nownovels Chapter 23: The Reconstruction of Iron and Wood
Chapter 23: The Reconstruction of Iron and Wood
The blacksmith shop on the banks of the Blue Fork River is essentially a furnace that constantly spews out heat waves under the scorching summer sun.
Since the territory was still under construction, this temporary workshop was simply built with massive log supports and a thick thatched roof. But under Otto's "high-pressure order," it had become the busiest industrial center in the entire territory, second only to the silver mines. The air was thick with the pungent smell of coke, the sulfurous odor of forging pig iron, and the dry, acrid scent of quicklime emanating from the surrounding mud.
Otto stood in the shadows outside the workshop, his left shoulder tightly strapped to his chest. The sweltering heat made the skin beneath the wound itch, a sign that new flesh was struggling to grow from the bruises, but no pain could be detected on his pale face.
Inside the workshop, One-Eyed Cole was shirtless, his black chest hair soaked with sweat, like a layer of wet sheepskin stuck to his chest. Unlike those mindless blacksmiths who were in a hurry to swing their heavy hammers on the anvil, he squatted on the muddy ground, holding a charred thin wooden stick in his hand, drawing intricate lines on several polished stone slabs.
Otto did not go in to interrupt him.
Under this iron-fisted order, every subordinate entrusted with important tasks by Otto is undergoing a transformation: they are no longer merely laborers, but have become automatically meshing gears in this machine. Cole, from a crude blacksmith who only knew how to forge gun barrels and horseshoes, is being forced into becoming a military engineer who needs to calculate forces, toughness, and counterweight.
"grown ups."
After a long while, Cole noticed the shadow cast. He stood up, his rough hands haphazardly wiping the leather apron around his waist. He didn't bow and scrape like some fools eager to show off, nor did he try to assert his importance by arguing; he simply stepped aside, revealing the sketch on the slate.
"The stuff that Haijiang City sent was even worse than I imagined. It was thirty rusty scrap irons, sir." Cole's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing together. "Thirty crossbows, only twelve of them still had usable winch cores. The rest, the wooden arms were cracked like an old woman's face, and they'd explode like firewood the moment they were cocked."
"So Earl Jason gave us thirty 'fire pokers'." Otto's tone was calm, as if he had long anticipated this "stingy gift" from the lord.
“Yes. But I took them all apart, sir.” Cole pointed to the neatly stacked iron parts in the corner of the workshop. “Those crossbow arms were broken, but the iron trigger mechanism and the spring core at the bottom were made of blue steel that the Mellist family used to import from Braavos. You can’t buy that kind of steel now. I melted them all down and planned to make a ‘Scorpion’ as you suggested.”
In Westeros, "scorpion" is a general term for large crossbows. The Dornish used them to shoot down Queen Melisandre's dragon Mirasis, and now Otto needs them to deal with House Blackwood's wooden palisade.
"Give me specifics," Otto said, walking toward the sketch.
"I figured out a way to connect the blue steel springs of the four heavy crossbows together. But that's not enough; I need to forge a auger base with interlocking gears out of pig iron." Cole pointed to the core part of the sketch. "I need carpenter Kerrigan to go to the north slope, cut down an oak tree that's at least thirty years old, peel off the bark, soak it in fish oil for three days, and make the crossbow arms. As long as the winch is engaged, this 'Scorpion' can shoot right through a one-inch-thick plank from two hundred paces away. I can take down that arrow tower on the fence in Tethos with just three arrows."
"Two hundred paces." Otto mentally rehearsed the tactics. "Tethos's land blockade outpost is about one hundred and fifty paces from our territory's border. This means we don't need to charge to break down his defenses from outside his firing range."
"Sir, these 'scorpions' are too expensive," Cole added, his tone professional and meticulous. "Each of these heavy weapons will consume two hundred pounds of pig iron. Our current stock, including losses, is only enough to make two at most. If you approve, I'll have to keep the remaining pig iron to forge barbed spearheads and iron bars to reinforce the shields for those thirty-seven brothers."
"Build two," Otto decided. "Two will be enough to create crossfire. Don't use all the remaining iron for spearheads; make me a batch of crossbow bolts, the kind with weighted tail fins and double health bars. If the Blackwood cavalry dare to charge our phalanx, I want them covered in corpses before they even get close."
Cole nodded, and without a word, turned and grabbed the heavy hammer. That was his action of accepting orders.
Stepping out of the sweltering blacksmith's shop, Otto stepped onto the "log road," paved with horizontal logs and filled with gravel in the gaps. This type of road served as the backbone of the territory in the long summer swamp. On both sides of the road, newly dug drainage ditches flowed slowly with murky sewage, and large amounts of quicklime were spread on the bottom of the ditches, emitting a pungent, acrid smell that represented "order and safety."
Pollifer was leading five "camp inspectors" dressed in burlap and carrying willow whips, patrolling the shantytown settlement.
"My lord." Pollifer strode closer.
This illegitimate son, who used to be so timid and submissive in Fair City, now had a colder look in his eyes. In his hand, he held a record board coated with beeswax, on which were densely packed tiny characters recording the daily losses of the territory. He no longer asked, "Sir, what should we do?" but had learned to execute orders first and then report the results.
"Last week's hygiene audit," Polliff said steadily. "Three men in Labor Group Two tried to wash their feet in the water-fetching area in the middle of the night. The disciplinary team gave them a flogging on the spot, and I deducted 15% of their group's rations for the week. As punishment, they were disqualified from driving in 'hut boundary markers' this week."
Otto looked at the refugees in the distance, their faces covered in sweat but working frantically, and nodded slightly.
"In addition, the reserves of willow bark and salted fish are still on the red line," Pollifer continued, without any intention of taking credit or complaining. "To balance the fuel needed for the quicklime kiln, I've reduced everyone's daily firewood for boiling water by one measure. But I've required each group to boil water collectively in the early morning to utilize residual heat. There hasn't been a large-scale outbreak of diarrhea in the territory yet, but I need more salt. Without salt, this group won't last three days under the sun."
"Regarding the salt, I'll have Raymond handle it when he brings the security tax to the office tomorrow." Otto took the record board and scanned the data.
This efficiency in management was achieved by Otto through a near-cruel hierarchical system. The pickets were selected from the militia, and in order to retain their privilege of "not having to do manual labor," they would enforce the lord's ironclad rules more strictly than anyone else.
"What about Torun?"
"On the north slope," Pollifer pointed to an open space higher up.
A series of rhythmic crashing sounds were coming from there.
"Thump—thump—thump—"
Toren didn't roar like a typical instructor on the field. He sat on a large rock, with a water clock left by Maester Theron beside him. The water droplets in the water clock precisely struck a thin metal plate below, producing a monotonous and oppressive sound.
Thirty-seven soldiers in a square formation (12 veterans at the core, and 25 militiamen filling the flanks) were stepping forward, carrying heavy round shields reinforced with iron bars, accompanied by the sound of dripping water.
"Shield up and kill!" Toren's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear in the silent valley. "Countdown! Ten!"
The synchronized stomping sounded like a heavy stone mill. Through this relentless and grueling training, the militiamen had ingrained this "ten-second rhythm" into their very bones. They were no longer refugees worrying about a few pieces of black bread, but a group of killing machines stripped of fear and hesitation by Otto's ironclad rules, left only with muscle memory.
Otto stood on high ground, overlooking his territory.
Beneath their feet lay orderly drainage ditches, ahead of them a sturdy log path, to the north a lime kiln that puffed smoke day and night, and on the drill ground a precise square formation. Behind these landscapes, however, lay Cole calculating mechanics, Pollifer meticulously calculating losses, and Toren transforming soldiers.
This is no longer a dilapidated refugee camp, but a fortress with the rudiments of industrial cooperation, slowly and steadily opening its claws amidst the sweltering heat of the long summer.
"My lord," Pollifer said in a low voice, "Lord Raymond's ship will dock tomorrow morning. He has brought two ships with him this time, and besides the routine patrol, he will probably also take away this month's share of silver belonging to the Twins."
Otto returned the scoreboard to Pollifer, a cold glint of mockery flashing in his eyes.
"Let him come. Prepare the accounts for the security tax. Also, have Toren meet him at the dock. No need for flowers and wine. I want Raymond to see clearly who the last person he should mess with is the moment he steps onto the log road."
The long summer sunset cast Otto's shadow onto the gradually forming stone tower, while the black and white eagle banner hung heavily in the still air, as if overlooking the impending next clash between greed and order.