The mist clung to the ground, swirling around the base of the new grey wall.
Ronan stood atop the rampart, looking down. beside him, a peasant named Gendel—the slow-witted boy who pumped the bellows—was trembling so hard his crossbow rattled against the stone.
"Steady," Ronan said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's just a machine, Gendel. You turn the crank. You pull the lever. The machine does the killing."
Out of the fog, they emerged.
The Red Hands. They were not a disciplined army, but they were dangerous. Sixty men, hardened by winter and cruelty. They wore a patchwork of stolen armor—rusted mail, boiled leather, and iron helms.
At their head walked a man huge enough to be a giant's bastard. He carried a two-handed axe that looked like it had felled trees and men alike.
The leader stopped thirty paces from the wall. He looked at the grey, pebbled surface. He looked at the peasants standing atop it. Then, he threw back his head and laughed.
"What is this?" the leader bellowed, his voice scratching like gravel. "You build a mud pie to stop us? I'll piss on this wall and it will melt!"
The bandits behind him jeered, clashing their weapons against their shields. They expected the peasants to flinch. They expected fear.
But the peasants didn't move. They couldn't run; Ronan had drilled the fear out of them and replaced it with procedure.
"My Lord," Captain Jory whispered, crouching behind the parapet. "They are bunching up. They are mocking us."
"Good," Ronan said. "Target density is high."
He activated [The Architect's Eye].
The battlefield overlaid with a grid in his vision. He saw the distances in glowing numbers.
• Enemy Range: 45 yards.
• Wind: Negligible.
• Armor Rating: Low (Rusted Mail/Leather).
• Arbalest Penetration Probability: 98%.
"Gorr!" the bandit leader shouted. "Smash the gate! The rest of you—kill the men, keep the women!"
The bandits roared and charged.
They ran in a disorganized mob, screaming for blood. They expected arrows to fly—arrows they could block with their shields or dodge.
"Rank One," Ronan said. His voice wasn't a scream. It was a calm, cold order. "Present."
Twenty peasants stepped forward. They rested the heavy steel stocks of the Arbalests on the stone crenellations. There was no shaking. The stone stabilized the weapon.
The bandits were twenty yards away. Ronan could see the rot in their teeth.
"Loose."
THWACK.
It wasn't the twang of a bowstring. It was the sound of a car door slamming. Twenty times over.
The air shimmered as twenty heavy iron bolts, thick as a thumb, crossed the distance in a fraction of a second.
The front rank of the bandits simply evaporated.
The leader, the giant with the axe, didn't even have time to raise his weapon. A bolt punched through his boiled leather chest piece, shattered his sternum, and exited his back. He was dead before his knees hit the ground.
Beside him, men were thrown backward as if kicked by a horse. Shields split. Mail links burst apart like confetti.
"Rank Two! Up!" Ronan commanded.
The first rank stepped back, putting their feet in the stirrups to crank their windlasses. The second rank stepped forward, weapons already loaded.
The surviving bandits skidded to a halt, confused. Their leader was dead. Their front line was gone.
"Loose!"
THWACK.
Another twenty bolts. Another dozen men dropped.
Panic set in. This wasn't a fight. This was industrial slaughter.
"Charge!" one of the bandits screamed, realizing that retreating meant getting shot in the back. "Get to the wall! Under their aim!"
The remaining thirty bandits sprinted for the "blind spot" at the base of the wall.
Ronan watched them run. He didn't order the third volley. He just watched.
The bandits reached the ditch Ronan had dug three days ago—the one they had covered with thin wicker mats and a dusting of snow.
CRACK.
The ground gave way.
Ten men fell into the trench.
It wasn't deep—only four feet. But at the bottom, Ronan had planted "Punji Stakes"—fire-hardened wooden spikes pointed upward.
Screams tore through the morning air. Horrible, gurgling screams as men were impaled on the spikes.
The remaining bandits froze at the edge of the pit. They looked at their dead leader. They looked at the pit of spikes. They looked at the grey, seamless wall that hadn't even been scratched.
"Run!" someone screamed.
They broke. The Red Hands threw down their axes and fled back into the mist.
"Rank Three," Ronan said calmly. "The runners."
"My Lord?" Jory asked. "They are fleeing."
"They are regrouping," Ronan corrected. "Loose."
The third volley flew. Five more men fell in the snow.
Then, silence.
The only sound was the whirring of the windlasses as Rank One finished reloading. Click-click-click.
Ronan looked down at the carnage. Thirty-eight bodies lay in the mud. The snow was stained red.
He checked his own lines.
• Casualties: 0.
• Ammunition Expended: 60 Bolts.
• Wall Integrity: 100%.
Ronan turned to Wynafryd Manderly. She was standing near the gatehouse, her face pale as milk. She was clutching her fur cloak tight, staring at the bodies.
"You didn't even draw a sword," she whispered as he approached.
"Efficiency, My Lady," Ronan said, unclipping the windlass from his belt. "Swords are for heroes. I prefer geometry."
He looked at the peasants. They weren't cheering. They were staring at their weapons with a mix of awe and terror. They realized what they held. They realized that the knights who ruled them were just meat in a can if they faced this machine.
"Gather the bolts," Ronan ordered the militia. "Iron is expensive. We can reuse them."
He walked past Wynafryd toward the Keep.
"The raid is over," Ronan said. "We go back to work. The blast furnace needs charcoal."
[Battle Result: Decisive Victory]
[Reputation Gained: The Iron Lord]
[Regional Effect:] Rumors of Blackwood's "Death Machines" begin to spread.
Wynafryd watched him go. She wasn't just impressed anymore. She was terrified. And she knew her father needed to sign that trade deal immediately, before Ronan decided he didn't need partners at all.