Iron gripped the metal rim of his chair. His palm was slick with sweat and grease.
"Do it," he breathed.
Noah, standing behind a pile of bricks, yanked the lever.
The steel cable shrieked. The facade of the old town hall, which they had spent half the day sawing through and rigging, gave way with a guttural roar. A mass of concrete and rusted rebar came crashing down, aiming directly for the lacquered roof of the carriage.
At that exact moment, Reinhart simply snapped his fingers. The sound was strange.
The mass froze half a meter above the carriage. It hung in the air, then simply crumbled into grey dust. The cable snapped. A whiplash of metal whipped against the stones, sparking a couple of centimeters from the boot of one of the guards. The man didn't even flinch.
"Noisy," a calm, clear voice echoed. "And incredibly untidy."
Reinhart walked toward them, carefully sidestepping the settling dust. Using a silk handkerchief, he wiped his fingers and looked at the barricade of overturned carts.
"Mechanics?" He cast a glance at Iron, his eyes lingering on the makeshift chair. "Amusing. Reminds me of an old toy I broke in my childhood. Just as clumsy and fragile."
Iron felt Noah's hand slowly drift to the hilt of his knife behind him, but he knew it was pointless. Walter stepped forward, shielding Iron's chair.
"We still have gunpowder charges in the cellars, Count. One gesture, and we all go up in smoke along with your carriage."
Reinhart offered a thin smile.
"Charges? You mean those waterlogged barrels you tried to seal with tar? My men flooded them with water five minutes ago. While you were busy messing around with this... stage prop," he pointed his handkerchief toward the collapsed town hall. "Enough of this theater. Bring Wayland out to me. I want to ensure he's actually breathing before I begin dictating terms."
Wayland stumbled out of the tent like a sack of rags, supported under his elbows by two militia members. The Count breathed heavily, the bandages across his chest stained a sickly yellow.
Reinhart pressed the handkerchief tighter to his nose.
"You look terrible," Reinhart pulled the handkerchief away but kept his distance.
Wayland tried to straighten up but immediately doubled over in a fit of coughing, spitting a clot of dark blood onto the dirt.
"Don't hold your breath," he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you doing here? Don't you have enough land of your own?"
Reinhart smiled thinly, pacing slowly along the barricade.
"I came to claim what's mine. You know how it is," he waved a hand toward the ruins. "The city is gone. The law is gone. The College has washed its hands of this place, and the King has no time for this pit right now."
"My land," Wayland spat blood at the Count's feet. "My people."
"You are no master here. I could crush you all in ten minutes. My mages would simply burn this forest to ash."
"And you'll get a desert," Iron called out from his chair.
Reinhart turned to him.
"A desert rich with iron and coal deposits," the Count corrected mildly. "I don't need your lives. I need resources. But killing a Count... that would create unnecessary noise at court. Too much bureaucratic red tape."
He looked back at Wayland.
"Let's make a deal," Reinhart took a step closer. "You stay here. Play at being the ruler of this garbage heap. But you will be my ruler."
Wayland gave a crooked smirk, baring blood-stained teeth.
"And what's the price of your 'mercy'?"
"Fifty percent of all ore," Reinhart began ticking off fingers in his silk glove. "An extra ten percent on top for 'protection' from scavengers. And..." he pointed at Iron. "All of these blueprints. I've been informed that this boy sees machinery where others see scrap metal. From now on, he works for me."
Iron looked at the captain. Walter stood with a stony face, his eyes cast down. Behind the chair, Noah stopped gripping his knife; his hand simply hung limply at his side. The militia behind them huddled closer together, staring at the carriage's armed guard.
"Half the ore?" Wayland asked again.
"Half," Reinhart nodded. "To begin with. And every single layout this boy comes up with. My men will arrive once a month with wagons. Your job is the loading. Mine is the guarantee that scavengers won't slit your throats."
He snapped his fingers. The footman bolted to the carriage, retrieved a rolled piece of parchment and a traveling inkwell from a case, approached Wayland, and held out the document.
"The blueprints..." Iron started, his throat completely dry. "You won't understand how to assemble them without me."
Reinhart didn't even look at him.
"They'll figure it out. Your job is to draw and build. If the mechanisms don't work, I'll simply drag you to my keep."
Wayland took the parchment. The paper shook violently in his trembling hands. He didn't bother reading it. The Count slid his family signet ring off his ring finger. The footman opened the inkwell. Wayland smeared the signet with red paste, leaned heavily against the lacquered fender of the carriage, and pressed the ring into the lower corner of the document.
It left a thick red imprint.
The footman carefully took the paper back, blew on the seal, and slipped the parchment back into its case.
"Splendid," Reinhart adjusted the collar of his doublet. "A wise choice, Wayland."
He turned and climbed back into the carriage. The door clicked shut.
Leaning back against the soft velvet cushions, the count closed his eyes. A faint smile touched his lips.
"The deal went even smoother than I expected," he said quietly. "I think he will be pleased."
The carriage lurched. The wheels groaned heavily against the broken stone as it turned around. The guards silently fell into step behind it.
Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!
Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter