The horse's haunch gleamed under the rays of a dull sun, its hooves rhythmically churning gray dust mixed with mud. The rider advanced slowly. In his hand, he held a shaft with a tied white rag. The cloth had already yellowed and was coated in ash.
The camp grew dead silent. The surviving militia members, who had been digging a foundation pit for a barrack nearby, dropped their makeshift shovels and crowbars. Someone reached for a knife; someone else simply froze, wiping his brow with a filthy hand.
Walter stepped forward, not waiting for the stranger to draw closer. The captain placed his palm on his hilt. Behind him came the familiar, irritating screech of ungreased wheels—Noah was rolling Iron out of the tent. He sat clutching the armrest, his legs hanging motionless beneath a gray blanket. Elyria, gone quiet, hovered just over his shoulder.
The rider halted about twenty paces back. He was a run-of-the-mill mercenary, around forty, with streaks of gray in his unkempt beard. He wore a dented cuirass over a leather doublet, a heavy broadsword hanging at his hip. He swept a disgusted gaze over the camp, lingering on Iron's chair, his lips curling.
"Who's in charge here?" his voice was hoarse.
"I am," Walter took another step forward. "Captain of the Dornheim city watch. What is your business?"
The mercenary spat into the dust, narrowly missing Walter's boot. "City watch, eh? Fine. Count Reinhart sends word. It brings him no joy to watch people rot right on his doorstep."
He shifted in his saddle, settling in comfortably. "You have twenty-four hours. Pack your things and head west along the old highway. Don't go poking around the ruins. The Count is claiming this land, all the metal, the coal, and whatever else is left beneath the stone. By right of a stronger neighbor. Count Wayland is known to be dead, so you have no claim to anything here. You're to be gone in twenty-four hours. If you stay—you've only yourselves to blame. Orders are to take no prisoners."
Whispers broke out through the camp. People looked at one another in despair. Leave? Where to? There was almost no food, and the ruins at least offered some shelter from the wind.
"Count Reinhart moved fast," Walter spat through gritted teeth. "Count Wayland is alive. And this is his land."
The mercenary let out a short laugh. "Alive? Well, let him show his papers—if he can even stand up. Count your blessings the Count is letting you walk away. Think it over. The clock is ticking."
He yanked sharply on the reins, wheeling his horse around. The hooves kicked up a cloud of ash, making Walter cough. The white rag on the spear fluttered in the wind.
Everyone looked at Walter, and Walter looked at Iron.
"Assuming Wayland is dead is a massive mistake. Let's exploit it," Iron said loudly.
The air inside the tent was stifling. The stench of sour sweat and tar soap mingled with the pungent aroma of herbs Albert was burning in a tin bowl "for the fever."
Wayland sat on the edge of the cot, his fingers gripping the rim of the blanket. His face was gray, his breathing rapid and shallow. Catching sight of Walter and Iron, he immediately spoke.
"I heard hooves," the Count rasped. "The Coalition?"
Walter let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the support post. "A single rider. A messenger from Reinhart."
"Reinhart, then," he exhaled. "That old rat always did know how to time his move. What does he want?"
"He wants us out of here within twenty-four hours," Walter replied. "Said the city is his now. By right of proximity. And he added that you're dead."
Wayland gave a short, dry cough. "Dead..." He licked his dry, cracked lips. "He was always an optimist. Iron, come closer."
Noah pushed the chair forward.
"Do we have any way to answer them?"
"We have the city," Iron spoke up, his voice steady. "I can bring every other house crashing down on them—if you can even call them houses anymore. But still, for some reason, I don't think that will be enough."
Wayland closed his eyes. His chest heaved heavily beneath the soiled bandages. "Do you think they'll send a hundred?" Wayland said. "Reinhart is greedy. He'll send a dozen knights to scare you, and a hundred men with wagons to haul away the valuables."
He snapped his eyes open and tried to stand. Walter stepped forward to steady him, but the Count pushed his hand away.
"Listen to me," Wayland said, swaying, his legs trembling beneath him. "Tomorrow, I'm going out to face him. Myself. As long as I'm alive and standing here, his claim is nothing but highway robbery."
"You'll fall off your horse after ten meters," Noah grunted. "Iron, forget the traps. I need something else. Make it so they see a fortress, not ruins."
"I'll try," Iron said. "But we need time. Twenty-four hours is nothing."
"We don't have time," Wayland collapsed back onto the cot, his strength abandoning him as swiftly as it had come. "Walter, get the men ready."
The entire next day passed in a frantic blur. The camp resembled a stirred-up anthill. Men, swaying with exhaustion, hauled logs, scraps of cable, and rusted sheets of iron.
Iron sat in his chair in the middle of the chaos, wiping his greasy face with the stump of his right arm. His left arm throbbed—he had spent half the day sketching with charcoal directly onto the dirt, explaining to Darwin how to rig the counterweights.
"Pull, damn it!" Darwin shouted, his voice cracking from somewhere high up on the remnants of a wall.
The steel cable tightened with a nasty screech. A massive concrete slab swayed slowly. It was meant to be a deadfall "hammer" for anyone who decided to ride down the main street, but right now the slab just hung there, threatening to crush the builders themselves.
"Iron, we're out of oil," Noah said, walking up to the chair and wiping his hands on his trousers. "We poured the last tin into the smoke canisters. If they don't catch..."
"They'll catch, just do it," Iron cut him off. "Walter! What's the status on the 'ballistas'?"
The captain, who was hauling a bundle of whittled stakes, didn't even look back. "Those aren't ballistas. They're firewood arranged in the shape of slingshots. If they advance closer than a hundred paces..."
"Then don't let them get close," Iron coughed from the caustic dust kicked up by the wind.
Elyria circled nearby, trying to help, but she only ended up getting underfoot. She carried small pebbles, piling them into neat little heaps, looking utterly lost.
By evening, the work ground to a halt. Men simply collapsed right where they stood. No one had managed to finish the second line of defenses. The cable at the entrance had jammed and now hung uselessly in the mud. The smoke barrels Iron had planned to ignite to create the illusion of a "living" city had grown damp from the evening mist.
"We're not ready," Noah said, sitting on the ground next to the wheel of Iron's chair. "Look at this. Half our fortifications will fall apart at the first gust of wind."
Iron stared silently at his palms, with only one thought echoing in his mind: Why does this kind of crazy shit always happen to us?
The sun hadn't even properly broken over the horizon when a rumbling echo drifted from the highway. The rhythmic clatter of wheels against stone.
"They're coming," a sentry called out curtly.
Walter bolted out of his tent, fastening the straps of his cuirass on the move. Wayland was helped out by two militia members.
Out of the mist, a carriage rolled onto the road. Black, lacquered, with gilded trim and a coat of arms—the very same black boar. It was escorted by six riders in full plate armor. The horses marched in a rhythmic cadence, their harnesses jingling.
The carriage came to a halt thirty paces from the barricade, which consisted of broken brickwork and an overturned cart. A footman in a clean livery hopped down from the rear and, with deliberate slowness, unfolded the step.
The door swung open. A man stepped out of the carriage. Tall, gaunt, dressed in an expensive traveling doublet and a fur-trimmed cloak, despite the weather not being particularly cold. He pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it to his nose to block out the stench of burning, and looked at the ragged group blocking his path.
"We ran out of time," Elyria whispered softly, hiding herself in Iron's hair.
Reinhart took a step forward, and his soft leather boot sank deep into the gray ash of Dornheim.
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