training with the practice dummy.
His answer made her bite her lip, suppressing a grin and a wilder reaction beneath it. “Love, I will not go easy on you, even while you are still bruised.”
“That is what I wanted,” Lansius said with a pained smile, unfastening his brigandine as he turned to her. “Unleash it again. Show me the errors of my way. Make me able to protect you and Gilly.”
***
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