Bronze & Steel
North Elandia, Swan City
The largest twin bronze bells rang from the tallest tower of the vast castle, their deep voices rolling over roofs and courtyards like a slow-moving wave. The bells, the pride of the Duchy, were kept in reserve for the Duke Louis’ family and sounded only on the most solemn or momentous occasions. No other city in the region possessed such bells, for the Ageless had once deemed them a needless extravagance. Yet those words had long been forgotten. Now, whenever the bells rang, they lifted the hearts of the people and sent flocks of pigeons bursting into the bright sky as if heralding good things to come.
Below, the castle and the upper wards of the city were alive with fanfare and jubilation. Its white walls had received a fresh coat of lime wash, giving them a clean, sunlit sheen, and the buildings stood adorned with garlands, ribbons, and flowers woven by the maids and servants at dawn.
A massive crowd, several thousand strong, pressed along the main road. People stood with their children, some leaning from the comfort of their balconies or open windows, while many of the young climbed ledges and low roofs for a better view. Hundreds of men-at-arms lined the street in bright, colorful clothing beneath their glistening, polished armor and helmets. Their poleaxes were held steady, securing the road and forming a broad ceremonial corridor.
They waited patiently for the betrothed couple, who would ride in a lavish white carriage. Aside from being used for the Duke’s family ceremonies, it was said to have been used by the Ageless himself whenever he visited the region.
The passing of one hundred flute players, who heralded the event, drew cheers and merry shouts, followed closely by no fewer than five hundred knights and mounted lancers, their armor flashing in the sunlight and their horses tossing proud heads. Behind them came a similar number of the Duchy’s men-at-arms, esquires, and pages in their best attire.
And when the elven-wrought carriage finally appeared, escorted by six mages and four mage knights, a hush rippled through the crowd.
Older than the Imperium itself, the carriage’s paint shimmered faintly like silk, its surface smooth and perfect. It moved with an uncanny grace, gliding over the stone road without a creak, the wheels turning in near-silence. The only sound was the steady clop of the twelve magnificent beasts that drew it. Their coats were pale as morning frost, each one descended from the horses ridden by the Grand Progenitors.
Inside sat the bride, the Duke’s daughter. Widowed in her youth, known for a gentle romantic heart, she had never remarried. Nearing forty, she carried the frailty of long years spent in seclusion, years in which she had slowly worn herself down rather than take part in her father’s political alliances, alliances that would have forced her to wed again.
Now, her decision to marry once more had not bloomed from affection but from slow, suffocating political desperation.
Her once mighty House had crumbled from within.
A few years earlier, her younger brother had died when his small boat capsized during a fishing trip. Drowning, a cause of death no gemstone could save. Since then, the old Duke had mourned without end. A master embalmer had been hastily summoned from Tiberia, his carriage traveling without rest. Through his craft, the boy’s body had been preserved so faithfully that he looked merely asleep. He now rested in a glass coffin inside the newly built mausoleum at the far corner of the castle’s vast inner courtyard.
But even that was only one stroke in a long series of misfortunes that had befallen her House.
Before that fateful accident, her younger half-sister had died as a toddler from sickness. And a few years before that, the Duke’s bastard son had fallen in a shameful incident in Centuria. Reckless and full of pride, he had taken girls to his villa by force. Whispers of it reached a group of young swordsmen and knights traveling nearby. They investigated, tempers flared, and steel was drawn. Many from both sides were cut down, and the bastard was among those who died. The whole affair was buried deep, and the knights involved were quietly exiled.
As if things could not grow worse for her old and ailing father, her mother had, after a long decline, finally succumbed to a disease of the mind and could no longer hold a meaningful conversation.
The Duchy was powerful on the outside, but inside, the Duke was broken, no longer able to choose any path that demanded resolve.
This was why the powerful Duchy army had never sallied out to meet Gottfried’s rebellion. Instead he kept his men close, guarding only the heart of the domain and the Swan Castle itself, allowing the northern men to rampage through eastern Tiberia and carve their way toward the Capital.
For a time, even the court had entertained a peace proposal from Gottfried, who still styled himself as Lord of Brigandia. Many were swayed, more were bribed, and many others were threatened or had simply grown too weary to care for the ailing House.
But now the wind over the famed Swan Castle had changed.
Her ailing father, pressed by his retinue and by the sheer weight of a failing Imperium, had finally relented. He agreed to surrender much of his authority to his daughter and only heir. But he placed one condition. The transfer of power would only take effect once she married, and only if the Duke himself approved of the groom.
Only with that guarantee written, sealed, and recorded did she agree to leave her secluded life.
With growing authority, she swiftly assembled her Household and chose her groom.
Her choice sent a ripple of panic through many of her father’s retinue, but by then she had already placed her own confidants in positions of power.
The horses’ rhythmic clop barely reached the white carriage, nor did the thousand voices cheering outside. The gemstones within kept the air cool and refreshing, like the soft breath of a garden at dawn, and more importantly, free of poison. For her, this was the second time she had ridden this elven carriage as a bride. But now the man seated beside her was younger than she was, raising his hand in a gentle wave to the people lining the street.
His brown hair, longer than most, was neatly combed and gleamed faintly under the filtered light. His clothing was of the finest cloth, the dark fabric carrying a silken sheen and a weight that spoke of the highest craftsmanship. A rich fragrance of clean herbs and something sweet clung to him. His somewhat cold face carried a quiet charm, and his solemn eyes held a keen, calculating light, the look of a man who never let a thought pass without weighing it.
His skin was pale like hers. Both had spent too many years behind closed doors instead of beneath the sun. To them, it was a mark of high birth, the sign of people who never needed to work under the sun.
Yet despite his gentle appearance, there was no mistaking his battle prowess.
This was the man who had ventured out with only a token force to halt the tens of thousands of marauders from Nicopola who spilled into Elandia. Even when his own Lord cast a coup and threatened his ancestral land, he persisted, fought back, and emerged the victor. He prevented a crisis from swallowing Elandia whole, and now he held the title of Lord in his own right.
Now, that very same man periodically glanced at her, not only to admire her but to make certain she was comfortable. She could feel it each time he did. It was a marriage of convenience, a political union, yet his smile looked sincere and warm. He was caring more than he needed to.
“Bengrieve,” she called softly.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied at once, the tone natural, almost like a devoted servant.
“You do not need to pretend. The documents are sealed. Our marriage and the joining of our Houses are already in effect. I will uphold my part of the bargain. Half the military is yours.”
The man offered a gentle smile. “Your Grace wounds me. How could I dare to pretend affection?”
“I am no longer young,” she said, her eyes fixed on the passing rooftops. “Nor am I graceful in words, looks, or physique.”
“That is untrue,” he replied without hesitation. “Your Grace carries a serene charm. Your face is so finely shaped that I am easily reminded of the famous painting of the Grand Progenitor’s lovers, painted by the First Emperor's own master artisan. And you may verify my claim with a drop of the Truth Nectar, and I would still say the same.”
Even nearing forty, she carried a beauty that felt almost timeless. Her soft blue eyes and long bronze hair gave her a quiet radiance that age had not dimmed. Many whispered that the Ancients’ pure blood still ran through her veins, and looking at her now, it was not difficult to believe.
The bride, however, only regarded him calmly. Praise of her physique meant very little to her.
“And there is also something else,” the man added, his tone now devoid of warmth. “Your mind is as keen as sharpened steel. More than I ever thought possible in a woman. And that is the quality I cherish the most.”
She turned toward him, the pearls on her veil catching the filtered light as she studied the confidence in his voice. “What makes you think so?”
He met her gaze with steady calm. “Your move to secure the castle and the Duke’s officers was thorough, precise, clean.”
The bride neither countered nor objected, her eyes unreadable beneath her long soft lashes, her powdered face giving nothing away as Lord Bengrieve continued.
“Only an adept master could manage that. Even in recluse, you quietly won your father’s top retinue. You let your favor be known to the right candidates, ensuring loyal men in good posts. You have devoted talents at your disposal. And their wives certainly see you as the champion of morality and family, if not the patron of romance.”
Unexpectedly, the bride snorted softly. Her blue silken gown, encrusted with pearls, continued to shimmer under the gentle glow of the sun. Silver adornments shaped with intricate detail rested along her shoulders and arms, and at her chest hung the largest piece of all, a heavy ruby the size of a baby’s fist, the Duchy’s heirloom. Even now, the magic within it maintained her stamina and healed her body.
Trusting her mages, she had worn it daily, and in time she had regained some of her health, even a touch of her lost youth.
Lord Bengrieve continued, “It was nothing short of a coup. A bloodless one. But the victim cannot even tell, and begs you to do it.”
His words skirted treason, yet she only drew a deep, measured breath. “I am happy that I chose an equal. How is the First Lady?”
“No concern. She is thrilled to have a Duchess as her younger sister.”
“I am older though,” she mumbled, thinking about how she outranked the woman in every way, and was in fact older as well. “Authority aside. I am yet to be recognized as such, and you should pray for my father’s longevity.”
“Naturally. Please forgive my uncouth mouth, for I am intoxicated with this blessing,” the groom returned to his warm and tender tone, complete with a devoted smile.
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The white carriage rolled toward the flower grove outside the city, a ceremonial and scenic place said to be blessed by elves and often visited by the Ageless. There, where a fine manor stood beneath the shade of old trees, a sea of colorful silken tents had been erected for the occasion. White horsemen patrolled the grounds, and knights and armigers in richly colored uniforms gathered with the banners of their Houses. Honored guests from all over Elandia mingled freely, the whole scene bright and splendid under the rising sun.
The news of a sudden marriage between the two Great Houses would soon reach every corner of the land.
Once again, the political landscape in the ruins of the Imperium had shifted.
***
South Midlandia, Valley of the Forges
After another round of discussion and confirming that they would spend the night in the valley, it was finally time for the late midday break. Lansius dismissed the Meisters to return to their normal activities. He did not wish to trouble them for an entire day.
With time to kill, Lansius wandered off with his guards following at a respectful distance.
The midday sun was hot on the skin, but it was nothing compared to the furnace heat he had just endured from the Blast Furnace and the Crucible House.
The ground around the Crucible House and its surrounding complex was almost barren, broken only by thin patches of grass. Lansius headed uphill, seeking a better view of the place. As he walked past the scattered trees, dozens of his men scrambled out from the shade and stood at attention under the sun.
Lansius waved them off. “Go get your rest.”
Many of the younger men were too tense to move at first, but the older ones let out faint smirks and began to disperse, taking the cue.
As he climbed higher, he saw the snaking, newly laid cobbled road that tied the sites and villages together. He kept on until he reached a small cluster of trees near the slope.
Four men were already there. They stepped out into the sunlight and stood at attention at once. “My Lord,” they greeted in unison, proof of their training.
“At ease, riders,” he replied, turning to look behind them. Four horses stood under the shade with light equipment strapped to their saddles, the gear of scouts, which explained why they were posted there.
Dismissed, the riders were about to head downhill, but Lansius called out to them. “No, it is not necessary. Gentlemen, there is plenty of shade. We can share it.”
“My Lord,” the oldest of the scout riders replied, “we are honored.”
“The honor is mine,” Lansius answered, then stopped beneath the shade of an old tree. As he settled, the two groups of guards drifted under the nearby shade, exchanging cheerful remarks with the riders.
With a generous breeze rolling down from the hill, Lansius turned toward the valley and took in the surrounding land. It was easy to see how young the site still was. Almost everything here had been raised from bare ground in the last season.
Across the road from the Crucible House, he saw a newly built beehive oven standing abandoned. He knew the reason. It had originally been meant to refine the raw iron ingots into usable steel. But after their success with the coke-fired blast furnace, the Chief, excited over the new fuel, had convinced Lansius that they could attempt something far better. That suggestion had led them down a different path, and Lansius had guided them toward a superior method, the Huntsman crucible.
Because of that, the work on the site across the road had been left unfinished. It was a waste of resources, especially since the beehive oven had just been strengthened to withstand coke fire. But progress always came with a cost.
The decision had been necessary. Steel made through that oven refining would have resulted in common blister steel. It was a good steel, but it could not compare to the hardness achieved with crucible steel through the Huntsman process. Thus, Lansius, who had once planned to increase quality gradually, abandoned the refining oven and pushed straight toward the best method he possessed.
Feeling content and finding a good spot, Lansius sat down on the grass. The wind breezed again, and the branches above swayed softly, rustling against one another.
A change of scenery like this was welcome. His men seemed to enjoy it as well. They had been riding for days, and a moment of idleness felt good and refreshing.
Lansius rested his back against the rough tree bark and brushed away a few ants that came crawling. He exhaled and simply enjoyed the rest. Even with all his titles, he was still human. He was glad his recent illness had left no lingering trouble.
He took a water flagon from his waist. He insisted on carrying it himself; otherwise, Margo would have been glued to his side, and he preferred the squire to look after Mother and Baby Gill instead.
Seeing him drink, the eight guards and four scout riders with him also uncorked their own water and pulled out pieces of bread or morsels they had saved from the morning meal. During a trip or a march, it was customary to keep something for lunch in case they had no time to cook.
“Don’t eat too much. I am sure the food will come out soon,” Lansius couldn’t resist commenting.
“Hope it’s not gruel, My Lord,” one of the veteran scouts he knew from Korelia quipped, prompting a small uproar of laughter.
“They wouldn’t dare,” one of the guards answered. “Not with the Lord with us.”
“Harvest was just a few weeks ago. They will still have white bread,” a younger guard said, prompting a murmur of agreement.
“The villages look well off, too. Everyone seems to be employed,” another added, followed by more voices.
“Aye. And we have a camp here. Food cannot be that bad when our officers are around.”
“At the very worst, pasta.”
“Oi, pasta is good!" And at that, the men began to bicker in a friendly manner.
Lansius snorted as he watched them. He was glad to hear that many had taken a liking to pasta despite the lack of tomatoes. That big, red cherry-like fruit was nowhere to be found in Midlandia.
The men continued their light bickering among themselves. Many were new faces. They were eager, though compared to his best, they were inexperienced. Yet that was by design. Lansius could have brought only veterans for this trip, but that would have been counterproductive.
He wanted the newcomers to grow into their roles, and trips like this gave them experience without the dangers of a full military maneuver.
More than anything, Lansius wanted to build a military tradition.
As he sat listening to his men, he noticed figures approaching from downhill. One carried an umbrella, held high to shade the person walking beneath it, and Lansius guessed it was Audrey.
It must be easy to find me with those sharp eyes of hers.
As he expected, it was indeed her. Audrey climbed the slope toward him with her escort. Claire held the umbrella, while her four guards, led by Sir Sterling and Carla, walked calmly behind her.
Seeing her approach, the men immediately stood and greeted her. “My Lady.”
Audrey gave them a single nod, and the men withdrew to the far edge of the cluster of trees to give her and Lansius some privacy.
“Now, this is a good spot,” she said to Lansius as she held out two bowls.
Claire was about to turn away, but Lansius said, “There is plenty of shade.”
The riders and guards answered in unison, “Join us,” their tone warm and welcoming.
Claire glanced at them with a smile, then looked to Lansius. True to her character, she dared a small grin but still shook her head. “I promised to eat with my friends. They are waiting for me.”
She curtsied, stepped back, and slowly began her descent. Her husband, Sir Sterling, dipped his head low to Lansius and Audrey before following after her. Only Carla remained, joining the guards, who welcomed her with friendly banter.
From the slope below, Lansius saw a dozen men carrying bowls up toward the groups resting with him.
Before long, everyone was eating a hot meal, including Lansius and Audrey.
“How is Gilly?” he asked between spoonfuls of hearty soup.
“I just fed him before I went to inspect the kitchen. He is not as fussy as yesterday, so it is quite heartening.”
Lansius nodded, sharing her calm. “And Mother?”
Audrey munched her crusty bread before answering, “She has everything she needs. Francisca and Margo are with her.”
He nodded again and took a bite of his soup-soaked bread.
Watching him eat, Audrey commented, “I am glad you like it.”
He took a second look at the soup, asking, “What's wrong with it?”
“Well, the kitchen was in an uproar when they learned they had to feed the Lord and Lady today. They were expecting us tomorrow. So the meat and poultry were not ready.”
Lansius chuckled. In a time before refrigerators, an animal had to be slaughtered fresh, so timing was crucial for a banquet. “I do not mind. It is just like marching. As long as it's not horse bread.”
“I told them the same. Besides, they just had a harvest, and food is plentiful.”
Lansius nodded in agreement. He had heard his men talking about the same thing. Even if the village had little prepared, they still kept enough ingredients in their carriages and carts to make a hearty soup.
He slurped another spoonful, finding it tastier than the soup he had eaten while wandering as a lost Arvenian years ago. “Really, this is satisfying for a meal outside the castle.”
Only then did it strike him what this moment was. “Drey, this is a picnic,” he said without thinking.
She frowned, her face tight with suspicion at the foreign word. “Piknik?”
“I told you a long time ago, remember? Well… perhaps not. But this is what a picnic is. To eat out in the open. Do you like it?” Lansius asked, growing unexpectedly more spirited.
Audrey only looked at him, thinking it over. “Well, I cannot say I hate this. But truly, it is just like eating while on the march.”
Lansius chuckled, understanding her reasoning. To her, this was nothing special. If anything, it was simply another part of military life, not something to be celebrated.
A sudden breeze shifted the branches overhead, but no falling leaves or insects landed on them. Audrey did not even blink, but Lansius knew her magic had shielded them. The ethereal veil was so finely tuned that it was completely transparent, doing little more than regulating the air and warding off the elements. If such a thing ran on a battery, he would have called it highly efficient, almost without waste.
Setting his wooden bowl and spoon down on the grass, Lansius looked over the valley and the hills stretching before him and involuntarily drew a deep breath. Even during their break, the Crucible House to the right kept sending out a thin trail of smoke from the coke-fired pit that fed its tall chimney. On his far left, beyond another village, he saw the darker billows rising where the Blast Furnace thundered on.
Between the two, on the opposite hillside, a small herd of goats grazed and bleated. Their shepherd and a few boys rested beneath a hardy pine, letting the animals roam while they enjoyed the shade.
“Drey,” he called.
She glanced at him, noticing his eyes fixed on the distance.
“If we keep winning wars, will our men keep asking to expand?”
Her gaze sharpened. “Midlandia is vast. We barely hold it. I doubt anyone would think to expand.”
“In time, there will be discontent,” Lansius said quietly. “We promote people based on courage and merit, and most of that only happens during war.”
Audrey snorted softly. “You are thinking too far ahead.” She opened her silver flagon and offered it to him. Lansius took a refreshing gulp. The water was cool and delightful.
She continued, “I doubt any of your staff will think to expand. We have seen enough war for a lifetime. Not in ten or twenty years. And if such a thing ever happened, we will be there to curb the ungrateful.”
Lansius was amused and met her eyes. “Let me guess. You will simply stare them down?”
Her lips curled into a wicked grin. “I doubt I even need to intervene. But tell me, has my stare ever failed?”
Lansius chuckled and eased his back against the tree again, enjoying the idleness, far from city or castle life. As Audrey stacked the empty bowls and spoons, his eyes drifted downhill. He could not help but notice the thin trails of smoke rising from the Crucible House chimney.
He imagined that with every faint waft, more steel was being born.
Now he could finally expect to equip his men with the finest steel known to mankind until the age of electric furnaces.
Lansius recalled his great order of armor many months ago, involving three armorers. Their work had already begun to bear fruit, producing armor according to his designs. Yet the final hurdle had always been the quality of the material.
Under his insistence, the three armorers had done their best with the hardening process and now produced the finest mild-iron armor they could manage. Its surface hardened to a strength that neared steel. It made their pieces far more durable and protective. However, the process was costly and time-consuming. But now, Lansius would supply them with true steel.
It would make all the difference. It would be like bronze artisans suddenly finding themselves working with iron, a material several grades harder to handle.
His lips pulled faintly into a grin as he imagined their reaction. The armorers would be shocked by the hardness, and they would likely curse him when they discovered how difficult it was to work.
At least it is malleable, ductile, and not brittle to work with.
Even so, it would not be as hopeless as some imagined. Lansius was fully aware that steelmaking had existed since ancient times, but because of its difficulty it had remained mostly in the realm of the master artisan, who had learned to sense it by hand, to smell a faint trace of sulfur or other impurities, and to read the glow of the metal under intense heat to know when the forge had reached the correct temperature.
Because of these complexities, steel was produced only in very small batches. And because few truly understood why the metal behaved as it did, the failure rate was naturally high. Thus, the masters dared not change their raw materials or their methods, fearing that even the smallest deviation would ruin the entire batch.
There were records of famed smiths who worked only in winter, for their finest pieces were made in the cold months. Others insisted on ore from distant lands, convinced that only those veins yielded the results they sought. This was why, even though steel was known, large-scale steelmaking had always remained elusive.
It was fit for kings and princes, but not for an army.
But now, with coke, the blast furnace, and crucible steel, everything had changed. Lansius would equip his frontline army with steel. This had never been done before. In the past, it would bankrupt a kingdom and work master artisans to death just to outfit a score of officers.
Lansius would beg to differ. He had brought a change.
It was nothing flashy, subtle in its appearance, and would require a master to understand its true worth. But it would keep his men alive in the thick of battle and allow them to return alive. And for him, that was the ultimate goal.
He planned to give mild iron armor to his recruits.
Hardened mild-iron armor to the reserve officers.
But his vanguard, his veteran officers, and his riders would all wear steel.
And for his vanguard, he wanted to go a notch further.
Cuirass of pistol proof...
His aim was simple. He would make his army bulletproof.
Lansius would not suffer the death of the Old Guard.
***
* The Old Guard: Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, who were immortalized at Waterloo. Near the end of the battle, several French battalions advanced against British infantry and were driven back by concentrated musket volleys and artillery. The Guard, tall and stout, held the line. They likely knew the situation was hopeless, but as Napoleon’s finest, they refused to surrender until the bitter end.
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