The Steelyard of Coalben was said to be among the Empire’s greatest works. Sprawling over nearly a thousand acres of land, the Steelyard was an amalgamation of stone, brick, iron, clay, and, of course, steel, all divided into hundreds of buildings and factories owned by dozens of companies, moguls, and nobles. Altogether the Steelyard was not a sight one cared to see with their own eyes, being little more than a complicated mishmash of randomly placed buildings lacking any sort of order. Nor was it a place one wanted to hear, with its roaring flames and whistling steam and ringing bells drowning out the clamor of a thousand and more workers racing to fuel the flames that would heat the iron. And one wanted least of all to smell the Steelyard, with its choking black fog that stung the eyes and nostrils in equal measure.
The Steelyard was difficult to traverse in the best of times, and today was anything but the best of times. There were two or three times the number of workers as there had been so many years ago when Caldwell had seen the Steelyard last, yet despite their numbers they seemed even more frantic than he remembered, leaving only a narrow space for himself and Gosfrid as they wade their way through. It was worse even than the day before, when the two had visited nine different factories in search of their target, to no avail.
Caldwell remembered the man’s name and looks well enough but, to his chagrin, he did not remember where the man worked, if he ever knew to begin with. The crowds did not help.
“I don’t remember there ever being this many workers,” Caldwell said loudly, almost shouting and yet still uncertain if he would be heard.
“War requires steel,” Gosfrid said simply. “Steel and blood.”
And steel there was.
Some hundred or so horses had been lined up beside one of the factories, separated into teams of six or eight or ten, each strapped to a train of carts loaded to the brim with steel in all its forms. Cuirasses, gauntlets, helmets, sabatons, swords, spears, shields, even ingots of raw, shining steel could be seen, along with more than a dozen fully armored guards standing at the ready beside each train of carts, many of them former knights or contractors of equal skill.
Of the factories they had visited the past two days, the one before them now, Astwych Steel, was by far the most impressive. It was not its size that interested Caldwell, nor its number of workers; Astwych Steel was neither the largest they had visited, nor did it employ the most workers. No, what interested Caldwell was, simply, the quality of its productions. Even from afar one could tell their steel was of exquisite quality, and his hands itched to swing one of their swords, thrust one of their spears.
They waited patiently for the carts to disperse; they were strangers here, and Steelyard guards had orders to apprehend or kill any stranger who got too close to the merchandise. Kill, more likely than not.
The factory interior was hot and spacious, the stone ceiling resting uneasily high above them in darkness while the ground floor was alight in an orange glow provided by the numerous raging furnaces. No sooner had the two stepped foot in the building had they begun to sweat; how they could work in these temperatures Caldwell would never know.
Finding Ryhrtwold’s uncle had proved simple enough. Old, the man had worked in the Astwych Steel factory for longer than either he or Gosfrid had been alive, and had worked his way up to some sort of supervisory role. A role that granted him a uniform, one of sleek green and white, which made him particularly easy to spot and recognize.
“Theodgar,” Caldwell called out. The man turned and stared with squinted eyes, the sparkle of recognition appearing slowly.
“You’re Cenwulf’s boy,” the man said. “Thought you left ages ago?”
“I did. Now I’m back on business. I’m sorry to ask you this, but can you tell me where Ryhrtwold is?”
Theodgar turned and spat. “What he done now?”
“It isn’t what he’s done, it’s what he knows. I need to speak with him.”
Theodgar grunted, spat again. “I’ll bet,” he said. “I remember what you two was like. And I know damn well the bloody fool gave you that scar there. Much as he might deserve a beatin’, the fool’s my nephew, so you’ll understand when I say I’m not keen on the idea.”
“It’s about the mess he got into a few days back. Bloody Hands and all that. He might know where they’re at.”
“Far as I sees it, they did me and mine a favor by killin’ that lot, and there’s lots ‘round here that’d say the same.”
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“Please, Theodgar. It concerns the war.”
“The war ain’t my concern. Not while I’m resting pretty here in Coalben, workin’ the smithies. Even if the Hilvans win somehow, and I don’t rightly see how they could, me and the rest in the Steelyard are too useful to kill. Skilled labor and all that. Ain’t no one else in the world that can work these smithies like we can.”
Grinding his teeth, Caldwell held back the urge to strike the man. Violence was meaningless at the moment. “Is there anything I can do to convince you?”
Theodgar licked his lips and stared, head bobbing up and down. “If talkin’s really all you want, fine. But after my shift, and I’ll be bringin’ a few men to keep things civil. Good enough, ay?”
“That’ll do, thank you.”
They sat outside the factory walls in the hot sun for what must have been hours, Gosfrid sweating bad and Caldwell sweating worse. Waiting inside had not even crossed their minds; despite the summer heat, the factory had been worse.
When Theodgar finally exited the great gray building he was followed by five men, as promised. Three workers and two guards, each bearing a sword of his own, the guards wearing mail over green and white cloth damped with sweat. How they could withstand the heat Caldwell didn’t know.
“Follow me,” Theodgar said.
The journey was, thankfully, short, taking them only to the edge of middle section and the Steelyard, where most of the worker’s homes were concentrated. Tall, at least as tall as the buildings in the outer section, they were otherwise indistinguishable from the numerous warehouses that surrounded them, easily missed and having no feeling of being lived in.
They walked up two sets of stairs before Theodgar stopped them.
“Listen,” he said.
Above them the hallway door was open wide, and from beyond shouting voices could be heard, followed by the growing thump thump thump of footsteps. A figure appeared from the doorway like a shadow, not even pausing to look at them as it leapt over them and smashed against the stairwell wall, then continued its descent.
Staring dumbly at the receding figure, Caldwell almost did not see the multitude of men filter through the doorway above. Armed and armored, the group paused and cast a discerning gaze over Caldwell and the rest.
The other group had the numbers, twelve to their eight. And they had the equipment, one in steel plate, the rest in full mail and gauntlets. It would be bad if they chose violence.
They always chose violence.
The first blow nearly took off Caldwell’s head as the sword passed overhead, narrowly missing as Caldwell ducked and pulled a knife from his bootstrap. The second blow took him in the shoulder, a spike of searing pain immobilizing him for a short second, just long enough for Gosfrid to appear from behind.
The man pulled his sword from Caldwell’s shoulder and traded blows with Gosfrid, the metallic ring of their clashing swords echoing against the stairwell’s stone walls. With a push Caldwell stood and took a backstep, knife at the ready and waiting as the next assailant approached.
Parrying a thrust, Caldwell lashed out with a series of quick cuts. Useless. Each cut was met with sturdy iron mail, giving the man the confidence to move forward. Caldwell stepped back again, felt the hard body of one of the steel workers as he did so. There was nowhere to go.
Twisting his knife Caldwell, redirected his assailant’s sword as it was thrust towards him, his knife sliding across the top as it passed him by, then flicked it upward, plunging his knife into the assailant’s eye. The man’s mouth went wide in a silent scream as blood poured down his face, the life leaving him.
With a shove Caldwell pulled his knife from the man’s socket, aimed at the nearest assailant, then threw the blade, blood flicking across the walls and floor as it spun and embedded itself in the next man’s cheek. The man screamed and pulled the blade out, blood gushing, and tossed the knife aside.
By then Caldwell was upon him, having freed his sword from its scabbard, Theodgar and the rest at his heels, ready to take on the rest. Caldwell swung first, striking against the man’s blade as he defended, then swung again and again. High, low, high, low, he flicked his blade out and met steel. The other man was better, faster, and with each attack the man lashed out with one of his own.
Caldwell made to parry the man’s blade, but he was too slow, the blade sliding through and grazing his left shoulder, first. His right leg was second, deeper this time, and he fell to his knees, the strength gone from him. Down to the bone, he thought, though he wasn’t certain.
Theodgar’s two guards stepped in then, each hacking away at the man simultaneously, one being blocked while the other’s sword slipped in, cut flesh. With a quick thrust a sword slid through the man’s neck with a wet sound, blood gurgling from his mouth, and he fell dead.
As blood drained from his leg his mind went dizzy, the world spinning and growing dark. Looking around he saw he was somewhere unfamiliar. Outside, no longer in the stairwell, Gosfrid at his side with arms wrapped around him, holding him up. Gosfrid’s face was splattered in red blood, his clothes drenched in the stuff. His own, Caldwell wondered? He thought not, but he didn’t know. He only knew that they had lost, and now they were running.