Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 846

Chapter 846: Blast furnace (1)

It had taken two long months of planning, hammering, and endless adjustments, but at last it was done.

The new furnace stood like a tower of fire and iron, its belly glowing red, its throat vomiting thick black smoke into the sky. Alpheo stood at a distance, arms folded behind his back, and allowed himself the rare taste of satisfaction. For the first time, the princedom could forge its own iron, feeding its blacksmiths with steel that was not bought at obscene prices from the Achean merchants.

The laborers moved in rhythm, their bodies wet with sweat, their skin darkened by soot. He watched as they raised the steel cap, releasing a torrent of molten iron into waiting molds. The glow spilled over their faces, painting them in the light of a new age, his age. The bars cooled quickly on the earth; soon they would be sent to royal warehouse, which would employ blacksmiths for the satisfaction of their military and civil needs.

The most difficult task had been the construction itself. The furnace was temperamental, prone to sulks and failures.

The easiest part, ironically, had been the coal. Filthy, cheap, foul-smelling coal. At the ore stage it was nearly worthless, despised by all but the poorest of peasants who used it in desperate winters. Its smoke clung to walls and lungs alike, its fumes shortening lives in homes unequipped to keep the poison out. But for smelting? It was perfect. Alpheo had struck an easy bargain with a minor lord whose land squatted atop a coal seam, buying it for next to nothing.

Coal after all, was used only by the poorest.

Luckily, winters in Yarzat were not as merciless as those further north, but they could still gnaw through flesh and bone if the hearth went cold. Common folk were forbidden by law to fell trees, timber was the domain of princes and lords.

At best, villagers scavenged fallen branches or hacked small limbs from living trunks, never enough to truly ward off the freeze.

Alpheo, of course, would not allow that to happen under his watch.

Hardwood was the spine of a state, needed for ships, fortresses, homes, but it didn’t need it should have been treated as gold.

So he issued new edicts. Foresters were dispatched across the crownlands to mark and prepare zones for pollarding. Trees would be cut at head height, ensuring that new shoots sprouted beyond the reach of grazing animals.

Most hamlets counted no more than a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty souls. Their needs were small in the grand scale, but life itself for them. A tree every few years, harvested wisely, could keep fires burning without stripping the woods bare, so that the village’s hunters could keep hunting and make a living.

“I am waiting for a report,” Alpheo’s voice cut through the roar of the furnace, sharp enough to snap the minister of infrastructure out of his reverie. The man had been staring at the blazing tower like a starving hound at a butcher’s stall, mouth hanging slightly open.

Pontus startled, wiping at his lips as though caught in sin. “My apologies, Your Grace. The furnace has been in operation for two days now. No major problems have arisen. There were, of course, a few minor injuries, one fool even tried to touch the steel cap with his bare hands. He won’t be repeating that mistake, and the others have learned from his example.”

Alpheo gave a small nod. That was good. Accidents were inevitable when men worked with fire and molten stone, but nothing disastrous had yet befallen them.

The furnace itself had been a gamble. Sandstone was the only viable material they had to withstand the infernal heat, twelve hundred degrees, perhaps more, but it was fragile, prone to cracking. Every twenty to thirty weeks it would demand heavy repair, and within two years the whole tower would need rebuilding.

For now, one furnace sufficed; the ore from Malshut’s mines was limited, and this beast could devour it all. But already Alpheo’s mind ticked toward redundancy. A second furnace would be necessary in time, so the fire never died, even when the first needed repair.

He had feared worse in the early days. Miscalculations in the design, flaws in the casting,an explosion could have torn the whole operation apart. But the gods had spared him that,the tower stood, roaring and alive, its smoke unfurling like a black banner over the sky

“What of the rate of conversion?” he asked at last, eyes fixed on the red spill of molten ore. Efficiency would decide whether this was victory or vanity.

Pontus’s chest swelled with pride. “We have improved it, Your Grace. Before, ten kilograms of ore gave us five of iron. Now we draw seven, sometimes eight. And the cost has fallen sharply with the use of coke coal. Production is faster and cheaper. A triumph!” His voice shook with excitement, as if he were boasting of his firstborn child.

Alpheo allowed himself the faintest smile. Pontus would hopefully soon have children of his own, his marriage had already been arranged to the daughter of a petty lord.

Pontus was a knight so the match looked strange, but he was still a minister, and the marriage pact had been sanctioned by giving the lord’s son the political office of bailiff, which was basically head of the garrison , responsible for keeping the peace in the sorrounding area.

Not much on paper, but useful. The town itself lay in the strip of land bridging the Malshut mines to Yarzat’s heartland.

The Schom Strip, he had begun to call it in his mind. The lifeline of his princedom, bringing blood to the beating heart, spewing its black smoke into the heavens.

He had no shortage of plans for the steel soon to pour from his furnaces. The greater share, naturally, would be devoted to weapons and armor,though not for immediate need. The White Army’s requirements were already met, and there was no intention of enlarging the ranks for the moment.

Expansion meant coin, and the coffers of Yarzat were lean enough as they stood.

The remainder, however, Alpheo intended for something far less glorious yet far more vital: agriculture.

He knew well that no farmer could dream of affording iron implements, and he had no illusions of selling them to villagers who scarcely scraped enough to survive winter and have some coin on the side.

Yet it was folly to let his people toil with wood and bone when iron could increase the yield of land by half again. Greater harvests meant fuller granaries, stronger reserves for famine or campaign, and cheaper bread in the towns. Bread, after all, was the true coin of stability.

It amused him sometimes, the thought that there was likely no other prince who meddled so deeply in the lives of commoners.

Lords thought only of levies and taxes; he thought of hoes and winter fuel.

Yet the proof was plain: revenues had risen, not merely in kind but in coin. Fields tilled more efficiently meant fuller markets, fuller markets meant more trade, and trade filled the royal chest.

Pride stirred in him at that. Prestige did not only rest on steel and banners, it was built also on trust. He was not a man who wrapped himself in oaths or pretended at lofty ideals of honor, but he understood well the power of reputation.

To be known as a ruler who did not break his word, who did not grind his folk beneath the wheel, was worth more than ten thousand empty promises. For the crown, as for the man, there was strength in being remembered not as oppressor, but as keeper.

And such prestige would become very useful in the future, trust in the crown after all was a useful thing to have.

“I have another task for you,” Alpheo said suddenly, his voice cutting through the low rumble of the furnace and snapping Pontus back to attention for the second time.

The bald architect straightened at once. “Anything, your Grace.”

“This one,” Alpheo continued, his tone deliberate, almost weighty, “is arguably even more important than the furnace.”

At that, Pontus’s eyes widened, the words lodging themselves like sparks in his mind. Few things could rival the forge of steel, I mean, what was more important than steel?

But if Alpheo said so, Pontus believed it must be true.

The prince reached into his cloak and drew out a rolled sheet, unfurling it with care. He handed it across. Pontus took the parchment with the reverence of a priest receiving scripture. At first glance, his brow furrowed at the strange geometry sketched upon it. Confusion gave way as comprehension dawned, the foreign design sinking in. His lips parted slightly, disbelief flashing in his gaze.

Then it came, the shift. His eyes lit, his hands tightening on the paper as though it were gold. Excitement flushed through his features, as unmistakable as a boy at his first triumph.

Alpheo’s lips curled upon seeing it, for the spark of creation had caught fire in the man’s soul.

And Alpheo knew then: the man would build it and glee at every second of the labor, because at the barest of things, Pontus, like his prince, always relished a good challenge.