[Mid May, 1271]
The foundry tasted of hot metal and coal smoke. Sparks spat from an anvil and someone swore when a chain caught. Armet stood with his arms folded, watching dwarves wrestle a cooled cannon into place the way a man watches a stubborn horse. patient, practical, ready to step in if it balked.
One metallurgist broke through the steam toward him, grinning like a gambler with a good dice roll. He carried a crate, filled with things that are covered in cloth.
"Ye've got to see this, lad," the dwarf said. He set the crate down, got rid of the cloth, and smiled like a maker who'd got an idea to work.
Armet wiped his hands on his apron and peered in. The first thing he saw was a hand bomb, a ball of powder that is wrapped with iron skin thin enough to dent with a firm thumb.
"A hand bomb," he said. "Good enough for a siege if you can lob it over walls. We're short on men to make more, though."
"We'll make do." The dwarf gave a half-laugh, half-huff. "Mind if I take some powder back with me? Me and the lads could fashion more at the shop, for our own use in case anything goes sideways."
Armet shrugged. "Two barrels."
"Two?" The dwarf put on a wounded look, but it was all show. "Only two?"
"We're tight," Armet said. "Two barrels. Take them and don't burn down the place."
The dwarf grumbled and shut up. Armet peered again to the crate. Inside, wrapped in oiled linen, was a rough sack full of smaller iron balls. They rattled when he shook them. He knew the sort at once: meant to be packed into a casing, fired from a cannon to scatter like a storm of nails.
"It's for the cannons," the dwarf said before Armet could. "Like grapeshot bombs. Bigger than what we've been throwing. Walls take a round ball fine, but this, this'll tear men up proper."
Armet turned the sack in his hands, feeling its weight.
"You've got a head for this," he said. "I've been wanting something like this. Can't make them by the cartload now though, but a few on hand'd be useful."
"Keep a couple, aye?" the dwarf said.
Armet looked up at the cluster of men, the clang of hammers and the steam-bent light. "I never asked, but who's in charge of you all? Besides Cecil, of course."
The dwarf blinked. "Eh? No one really. We just…work."
"Well, I need engineers in the field, men who know these tools and can use them creatively when things go wrong. Engineers in the mud, not just in the foundry. Want in?"
"If it means serving the dragonslayer," the dwarf said, puffing himself up, "aye. I'll go."
Armet nodded. "Good. You'll lead the field engineers. What's your name?"
The dwarf blinked again, caught off-guard by the question. "Huldar Maxim, lad."
"From this day, Huldar's in charge of the field engineer division." Armet's voice cut across the room; whispers followed. "Anyone who wants to join, speak to him. I haven't cleared it with Saskia yet, so start small, ten heads. That'll do."
Huldar opened his mouth, then closed it. "Ten? Lad, I don't—"
Armet patted his shoulder. "You'll do. I'm counting on you." He turned back to the men hauling the cannons. "Right, back to work! Haul those weapons to the walls!"
The foundry moved as one. Ropes pulled, curses thrown, iron groaned. And the day continued on forward.
—
The Inn of Vergen was thick with the smell of smoke and spilled ale. Lanterns swung from low beams, casting yellow light over tables scarred by years of knives and tankards. Armet sat with the usual company, Yarpen and Skalen among them, each working through their mugs as if the night itself could be emptied.
Yarpen drained his pint in one pull and thudded the cup back onto the table. "Sometimes I don't understand ye manlings," he said, voice rough and slurred around the edges. "I teach ye things, yeah? Then the next bloody day, ye forget every word. Happens so often I'm tempted t' shoot yer heads with yer own thunderers, just to see if it knocks some sense in."
"Complaining about the soldiers?" Armet asked, lifting his mug for a sip.
"Aye," Yarpen gruffed. "Easy to teach, my arse. These men are fools."
"At least you're not trying to teach them archery," Armet said.
Skalen laughed. "They're forgetting because they're scared of ye, Yarpen. My squad's better at learning."
"You're teaching the militia now?" Armet asked, surprised.
"Well, ye wouldn't get me me own thunderer," Skalen said with a grin. "So I joined up. I can practice every day that way."
Armet leaned back slightly, smiling. "See, that's what confuses me. Why are you dwarves so obsessed with my weapons?"
"Ye don't get it, lad," Yarpen said."I'm not that obsessed, but I understand the love me kin have for yer creation. The sound of a blast gets into yer bones. It takes us back to the days when we blew holes in tunnels with barrels of Mahakaman Mix. It's part of who we are."
"Aye," Skalen agreed. "The thrill of it, the power. I can't wait to use it on those royalists or those northern unicorn arselickers, whichever comes first."
"Most people are praying there won't be a siege," Armet said with a short laugh. "You're praying for one."
Their laughter was interrupted when another dwarf stumbled toward the table and sat down without asking. It was Mantas, a regular of the inn, already half-drunk and wearing the smell to prove it.
"Hey, ye lads saw what happened yesterday afternoon?" he said, hiccuping mid-sentence.
"Argh, go away, Mantas. Ye smell like a donkey's arse," Yarpen said, shoving him aside, but the drunk stayed put.
"No, no, Yarpen, ye've got to hear this," Mantas insisted. "I saw a man and a red-headed woman fall from the sky. I didn't believe it at first. Thought maybe it was a lovers' quarrel."
"How the fuck is tha' a lovers' quarrel?" Yarpen scoffed. "Sod off, Mantas. I don't want yer tales."
"Dunno. Maybe one of them was a mage," Mantas hiccuped again. "Looked like they were angry enough."
"Maybe they were fighting for real, not the lover's kind," Yarpen said, more irritated by the second.
"Know any sorceresses that are redheads?" Skalen asked, turning to Armet.
Armet raised a brow. "Why are you asking me?"
"You knew Miss Eilhart before ye came back," Skalen said with a shrug.
"So? Doesn't mean I know every mage out there," Armet replied. "Still, if this drunk fool is telling the truth, that could be trouble. Where did you see them fall?"
"Hey, I'm no fool," Mantas said, puffing his chest weakly. "Somewhere near the old quarry, close to the trolls' nest."
"Then they're probably troll food by now," Yarpen said. "Now get lost, Mantas. If I smell yer breath for one more minute, I'm going to lose it."
Mantas muttered something and wandered off. The others returned to their drinks, but Armet did not. The mention of a red-headed sorceress lingered in his mind like the aftertaste of strong ale. It's clear who it was, at least to him.
—
A few days later, as dusk settled over Vergen, Armet found himself once again in the quiet company of Cynthia. He sat by his desk, tools in hand, tracing delicate grooves into the unfinished parts of a thunderer used for practice. Behind him, Cynthia sat cross-legged on his bed, flipping idly through one of the many books Armet had brought from Oxenfurt. For a while, there was only the scratching of the chisel and the occasional rustle of paper.
"I heard a rumor at the inn," Armet said at last, eyes still fixed on his work. "A dwarf swore he saw a man and a red-haired woman fall from the sky. Know anything about that?"
Cynthia looked up from the page. "Why would I know?" she asked. "Because I'm a sorceress's apprentice?"
"Well, you must've heard something," Armet said. "Sounds like a teleportation gone wrong to me. And a redhead? That screams sorceress."
Cynthia shut the book and turned toward him, amusement tugging at her lips. "Why suspect that? Because she's a redhead? And all redheads are witches? I thought you weren't the superstitious type."
"I'm not," Armet replied. "But I can think of one sorceress who fits the description. And she's quite famous."
"Merigold the Fearless, you mean?" Cynthia said. "She's a redhead, sure, but that's about it."
"She's also the advisor to King Foltest," Armet reminded her. "And unless you've been living under a rock, Foltest was assassinated not long ago. Maybe she fled. Maybe that man with her was chasing her."
"I doubt it," Cynthia said flatly. "A sorceress isn't so easily hunted. It would take more than an assassin to kill one."
Armet glanced up from his work, lips curling faintly. "You sound a bit biased. If that were true, Nilfgaardian mages would have more freedom."
"Don't you think that's a good thing?" she asked.
"Partly," he said. "Knowledge should never be stifled. But mages tend to overreach. They step into politics, meddle where they shouldn't."
"So you agree with Nilfgaard then?"
Armet smiled at the question. "I wouldn't say that. Nor would I say I disagree."
"Why's that?"
"This conversation took quite a turn, don't you think?" he said with a chuckle. "But to answer, what happens in the south isn't my concern. I only care when their legions march north."
"For a time, this land was Nilfgaardian a few years ago," Cynthia said. "You didn't seem to care much then either."
"I was a student," Armet said. "Things were different."
"So if Nilfgaard marched again, you'd fight them? Even if it meant certain death?"
"There's no such thing as certainty," Armet said with a shrug. "But I'd weigh my options."
"Oh, really?" Cynthia tilted her head. "The Empire offers men like you more than this backwater ever could. You could've made a fortune. Yet you came home. Why?"
"I thought I told you already, because this is my home," Armet said simply. "If I'd been born in Nilfgaard, I'd have gone there. But I wasn't."
"I see. So you don't chase coins."
"I do. Just not blindly," Armet said. "Tell me, do you follow Philippa for coins? No. You chase knowledge, experience. The coin comes after."
"I suppose so," Cynthia said quietly.
Armet leaned back, wiping metal dust from his hands. "Anyway, back to Merigold. You're certain you haven't heard anything? I'm giving you a chance here."
Cynthia frowned. "What's that supposed to mean? No, I don't know anything. And the odds of that redhead being Triss Merigold are slim."
Armet sighed, disappointed but unsurprised. He jotted something in his notebook and set his tools aside. "Alright," he said. The room fell silent again, save for the low crackle of the oil lamp and the faint hum of the night beyond the walls.
—
[Late May, 1271]
Spring had settled comfortably over the valleys, and with it came the rhythm of work and preparation. Armet stood ankle-deep in mud beside the soldiers-in-training, his sleeves rolled to the elbow as he helped them dig a line of ditches along the outer perimeter. The men sweated and grunted in rhythm, their shovels biting into the wet earth while piles of sharpened stakes waited nearby to be planted.
"D' ye have nothing better to do?" Skalen called out from a few paces away. His boots were already caked in muck, and his beard glistened with sweat. "Let the soldiers dig. I'm not taking responsibility when that twig of a back of yers snaps in half."
"Very funny, Skalen," Armet said, rolling his eyes. "No, I've got nothing better. Everything's done. The cannons are finished forging, the armory's stocked, and the powder's all stacked in the warehouse. All that's left is this."
"Still think it's a bit much." Skalen said, glancing up toward the battlements. A few of the new cannons sat hidden beneath heavy canvas. "Digging ditches seems a lot of work fer a siege that might never come."
"Can't hurt to be careful," Armet said. He leaned on his shovel, surveying the line of trenches taking shape. "Besides, it's good training. Builds stamina."
Before Skalen could reply, a shout cut through the air from one of the watchmen on the wall. Another voice answered, louder this time, urgent. Soldiers dropped their tools and straightened. Armet turned toward the sound just as a rider came galloping up the road, his horse splattered with mud.
"To the walls!" the scout bellowed. "To the walls! Stennis of Aedirn is a day's march away!"
The reaction was immediate. Tools clattered to the ground as the soldiers rushed toward the gates, forming rough lines as Yarpen's voice rose over the commotion, barking orders and curses in equal measure. Armet and Skalen stepped aside, watching the chaos unfold as men scrambled up ladders and took positions along the battlements.
Yarpen stopped in front of them, his expression far calmer than those of the recruits running past. "Evenin', lad," he said casually. "Come on, let's get inside. I doubt it'll turn into a siege, but it'll make fer good practice. The boys need to feel a bit o' pressure."
Armet laughed, driving his shovel into the mud and brushing his hands clean. "You've certainly managed that. Half of them look ready to soil themselves already."
Yarpen grinned, the corner of his mouth curling under his beard. "Aye, better now than when real arrows start flyin'."
They started toward the gate together, the faint clatter of armor and the rising tension of Vergen echoing around them as the sun dipped behind the mountain ridge.
—
The sun hung low behind the peaks, staining the walls of Vergen in the pale gold of spring. Armet stood among Saskia and her war council, watching the valley stretch into shadow. From this height the air was calm, the council looked composed, yet around them the soldiers betrayed their nerves. They shifted restlessly, hands slick on their thunderers, eyes darting between the road and the horizon.
Armet made his way toward Yarpen, who stood silent at the railing of the hoarding.
"I'm a bit worried," Armet said quietly. "About your soldiers."
"Fer what?" Yarpen replied without turning. "They're fine. I've trained them like ye told me."
"Not that." Armet's gaze lingered on the line of men along the wall. "When they see Stennis, you're sure they won't get trigger-happy?"
Yarpen snorted. "Ha. I'd almost like to see that. The royal peacock getting smothered in lead. That'd make fer a fine show."
"Don't joke," Armet said.
"It's fine. You're worrying too much," Yarpen muttered. "The scout said he's only got his guard with him. Not an army. No need to panic."
"I'll take your word for it," Armet murmured.
Moments later, the banners appeared on the road, yellow, red, and black. The entourage was small, barely two dozen riders. Armet noticed how the soldiers around him gripped their thunderers tighter, shoulders tensed, fingers trembling near the triggers.
"Hold!" Yarpen bellowed. His voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. Then he leaned over the hoarding, shouting toward the approaching riders. "And you royalist bastards! Take one more step toward that gate and we'll blast you to bits!"
The entourage halted. From its center rode forward a man in polished gold armor, his head shaved, his bearing proud and rigid. He reined in his horse, looked up to Saskia, and raised his voice.
"Are you Saskia the Dragonslayer? The Virgin of Aedirn?"
"I am," Saskia replied.
"I am Prince Stennis of Aedirn, heir to Demavend," he declared. "I come as the rightful monarch of this kingdom. I mean no harm and seek only to parley. Open the gate, and we shall speak."
"We recognize no kings or princes here." Saskia told him. "If you wish to speak, you'll speak to all of us, not to me alone."
The prince hesitated, frowning. He leaned toward an advisor cloaked in black, their exchange was brief. Then he looked up again.
"Very well, if that is your wish. I come bearing grave news and an offer to avoid bloodshed. King Henselt of Kaedwen marches south. He claims Upper Aedirn as his own and prepares to seize it by force. My informants say he leads five thousand men. I intend to stop him."
Murmurs rippled along the wall. Some soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, others whispered prayers.
"You intend to stop him? With what army?" Saskia asked. "I see only your guards and courtiers."
"You know what became of my army," Stennis said. "You scattered it at the Dyfne. Yet I can still call a few hundred men if need be. But better we seek parley with Henselt. He will hear me as the rightful prince of Aedirn. He will not hear you, rebel."
"And what do you plan to do?" Saskia asked. "Trade this valley to him to save your crown?"
Stennis looked up at the soldiers. "Even those who turned against me are still my people. It is my duty to protect you from unlawful invasion. I swear that in these times of peril, we will stand together. You have my word as the prince of Aedirn."
Armet glanced toward Saskia, who was whispering with Philippa. He sighed, recognizing the familiar expression on the sorceress's face, a smile that never reached her eyes. After a moment, Saskia nodded.
"Very well," she said. "You may enter."
A wave of discontent broke among the soldiers. Some spat curses under their breath, others muttered about betrayal, but none dared defy Saskia's order. The gates creaked open, the chains rattling like bones. The Aedirnian entourage rode through, heads held high, under the narrow eyes of hundreds of nervous crossbows and thunderers.
Armet saw Cecil hurry down from the battlements to greet the newcomers, his short legs moving faster than his expression suggested he liked the task.
"I don't know what Saskia's thinking," Yarpen muttered beside him. "It makes sense, aye. Stennis doesn't want Henselt here any more than we do. Same goal, different reasons. But still…"
"Some of our men lost their families fighting his father's banners," Armet said. "But the enemy of our enemy is our friend."
"So ye're fine with working with Aedirn now?" Yarpen asked.
"I don't care, mostly." Armet said. His eyes drifted back to Philippa, walking beside Saskia toward the prince. "What I care about is her influence. That woman never whispers without a purpose."
"Bah." Yarpen shook his head. "Apparently in yer eyes, at a time like this, yer personal one-sided feud with the sorceress matters more than the feelings of half the town. Thought ye were better than that."
"It's not about feelings," Armet said. "If you knew what I know, you wouldn't trust any of them. Sorceresses play long games, and Philippa Eilhart's been playing longer than most."
"I've met my share of mages," Yarpen said. "Ye might be right. But she's been with Saskia since the start, and ye've only been here a month. Hard to fight influence that deep."
"Yeah," Armet muttered. "Well, time to go bow to our new ally, I suppose."
Yarpen spat. "I'd rather shave my beard than bow to that pompous fool."
"Then I'll bring the razor," Armet said, and the two started down the stairs, the sound of marching hooves echoing through the streets below.
—
Inside the council chamber the air felt tight, as if the walls themselves held their breath. Saskia sat opposite Prince Stennis and his retinue. The dwarves of the council fidgeted in their seats, faces hard, hands folded. Stennis looked the room over and let his gaze rest on the guards posted inside the chamber, comparing them with the men who flanked his own entourage.
"Quite a strange army you have, Saskia," Stennis said. "I hear you have a new weapon untested in battle. Are you so confident in it?"
"It is necessity, not pride," Saskia answered. "The truth is, my 'ragtag force', as you called it, will not stand against the well-armed levies of other kingdoms with tactics alone. I level the field with what I have: the tenacity of dwarves, the mines of Vergen, and the donations of this city."
"Leveling the field," Stennis repeated, brow lifted. "Curious. We will discuss that later. For now, the matter at hand is Kaedwen's invasion of Upper Aedirn."
"We have known that for some time," Philippa said "A month in fact. You are late, prince."
"I'd be more surprised if you did not know of it at all." Stennis did not flinch. "I propose we parley with Henselt first. This city cannot withstand a siege. Kaedwen's engines will pound these walls into rubble in weeks. Five thousand men will slaughter those within. A siege must be our last resort."
"I disagree," Philippa said. "If you go to a parley, what then? He will make demands knowing he outnumbers us. The only thing that might unsettle him is me."
"Henselt is a king," Stennis said. "He knows the rules that bind monarchs. The Peace of Cintra will restrain him. I am soon to be king. If he attacks me, he breaks the peace and the North will turn on Kaedwen."
"Please," Philippa said, rolling her eyes. "Do you expect Radovid or Tankred to ride to your aid?"
"It is the best argument we have," Stennis said, voice tight.
"The only argument we have is to fight," Saskia shot back. "Not treaties. If we wish to survive, we must take up arms. That is not negotiable. If we fail, so be it."
"You are admirably ignorant of reality," Stennis said in a whisper. "Annoying, too, since you have the skill to back a fight." He rose, the nobles behind him following suit. "Very well. Do what you think best. I will support it."
"Mr. Cecil Burdon will arrange your lodgings," Saskia said, nodding and indicating the dwarf, who sighed and rose. "Rest well, Prince."
They left under a hush that felt heavier than any drumbeat. Once the door closed and the prince's party had been led away, the council's tension returned like a held note finally released.
"Why did we admit him?" Yarpen demanded, breaking the silence. "Have we forgotten the Dyfne? We won that day, yes, but we lost men. Those were Aedirnian blades."
"I know you resent it," Saskia said quietly. "But we share an enemy that outnumbers us."
Yarpen spat into his palm and turned to Armet. "Armet, speak. Did ye hear her? She doubts yer work."
"It is not an insult," Saskia said. "They outnumber us ten to one."
"You underestimate my weapons," Armet said. "They will matter in a siege. But look at the other danger, Miss Saskia. You have invited someone who once fought against you into these walls. The risk of poison or assassination rises. I would not be surprised if an attempt is made soon."
"You have me for countermeasures," Philippa said without alarm. "Especially against poison."
"Which is precisely why I do not like it even more," Armet answered.
"No one will be poisoned within these walls," Saskia said.
"He is right, Saskia. If Stennis successfully had a hand in your quiet death and nobody noticed at first, he could seize the rebellion," one of the nobles said.
"The motive would be clear, no one would fall for that," Saskia replied. "Enough. This day has been long. We will continue tomorrow."
The council dispersed, men filing out in small clusters, each carrying the same sour mixture of doubt and resolve with them into the night.
—
Next day Armet again found himself ankle-deep in mud, shoulder sore from the rhythm of shovel and earth. He worked the ditch line with the recruits while Skalen trudged beside him, more sour-faced than yesterday. From the battlements above, Prince Stennis watched with the same cold, arrogant expression, and that alone put a new edge in the men's movements.
"Fuck that bloody peacock," Skalen spat, driving his shovel into the dirt with unnecessary force. "I'm done with this."
"Just dig, Skalen," Armet said, calm as the work itself. "It wasn't his idea. It was mine."
"He's there and you're here," Skalen grunted. "Makes it worse." He scrubbed at his beard with a gloved hand. "Talked to Saskia yet? What was she thinking?"
"Enemy of my enemy, friend for the moment," Armet answered. "That's the short of it."
Skalen scoffed. "That peacock's useless. What can he bring? Ten men? A hundred? Still useless."
"Every man matters," Armet said, shoulders flexing as he heaved. "He'll bring knights and armed men. We don't have to arm them. Let them be the meat in front of our lines if it comes to that."
Skalen barked a laugh. "Now that I can back." He glanced toward the road. "Any word when Henselt shows up? I'd like him to arrive after we finish these ditches."
"Time won't wait for our convenience," Armet said. "Likely early next month, if the intel is right. Until then, drink all the ale you want. Just keep these men sober when the time comes."
Skalen snorted and went back to his digging, but his jaw stayed tight. The work continued, steady and stubborn as the mud they turned.