Mark marveled at the mage heart—as he had learned its name. It was the power source of his suit and powered much of the technology within the Imperium. From what he understood, it was technology greedily hoarded by the Imperium.

He wanted to tinker with it, even if he didn’t really know what he was doing. But the risks were too great. Damaging it would probably condemn his mission and everyone within Fort Winterclaw. Besides, if the Imperium hadn’t found better uses for the mage hearts, it was unlike some outsider would.

Shelving his thoughts, Mark ran a hand across the glowing, rune-covered heart and slid back into the suit.

His tribune Reida had requested a meeting with him, and it was time he got going.

It still felt strange passing through the outer walls as his recently minted commoners regularly stopped and thanked him for all he had done.

Many men now carried bows, thanks to looting the cultists' attackers. But he knew very few could handle the weapon and carried it more as a status symbol. But if they could be trained then the fort’s chances of defending against a siege just became a lot higher. Mark hoped that his little meeting with Reida would be related to this.

Mark reached the tribune’s impressive residence. It was a large cabin with a spiked log wall around a small courtyard at its front. Mark raised his hand to knock, but the door was opened before he reached it by one of the widowed women that Reida had taken as a retainer.

“Imperator,” she attempted a sloppy salute. “Tribune Reida tis waitin' for ye inside.”

Mark nodded and passed through the small courtyard and into the cabin. Unlike most of the poorer residents, she had impressive pelts and trophy heads—both bears and wolves—hanging from her walls.

“Come in, Imperator,” Reida called as he entered, and Mark walked in to see his tribune standing over a table with several bows strewn across it.

“Loot from the cultists?” Mark raised a brow as he stepped up to her side.

“Please, Imperator. These bows are not like the trash used by those cultists. I carved them myself. They're the best you’ll find outside of Clan Eadok—within the Frontier, at least. A well-trained archer can shoot volleys up to three hundred yards away with a bow like this and pick targets off at around one hundred yards. Of course, we’ll be lucky to achieve half of those distances if we start training now. But once the people know how to use them...”

“Impressive. And what about arrows?”

“Easy. But I’ll need more hands. I need to spend as much time training the others as I can. I carve bows in the evening hours, which I barely find time for. I have no time to fletch arrows. I need assistants—as many as possible.”

“Happy to do so. But that’s not exactly easy. Not unless you can see people around here to hire.”

“Around here? No. But down south. What I’m about to suggest is risky, but I think it’s worth it, Imperator.”

“Speak freely, Tribune. We're long past the point of avoiding risk.”

“Many of my people are upset in the Clan Federation of the South. The fool who wants to be King of the Frontier promises whatever he needs to gain power. He elevates the station of some and demotes others without consultation. He takes titles and hands them to others on his whim. Entire branches of some of the most influential clans have been demoted to nobodies, and their positions have been handed over to the next clan willing to bow a knee to him. He’s a short-sighted and stupid fool, surrounding himself with enemies. However, he is still far, far stronger than we are. If he were to take notice of us and decide to deal with Fort Winterclaw, then there would be little we could do about it. On the other hand, these disgruntled followers are ripe for our picking. And I promise, they have thousands of skilled and potentially loyal followers if we can convince them of our mission.”

“And I don’t suppose you know of subtle ways to go about this?”

“Perhaps. I have someone I believe would be up for the job. But it’d be dangerous to send her alone. But perhaps the other tribunes have some good retainers they could send with her.”

“And you haven’t asked?”

Reida shook her head. “No. It wouldn’t be right. They won’t be happy about being dragged along with a plan of my creating. If they are to send their retainers willingly, the request will have to come from you, Imperator. And it’s best we tell people it was your idea.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll see what I can do.” Mark was perfectly fine taking the credit for this idea. If it worked, it would only further cement himself as the savior of the Frontier, and such energy had already proven so valuable. "And Reida, what about the locals? Can we not train them to fletch arrows?"

"We can," she paused. "It should be part of bow training anyway, as it was in my clan. But everyone is so busy."

"Right," Mark nodded. Requesting arrows fletched from the people would slow down work on the walls and rigar production. And even though our food supplies are good now, we're constantly taking in more people. To let them dwindle with winter approaching could be disastrous. "It sounds like we need to free up manpower as well."

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“I’m pleased you see the importance of this, Imperator. I trust you'll find a solution.”

“I see the value in all plans that help us survive what’s coming. Make sure to seek me out if you have any others,” Mark smiled and turned to leave. “Please, just try to focus your efforts on training archery for now. I'll find a way to figure the rest out.”

“Will do, Imperator,” Reida saluted.

**Acolytes—Erin**

When they met up with the mason again after hiring Payon the Smith, he was far more conducive to the conversation. Having already hired someone seemed to ease the man’s nerves, and he agreed to the fifty crown signing bonus.

Unfortunately, they weren’t able to convince any other craftsmen.

Both men had requested a variety of tools to purchase for them, but afterward, they still had a decent amount of crowns remaining.

Erin decided to hire a couple of sellswords and an experienced caravan master. The sellswords were experienced former soldiers of the Imperium, and regardless of what her Imperator decided to do with them, she was fairly certain they would come in handy defending Fort Winterclaw. The caravan master was a little riskier, but she had been advised she could spend all the crowns in her possession if she found the right help. And after her discussion with the Merchant Guild, she figured that a caravan master could be a great asset. Assuming the Imperator saw value in establishing a permanent trade route with Frostwind.

Filling the last of the tools into the wagon, they prepared to leave with the mercenaries flanking them—dressed in studded leathers, furs, and swords at their sides.

She had already informed the group that they would be meeting up with ferals, not wanting a spectacle when they came face-to-face in the forest. She explained that they were hired to guard the wagon—choosing to withhold the real nature of their relationship for now. As long as they got to Fort Winterclaw, the men were likely to at least give the place a chance. After all, the trek back would be precarious on their own.

The value of their newly hired hands showed almost immediately. Payon, in particular, was great at helping pull the wagon through difficult terrain, and Erin wasn’t sure who was stronger, Trayox or their new smith.

**Acolytes—Elowen**

Firewood stocks were getting out of hand. Every useful log they produced for cabins and walls left piles of scrap wood behind for fires, and the forests stretched on in all directions. And they had barely gotten started building the new wall, and then there were the to-be-completed outposts and seemingly endless need for cabins.

“We’re also going to need a bigger storeroom at this rate,” Elowen mused as she ticked notes on a ledger.

“What are you mumbling about now?” Dober said. “Not more work, I hope.”

“Quit complaining. I finally made you useful, and all you can do about it is whine.”

“Because you’re obsessive. Look at all this stuff,” Dober said, throwing his arms through the air. “And you want a bigger storeroom. What for? What in the God-Lord’s realm are we going to do with all this firewood and mushrooms,” Dober said, pretending to gag. “I hate mushrooms.”

“Note for Treff. Only cook mushroom stew for Dober,” Elowen said, turning to narrow her eyes on Dober.

“What are you talking about? Not like he would listen to an acolyte anyway,” Dober stuck his tongue out. “You can’t scare me.”

“Have you forgotten who supplies Treff with the food he needs to cook with? I think you’ll find that I can get Treff to do many things. Including mushroom stew,” Elowen flashed a devilish grin.

“No—you wouldn’t,” Dober shook his head. “That’s not fair. I’ve been doing everything you ask! I can even read now—kinda.”

“Precisely. Everything I ASK. I shouldn’t need to ask. Storeroom assistant is your job; act like it. Do without being asked. And for the sake of all that is holy, stop complaining about it. It’s grinding on my ears,” Elowen said, massaging just beside her ears.

“Fine. I promise, no more complaints,” Dober pinned his lips closed and nodded.

“You better keep that promise. Or you’ll be eating so, so, many mushrooms.”

"Please, stop saying that. I'm already imagining it. And it's not good."

**Imperator**

Mark made preparations to gather all of his tribunes together. He would formally request that anyone with a good, suitable retainer for the mission place them in his service.

He gave orders to one of the acolytes to inform the tribunes and went back to work.

It was no secret that firewood supplies were growing far too large, as piles of the resources were stacked outside against the storeroom's walls. But they certainly weren’t in a position to waste good supplies.

Mark just needed a plan to use them. His thoughts trailed back to steam-power. He had a series of poorly drawn scribbles that he wanted to try and build somehow.

It would be a perfect use for his seemingly endless supply of firewood. He remembered a podcast about the Industrial Revolution and how ancient technologies like milling were some of the first to take advantage of new energy sources. It reminded him of the rigar bark.

The dense and filling carbs took a lot of effort to produce, with multiple stages of boiling and grinding down into a paste or mash-like substance. And because of this, just about every woman within the outer walls spent a good portion of her day mashing rigar bark into something edible.

If they could build a mill of some kind to grind the bark down, using steam power to operate it, a huge amount of the fort’s workforce would be freed up. And that was exactly what they needed if they were going to produce enough arrows to defend the place come winter.

They even had metal tubs and other items that could be used in the steam engine construction, but what he really needed was a skilled smith who could make pipes.

There was also the mill itself, but Mark had already begun scribbling some plans for that. He just needed to build a stone mortar and pestle-like device that the steam engine could power in a circular motion as the steam pushed its gear.

Making a few adjustments, Mark sighed and sipped from his tea. If Erin had been successful and had managed to hire him a decent smith, then this plan might just work.

Come on, get back here already.

He was increasingly impatient. Perhaps more so than waiting for news about Imperator Eamon. After all, having archers with plenty of arrows on and behind his walls would likely improve its security even more than dealing with the threatening Imperator. Then, he could see what could be done about securing the throne ship without having to worry about his fort falling to enemies while he was gone.

There’s nothing for it now besides waiting. And getting anxious certainly isn’t going to help. It'll, I'm sure...

Mark gritted his teeth and poured a rum.