Fallout:Blood and the Bull

Alaric withdrew to support Ulrich, leaving this region under my complete control. With the intensive cleansing I had carried out, the goblins would not pose an immediate threat. At least we would have a few weeks before they attempted to regroup. During that time, my task would be to continue eliminating the scattered groups that remained, as well as repairing the castle and transforming it into a solid defensive position. The fifty militiamen who arrived to reinforce the garrison, combined with my own men, brought our forces to nearly one hundred. A modest, even poor, figure but sufficient to maintain initial control. If we managed to repair the walls, we could request a full garrison and eventually push the front line forward.

To accelerate the reconstruction efforts, I relied on my own resources. After selling many of the captured goblins, I used the coins obtained to purchase human slaves. These were debt slaves—peasants unable to pay their taxes who ended up in the hands of merchants. These men and women were not warriors, but they would serve as labor for the most urgent tasks. I sent them to a forgotten quarry, where they began cutting stone and chopping wood. These materials would be crucial for repairing the castle walls and clearing the surrounding terrain, which would also improve our ability to spot approaching enemies from the north.

Among the purchased slaves, I found two blacksmiths with less-than-glorious pasts. They had crafted poor-quality swords for a noble, earning them severe punishment and condemnation to slavery. I decided to give them a chance, putting them to work with the iron recently extracted from the secured mine. Initially, they struggled since they had only worked with bronze, but I guided them using what I remembered from the campaigns in Gaul.

In Gaul, the legion's blacksmiths had used ingenious methods to smelt iron and repair weapons, even under the harshest conditions. I remembered how they built simple yet efficient furnaces using earth, stone, and wood to create high temperatures. With those memories, I helped the blacksmiths replicate the design. It wasn't easy, but with some patience, we managed to construct a furnace capable of processing the mine's iron and forging spearheads. It was a significant breakthrough but also a secret that needed to be carefully guarded.

The spearheads, while immediately useful, were not the most important achievement. What mattered most was the iron wire needed to craft lorica hamata. This chainmail armor represented a crucial advantage in protecting men during combat, but its creation required time, skill, and immense patience. The process was complex, especially for blacksmiths just beginning to work with iron, but every small advancement was a step in the right direction.

After completing the spearhead production, the blacksmiths spent their remaining time coiling and cutting iron wire, starting to assemble rings for the chainmail. Progress was slow, but the results were promising. Each row of linked rings added a layer of future protection for the troops.

With more hands, the work could accelerate. The slave merchants would soon return, and among their "merchandise," it would be possible to acquire young workers or skilled laborers who could learn the trade under the blacksmiths' guidance. These reinforcements would boost production and eventually allow us to forge enough armor to outfit a significant force.

Balancing immediate needs with long-term goals guided every decision. The spears strengthened the castle's defensive capacity, but the creation of the lorica hamata aimed for a more ambitious horizon: a stronger force capable of sustaining advances beyond these lands. Each assembled ring represented tangible progress toward that goal.

During the month I spent leading this new garrison, the advancements were solid, though arduous. The tree lines surrounding the castle were pushed back, clearing the terrain to provide a clearer view of any approaching threats. This effort not only improved security but also supplied wood for reconstruction. The walls, though not perfect, reached an optimal level to withstand minor attacks without collapsing.

Every attempt by the goblins to return was met with overwhelming force. Each group that appeared nearby was eradicated without leaving survivors. None returned to warn the rest, and it gradually became evident that this territory was no longer under their control.

The sale of goblin slaves to the south was the only thing sustaining this campaign. Every capture represented vital income to fund repairs and keep the men equipped. The resources my father sent were barely enough to cover the most basic needs. We were just a small cog in the vast machinery of the war front, a reality reflected in how we were treated. Moreover, the lands governed by our family were far from rich, prosperous, or densely populated, further limiting the support we could expect.

Despite these difficulties, the garrison began to transform. What had initially been little more than a ruined bastion was taking shape as a functional outpost with reinforced defensive structures and a clear strategic position. Though progress was slow, every small victory demonstrated that even with scarce resources, it was possible to maintain control and strengthen our foothold.

After all this time, news finally arrived that the southern noble was returning to his lands. His entertainment had concluded with the death of an orc warlord, whose head he now carried as a trophy. Rumors suggested his forces had suffered enormous losses during the campaign, but he seemed unconcerned. He had obtained what he sought: a symbol of glory to display in the political circles of his region.

This situation, it seemed, was not unusual. Many central nobles traveled to the frontiers with the same goal: to earn personal glory in combat and trophies to boast about at dinners and political gatherings. For them, war was not a matter of survival or duty but a tool to enhance their standing among peers. It was more spectacle than necessity, a means to accumulate prestige. That was why they paid well for every campaign, for every captured slave, and for every "adventure" they could recount with pride in their mansions' halls.

Unlike them, we couldn't afford such a mentality. Here, on the frontiers, every victory served a purpose far greater than mere prestige. It was a matter of holding the line, of ensuring our lands didn't descend into the chaos goblins and orcs would bring if they advanced. The southern noble left with his trophy, leaving behind the consequences of his ambition for others to handle.

The loricae hamata, though slowly beginning to make a difference among our ranks, were not something to be displayed openly. Each completed piece was given exclusively to the men I had personally recruited and trained, those who responded to my command with discipline and loyalty. These armors were not merely protective gear; they represented a strategic resource and an advantage that had to remain a secret.

For this reason, every man who received one of these armors was given explicit instructions: always wear it hidden beneath their leather armor. At a glance, there was no difference between them and the rest of the troops, but beneath that simple leather lay an iron mesh that provided superior protection in combat. The decision to keep the armor concealed not only protected the workshop in the cave from potential scrutiny but also ensured that rumors of our capabilities did not reach the wrong ears—be they enemies or even members of our own family.

Discretion was essential. If my father or any of his close men discovered that we were producing and distributing these armors , the consequences could be complicated. Even more so if they felt that resource priorities were not aligned with the broader objectives of the front.

Even within the castle, the militiamen sent by my father had no idea what was truly happening. To their eyes, my men were merely another slightly better-organized force, with no apparent advantage in equipment. While some began to murmur about the preferential treatment my soldiers seemed to receive, they never suspected the true reason. For all intents and purposes, the chainmail armor was invisible to them. Complaints about the extra weight and occasional noise were minor issues that didn't compromise the secret.

There was still little trust in this garrison. Despite the progress made and the reinforced defenses, we were still perceived as a secondary outpost in a much larger front. However, reinforcements began to arrive, though not from our lands. Recognizing that we had pushed the frontier several kilometers northward, my uncle decided to send support to consolidate this position. His plan was to construct a new fortification further north against the orcs and reinforce this castle as a strategic rear point.

The "troops" that arrived, if they could even be called that, were little more than a haphazard collection of peasants. Apparently, the winter in the marquis's lands had been particularly harsh. A flooded river had destroyed several farms, leaving hundreds without harvests and seeking employment. Desperate for a solution, many were sent here as improvised military labor. While more bodies could have been useful for strengthening defenses, any potential advantage they represented vanished when I discovered they had come accompanied… by their families.

Women, children, and the elderly arrived in overcrowded wagons, carrying what little remained of their ruined lives. Instead of a force that could be trained and mobilized, what I received was disorganized chaos that could barely sustain itself. These families not only failed to contribute to the military effort but also added a significant strain to the already scarce resources we had.

This chaotic mix of peasants and their families reflected the current state of our lands: fragile, battered by misfortune, and desperate for stability.

With the arrival of the peasants and their families, the chaos seemed on the verge of overwhelming what little we had built here. I surveyed the scene with a mix of disdain and calculation. Crying children, women arguing over space in the wagons, men barely able to hold the spears they were given. This was not a military force; it was a reminder of the fragility of human lands. A broken system incapable of supporting even its own subjects.

The issue wasn't just this group of displaced people; it was what they represented: the inability of our leaders to effectively address crises, the fragmented responsibilities among nobles who only looked out for their personal interests, and the lack of a common purpose. Humanity's internal divisions were consuming us from within, and as long as they persisted, there would be no stability. We could rebuild castles, strengthen walls, and train men, but all of it was meaningless if the foundations of our society remained so fractured.

As these thoughts solidified, I began reorganizing the disorder before me with a cold clarity and a growing vision. The peasants were not soldiers, but they could be molded. Their families, though a burden, could also be useful. This was not charity; it was pragmatism. If they wanted to live within these walls, they would have to contribute.

"Listen," I said firmly, standing before them. "There is no room here for idleness or complaints. Each of you will work for the shelter you are given. The men will train as militiamen, the women will assist with logistics, and the children will transport supplies and gather stones. There will be no exceptions. This garrison does not sustain itself, and if you want to be part of it, you will have to contribute."

Some murmured in protest, but my men, already accustomed to my orders, ensured the disorder didn't escalate. The peasants began to fall into line, first clumsily, then with something resembling obedience. This was just the beginning. I knew there would be resistance, but I also knew how to handle it.

Here, under my command, we would begin to build something that would not break under the first storm.