The Forge was the most secretive place east of the Rhine.
Not even the wives or mothers of the fifty knew its exact purpose. They saw only that their men left at dawn and returned at dusk smelling of sweat, pine, and something sharper — charcoal and hot iron. When they asked, the warriors gave the same answer Seigmer had drilled into them: "We train for the Reik."
Reik Hans himself had ridden to the valley ridge once, early in the second week. He had seen the fresh-cut watchtowers rising at the four corners, the careful drainage ditches that carried rainwater away from the tents, the deep pit latrines dug downstream and covered with fresh earth each morning. He had grunted approval, clapped his son on the shoulder hard enough to bruise a lesser man, and left without asking for details.
Seigmer had made sure of that.
The camp had been thrown up in eight frantic days using Roman slaves captured in the last skirmish — ten gaunt auxiliaries who spoke broken Germanic and worked with the silent terror of men who knew they would never see Mogontiacum again. Seigmer hated using slave labor. It went against every modern principle drilled into him at officer school. But speed had been non-negotiable. Roman spies were everywhere — traders with too-curious eyes, escaped slaves slipping back across the river, even a few Suebi who sold information for Roman silver. He could not risk open construction by free warriors. The slaves had worked under armed guard, blindfolded when moved in or out, and were now kept in a separate, heavily watched pen at the valley's rear. When the time came, they would be given honorable deaths or absorbed — whichever served the mission.
Because this was not about the tribe.
Not really.
Colonel Marcus Davis had died for his country once. He had no intention of dying for a barbarian chiefdom that still measured victory in cattle and raped women. Every improvement he made — the crossbows, the discipline, the literacy, the hygiene — was for one purpose only: to give him the power base he needed to survive, to grow, and eventually to carve something larger than the Suebi had ever dreamed. If the tribe benefited along the way, fine. If not… they were expendable.
He stood alone on the central watchtower at dusk, arms folded, staring east where the Rhine lay hidden behind forested ridges. The wind carried the faint smell of woodsmoke from the main camp three miles away. Below him, the fifty moved with quiet efficiency — cleaning weapons, checking drainage channels, writing daily logs on their clay tablets in the new German letters he had taught them. A few practiced the crisp modern salute he had introduced; they had taken to it like a new religion.
His telekinesis had grown sharper in the secret night sessions. Ten meters now, with fine control. He could lift a man's dagger from his belt without him noticing, spin a crossbow bolt in mid-air, or gently lower a twenty-pound log into place for the watchtower roof. Anything heavier still made his nose bleed and his vision tunnel. God-like powers from the movies? Laughable. He was still a long way from crushing helmets at a hundred paces or stopping arrows in flight. But ten meters of precise control was enough to rig traps, light fuses from cover, or quietly assassinate a man in his sleep if it ever became necessary.
Footsteps on the ladder behind him. Seigmer didn't turn.
One of the older warriors — Ingvar — climbed up and snapped to attention at the top, right hand rising in the crisp modern salute they had all adopted without question.
"Sir."
Seigmer returned it automatically. "Report."
"We found sulfur, sir. A whole vein in the caves two valleys north. The scouts brought back a full sack. Smells like the devil's own fart, just like you described."
Seigmer's pulse kicked hard — the first real spike of excitement since the hoof had cracked his skull.
Sulfur.
With the charcoal they already produced in quantity and the saltpeter the scouts had located in manure-rich caves last week, black powder was no longer a dream. It was weeks away. Maybe days, once he set up a proper mixing shed.
He kept his face stone. "Good work. Double the guard on that cave tonight. No one outside the fifty speaks of it. Not even to the Reik."
"Yes, sir."
Ingvar hesitated, then added quietly, "The men are saying a Roman cohort was seen moving up the old trade road yesterday. Four hundred, maybe five. Punishment force, standard size for these parts."
Seigmer nodded once. He already knew. His own scouts had reported the same.
His fifty were elite now — literate, disciplined, armed with crossbows that could punch through mail at sixty paces. In any other era they would have been terrifying. Here, against a late-Roman cohort in open battle, they would still be crushed like insects. Numbers, drill, heavy infantry, cavalry support — Rome had not lasted four centuries by being gentle.
But Seigmer had no intention of meeting them head-on.
Psychological warfare was the plan. Terror. Attrition. Make every Roman who crossed the Rhine wonder if the forest itself had come alive to eat them. Make the name Seigmer mean something darker than any barbarian chieftain had ever been.
Rome had no idea what was coming.
He dismissed Ingvar with a nod and descended the tower alone. In his small command tent he unrolled a fresh deerskin and began sketching by lamplight — charcoal flying across the pale surface.
A heavy crossbow. Larger prod, thicker stock, cranequin spanning mechanism for draw weights no man could pull by hand. Range two hundred paces or more. For his best shots — the ones he was already training as snipers. One bolt to drop a centurion, a tribune, or a mounted scout commander before the enemy even knew they were under fire.
He worked late into the night, the sack of sulfur sitting on the table like a promise.
The war in his name was still in its infancy.
But the first real weapon of the future had just arrived.