Two days had passed since the news of the Frankish army reached the quiet walls of the royal chamber.
For forty-eight straight hours, the industrial heart of City Titan had been pushed to the brink.
Ragnar had been sprinting back and forth across the city.
He went from the heat of the Royal Smithy, directly to the sawdust-covered floors of the master carpenters, and then straight out to the yards where the laborers were hauling tons of raw iron ore.
"...the casting mold is wrong." Ragnar roared, pointing a finger at a wooden frame resting on the dirt floor.
"We will fix it, King Ragnar!" Einar, the burly master blacksmith, yelled back, waving for his apprentices to drag the wooden mold away.
Ragnar let out a long sigh.
Suddenly, a loud groan echoed from a stack of wooden shipping crates resting near the wall of the furnace.
Louis the Stammerer was collapsed on top of the crates.
"Ragnar..." Louis whined, "I cannot feel my legs... I swear to the heavens, my legs are gone."
