Hidden Move

The moon rode high above Headow, half-veiled by drifting clouds that cast long shadows over the muddy streets. 

Steven pulled his cloak tighter as he crossed the quiet yard behind the old grain warehouse. Clinton walked a pace behind him, one hand resting on the hilt of the blade.

The warehouse had a thatched roof patched in places with tar cloth. But Steven rapped three times in a pattern against the back door. A small window slid open from the inside; eyes gleamed in the gloom.

A moment later, the heavy iron latch lifted. The door swung open, and the smell of heated iron and oil drifted out into the night.

Clinton raised a brow. "Still feels like I am walking into a beehive with no armor on."

Steven grinned faintly. 

Inside, the warehouse had been transformed. 

Bellows hissed. 

Sparks danced upward in tiny storms. Rows of workbenches bristled with tools—hammers, tongs, files, and strange measuring devices that looked out of place in this world.

At the center of it all, the blacksmith stood waiting. His eyes glowed bright in the firelight, and he bowed stiffly as the prince approached.

"My Lord," he rasped, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a gloved hand. "Sir Clinton."

Clinton offered a nod, glancing at the crates stacked along the far wall. "I see you have been busy, Master Wilson."

Wilson cracked a grin, white teeth flashing beneath a smudge of soot. "Busy enough to forget how to sleep."

Steven stepped closer to the forge. "Show us."

Wilson gestured toward a long bench covered with a heavy linen cloth. He took a breath, then lifted the cloth with a flourish. Beneath it lay an array of weapons that gleamed in the glow of the forge.

Clinton let out a low whistle. "Nice…"

Steven reached down and lifted a sword from the bench. The blade was broad, the fuller running down the center perfectly balanced. Its guard was simple but elegantly curved, the grip wrapped in a strange, textured material that felt neither leather nor cloth.

He gave it a gentle swing. The blade sang, a note pure as glass.

Wilson watched with pride. "Every piece forged from your blueprints, Highness. Or as close as I could manage, given what we have."

Clinton stepped up beside him, eyes fixed on the weapons like a starving man gazing at a feast. "I have held the best blades money can buy. None felt like this."

Steven handed the sword to him. "Try it."

Clinton hefted the blade, testing its balance. He swung it once, twice—then pivoted into a tight arc that would have gutted a man from hip to shoulder.

He exhaled a quiet curse. "It cuts the air cleaner than my sword. Where did you get a design like this?"

Steven didn't answer immediately. 

Wilson spoke, his voice was calm. "When you handed me those drawings, I thought you had gone mad. The alloys, some I had never seen in my life."

He ran a calloused hand along the edge of a breastplate. "We had to experiment with quenching methods, mixing our local iron with small amounts of nickel and carbon. The fold patterns alone took weeks to get right."

Steven gave a nod, urging him on.

Wilson continued, more animated now. "But once we cracked it—by the gods, the strength is like nothing I have ever forged."

He picked up a dagger and held it out. "And look at this, the tang is shaped so it absorbs the shock when you strike armor. Less breakage. More killing."

Clinton sheathed the sword he had tested and picked up the dagger instead. He pressed a thumb along the edge and hissed as it drew a hair-thin line of blood. "What a sharp blade."

"Exactly," Wilson said. "I had to adjust the oil bath and the quench timing. But the design—" 

He looked at Steven, awe and suspicion mingling in his eyes. "These blueprints, where did you learn to make them? They are… ten, twenty years ahead of anything I've seen."

Steven set the sword back on the bench, and he conjured a story to tell them.

"I have read old scrolls," he said carefully. "Drawings in the royal library from faraway lands, improved bit by bit. The world beyond the seas is changing, even if this kingdom doesn't see it yet."

Wilson barked a dry laugh. 

He lifted a helm from another crate. The front visor shaped with cunning slits that allowed for a wider field of vision. Inside, thin strips of leather and an unusual padding cradled the skull, dispersing force more evenly.

Clinton took it, running a knuckle along the rim. "This… this might actually stop a blade."

Wilson smiled. "We tested it with an axe. The blow dented it, but the lad inside could still stand."

Steven focused his attention on the blacksmith. "And the chain?"

Wilson gestured to another stack of crates. "We have made new hauberks. Smaller links, double-layered at the shoulders and chest. Flexible, but good against arrows and knives."

Clinton grinned wildly. "So we'll be marching into a storm with sharper claws and thicker hides."

The blacksmith inclined his head. "If you can find the men to wear them."

Steven folded his arms, gazing at the crates. The metal glinted, row upon row, each piece a quiet promise in the shadows.

He turned to Clinton. "What do you think about the coming storm?"

Clinton sheathed the dagger, then clapped him on the shoulder. "We have a fighting chance if our men hold their nerve and cut those bastards down."

A sudden gust rattled the warehouse doors. Wilson leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Sire, you will have to keep these hidden until the last possible moment. If word gets out, spies will crawl through every crack in these walls."

Steven's eyes darkened. "Let them crawl. If they find anything, it will be the point of a blade."

Clinton chuckled. "We should give every man an oath. If you drop your sword, you owe me five barrels of ale."

Wilson laughed too, then sobered as he glanced at the rows of weapons once more. "I will keep working through the nights. If you can keep the ore coming, I can double our output. But the secrecy—"

"—Will hold," Steven finished for him. "No one but us, your best apprentices, and the guards outside this building know what is inside."

He leaned closer, voice iron-hard now. "Perhaps it is time to get rid of all the rats in the city."

Steven turned to the blacksmith. "Keep them hidden. We will start distributing them in batches."

Wilson saluted him in the old way, fist to chest. "Victory awaits you, my Liege."

They left the warehouse as first blush crept over the hills. Behind them, the forge hissed and roared.

They stepped out into the street and headed back to the manor. A few hours later, a thin fog clung to the ground, curling around the boots of the gathered soldiers. 

"Form ranks!" barked Clinton. His voice echoed across the stones.

The men obeyed, feet stamping into the mud, weapons at their sides. Steven moved down the line, gaze lingering on faces both familiar and new.

He paused before a trio of archers adjusting the tension on their new yew bows.

"You," Steven said, pointing at the youngest, a lad barely seventeen. "How far can you shoot in the wind?"

The boy gulped, eyes wide. "Seventy paces in clear weather, sire. Fifty if there is a strong crosswind."

Steven nodded, noting the calluses forming on the fingertips. He reached out and gently adjusted the elbow. "When the time comes, remember to lose your arrow when you exhale, not before. You will miss your mark if you hold your breath."

A faint smile flickered across the face of the boy. "Yes, sire."

Clinton leaned in, low enough so only Steven could hear. "You have new admirers, and they will follow your commands wholeheartedly."

Steven moved on, stopping at the supply wagons lined up near the stable yard. Barrels of pickled vegetables, sacks of barley and oats, smoked meats strung together with twine—each one tagged and logged.

At the far end, a pair of men wrestled a stubborn wheel back onto a broken axle. Steven crouched beside them, wiping grease from the name plate. "What is the holdup?"

One of the men—wiry fellow with a mouth missing teeth—wiped sweat from his brow. "Axle pin snapped, milord. We are patching it with iron clamps till the blacksmith can forge a new one."

"Work fast," Steven said, clapping him on the shoulder. "If a single wagon fails on the road, it will be more than spoiled grain—it will be men starving when they need strength the most."

The man bobbed his head, face red. "Understood, milord."

Steven and Clinton made their way down the narrow lane that ran behind the manor. It wound through the merchant quarter, a row of stout timber buildings now humming with dawn activity.