Geldor stood with a parchment in his hands, studying the drawings Victor had given him. Afterward, he passed the sketch to Baldor and took up the next one. Most depicted objects were beyond his comprehension, but the designs intrigued him profoundly.
Especially one item, whose dimensions indicated it resembled a cart, yet looked ominous.
Emerging groggy from yesterday's revelry, they admitted defeat and agreed to serve Victor for one year. Knowing their passion for metallurgy, he suspected they wouldn't abandon him anytime soon.
Victor's expertise in metals and alloys far surpassed dwarfish knowledge, compelling them to stay, partly out of fear of missing the opportunity to become legendary craftsmen and boast indefinitely.
For now, however, they grappled with unfamiliar schematics. While shields and swords were recognizable, differing mainly in style, the device depicted on parchment confounded them.
— What is this contraption and how does it function? — Geldor finally broke the silence.
— This machine is known as a ballista, capable of launching arrows the size of a dwarf, — Victor answered proudly. — Details are outlined here, except for one question: what can we use for the string?
Brothers still processed the mention of giant arrows when another puzzle landed.
Victor mulled various weapon ideas, cannons being the obvious solution but prohibitively complicated.
Securing his territory first took precedence.
Constructing a cannon was laborious. Metal, gunpowder…these constituted just a fraction of prerequisites. Given this world's scientific limitations in physics and chemistry, artillery creation was practically impossible at this stage. Magic prevalence further complicated matters, posing an additional inquiry: Do the physical laws of my world apply here?
Opting for the path of least resistance, he opted to recreate something guaranteed functional. Archery tools existed, suggesting applicable mechanics.
— Steel cable could suffice as the string. Reinforce steel with mythril for strength, while thriall ore enhances elasticity, — Baldor suggested after deliberation, estimating arrow weight.
Aware of mythril properties, Victor lacked insight into thriall ore usage. Searching memories confirmed no relevant data.
— Baldor, you fool, where do humans obtain thriall ore? Or did you intend asking elves? — Geldor objected, punching Baldor's skull. Baldor reciprocated with a blow to the face.
Had Victor not intervened, they'd have escalated into a fistfight in his study.
— What's this ore, exactly? — Victor inquired.
Both brothers stared incredulously, treating him like a country bumpkin ignorant of mundane facts.
Amusement heightened their appearance. Entangled in mutual grip, tousled beards and rumpled shirts amplified comic relief.
— Thriall comes from elf-controlled lands, — Geldor began, interrupted by Baldor. — Rondan Pass remains closed, but persuading our brethren might yield results. Gold isn't scarce there, though pricing could be outrageous.
Seated pensively, arms folded, Victor reflected on potential leverage points appealing to Ronandan traders.
— Wine, perhaps? — he grinned mischievously.
Simultaneously, both wiped mouths with sleeves, reminiscing fondly.
— I have wine far superior to your last taste, — Victor declared, rising to fetch it.
Arriving at the wine cellar, he requested guards retrieve a jug embellished with a flower-like pattern resembling chamomile.
Its contents were closer to vodka than wine, though precise alcohol content remained uncertain. Local flower aroma lent pleasant fragrance uncommon for vodka.
When the guard deposited the vessel, Victor uncorked it, releasing soft grape scent wafting across the courtyard.
Dwarven siblings salivated openly, though ignoring their reactions, he filled two wooden cups and handed them over.
Both exchanged glances, remembering prior experiences, deciding cautious sipping.
However, after a single sip, they greedily gulped the remainder, smirking and wiping wet facial hair with sleeves.
— This brew will provoke Rondan to burn his stock and declare war on your kingdom, — Geddor chuckled red-faced, finishing Baldor's remark: — You'll receive unlimited thriall ore, friend.
Victor, satisfied with their enthusiasm, dismissed them to explore the area, turning to lunch with Linea. Advising by Jinn dictated treating her as a guest, not captive, obliging him to extend hospitality.
Inside the dining hall, he encountered Alganis and Linea already seated.
Upon food service, Victor tired of enforced silence, initiating dialogue.
— Hope you're comfortable here? — he inquired, continuing to eat.
Alganis and Linea froze, unsure how to respond, but Victor persisted.
Eventually triumphing, Linea consented to conversing, albeit awkwardly conditioned by childhood lessons deeming it barbarian behavior.
— Thank you, milord, I'm quite content, — she responded formally.
— Truly content? You're imprisoned here, denied access to your belongings, — he pressed, probing genuine feelings.
Alganis disagreed, embarrassed by his lord's tactlessness.
— Milord… — he began, silenced by a pointed glance.
— What answer do you seek? — Linea countered, visibly irritated. — You've confined me, denying access to my armaments.
Her frustration verged on shouting, threatening confrontation.
Noticing her fiery stare, desiring painful vengeance, he toyed with provoking her further.
Instead, reasoning she displayed honesty, he resolved to accommodate her desires, gaining another Silver Knight.
Formulating a plan addressing Clint's finances, securing limestone, and acquiring a Silver Knight simultaneously.
— Desire to wield arms again? Very well, I'll permit it, — concluding their odd exchange, he resumed eating in silence.
Post-lunch, he toured his domain, arriving two hours later at Westerville, where soap manufacture had concluded. Personnel recruitment and dispatch from Ironwood, originally developing soap formulas, remained.
Thanking residents, he progressed to the clay-mining camp, bypassing brickwork. Instead, he documented traditional paper-making techniques on parchment.
Comparatively, he possessed negligible knowledge of paper production beyond vague fragments of its creation. Uncertainty stemmed from incomplete memories drawn from a novel featuring a book-loving girl transplanted into another world.
Limited recipes recalled raw materials—pulverized wood boiled in water, supplemented with unspecified additives.
Incomplete and unreliable, he nevertheless sketched a guideline, hopeful inhabitants would discover correct methodology.
Offering a ten-gold reward and freeman status, contingent on successful paper production, available to all subjects regardless of gender or age.
Across villages, specialized structures would house experiments, complemented by provisional equipment.
Success likelihood remained slim, yet preferable to passivity.
Handing parchment to Jinn, he decreed dissemination to all citizens.
Subsequently, he returned to the castle, needing readiness for tomorrow's expedition to the outpost. Delaying no longer, he intended to eradicate invaders and uncover reasons for territorial attraction warranting conflict.
Gathering soldiers, dwarves, and Linea in the courtyard, he outlined objectives.
— Tomorrow, I'll assault the mysterious outpost established on my lands, — he announced, rousing excitement among attendees, including the girl. — Confident my soldiers prevail, guests joining me are welcome.
Finishing, he locked eyes with Linea, who initially puzzled by her inclusion, rapidly understood implications.
Two dwarves engaged heated debate. Misinterpreted as hesitancy, their argument centered on compensation.
— Brother and I join, — Geldor declared — but we request two flasks of your flowered wine!
Elbowing him, Baldor adjusted demands to four flasks.
You negotiated over drinks owed for this mission? Fine, potent fighters reduce casualties.
— Agreed, — Victor assented.
— Count me in, but I insist on training sessions and retrieval of my gear afterward, — Linea added, sensing a lucrative bargain.
Victor concurred, unwilling to alienate her.
Executing directives, he withdrew to his study, drafting an elaborate letter. Completion sealed, he rolled and wax-stamped it, recalling ancient scroll-sealing customs. Affixing his seal, he sought Alganis.
Outside, the knight disciplined soldiers, brandishing a whip. Spying his lord, he approached promptly.
— Select four Iron-level knights and deliver this message to Baron Clint, — Victor instructed, handing the scroll.
Acknowledging, Alganis departed, leaving Victor anticipating forthcoming victories. Defeat was inconceivable, even against another barony, let alone an isolated outpost.