Chapter 37 37: recruitment drive

------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- Jahrdrung-15th,2488 IC After spending a week locked in my quarters, working nonstop on the constant production of pigment, I truly began to question whether keeping the secret was even worth it. It wasn't a fleeting doubt. It was fatigue speaking — my hands still trembling from the strain, eyes reddened from smoke, back aching from being hunched over for so many hours. I had optimized the procedure to reduce downtime, to improve yield... and yet, every minute spent in the lab was a minute less spent governing. Training a couple of young apprentices no longer seemed like such a stupid idea. It was tempting. Delegate the basics, keep control of the key ingredients, and oversee the process without chaining myself to the fire and glass... but the risk. Always the damned risk. The moment another person knew the process, my monopoly could end. And that, I was not willing to allow. Not yet. Not while the market paid what it paid and the fools in Marienburg fought over a few grams like it were gemstones. So I endured. I produced seven kilograms of pigment. Alone. Through sheer effort. Locked away in my room for days, my protective clothes soaked in stale sweat, arms sore from moving jars, stoking fires, and grinding compounds. The next day, finally free from my duties as a forced alchemist, I received news that, for once, didn't irritate me. Rutger had returned. And to my surprise, he had done his job well. He brought all the pikes I asked for. Some chainmail. He even looked pleased with himself, as if returning from a crusade. Apparently, he had saved quite a bit on the pigs by negotiating a discount for buying in bulk. That margin allowed him to offset the higher price of the pikes. As he explained, they were not only scarce in Reikland, but many blacksmiths were producing for the provincial militia, which had driven prices up. But he managed to fulfill everything. What remained was barely enough for a couple of basic suits of armor... nothing more. The rest of the order for padded jackets would have to wait for more funding from future pigment sales. So this was a great day. A day to eat my own words. For years I never understood why my father spent so much on guards to protect a place that was, in theory, peaceful. I always thought it was the thinking of a militaristic noble. But now, I was about to recruit a thousand new men. One thousand. That was six percent of my total population — if I added the four hundred men already in my service protecting my holdings. Madness. But a madness I could easily afford, thanks to my star product. The blue pigment of Reikland was feeding my coffers far beyond what any local tax could. Luxuries that the urban nobility could keep spending on endlessly, detached from the harsher realities of the Empire's frontier. And while I could recruit up to eight hundred more without ruining myself, going beyond that would start to cause real problems. The local economy would begin to creak. Fewer hands in the fields. Less bread production. Smaller harvests. So I couldn't overreach. No. Better to wait. To continue growing my peasant population and, with that, gradually expand my personal forces. The steady trickle of migration kept flowing from the north of the Empire. Especially from Ostland, Ostermark, Norland, and Middenland. People fleeing hunger, petty wars, unjust taxes, or simply local trouble, preferring to try their luck as settlers in more fertile and safer lands. The problem was always the same: they brought no census documents. No one could guarantee they weren't bandits, deserters, or wanted murderers. But I had no way to verify it... so for now, the only thing I could do was keep watch, write down names, and hope that work and bread would make any criminals among them reform — or else, I'd have to be more vigilant about theft and local conflicts. As usual, while soap, pork, black bread were distributed, a call had also gone out to every man between sixteen and forty summers to join the Baron's personal guard. With pay. With clothing. And with privileges — like a weekly mug of beer and housing in the barracks. I'd probably have to build new ones or assign some guards to the empty rooms in the castle. The mustering yard outside the castle was crowded. Dozens and dozens of men waited in hopes of securing a spot. Some were already working on my projects — which didn't bother me in the slightest — as many had been chosen from the start for their build. It was just a matter of reassigning them to something more... useful. So I began selecting the most capable. First by size, then by muscle mass. It was no surprise that many of the tallest and strongest came from the harsher provinces of the north. Especially Norland. On average, they stood a head taller than those from Reikland. Broad shoulders, calloused hands, hardened eyes. People who had fought the elements and lived another day. Many of them probably couldn't read or write, but I didn't care. I didn't need scribes. I needed men who could endure the cold, the mud, and the march. Then I began checking mouths. I had them kneel slightly and open their mouths so I could see clearly. More than one swallowed hard before showing their teeth. I was surprised to see how many had firm sets. It made sense: food in those lands is as tough as the weather. Chewing dry bread, fibrous roots, and smoked meat toughens the molars. Even so, a few had missing teeth. Some with visible gaps. And that... was a problem. Especially if I planned to train them as arquebusiers. I had intended to introduce pre-measured black powder charges, just enough for one shot. To open those packets quickly, without tools... teeth were used. One mistake, and a man lost precious seconds, or dropped all the powder. So those with incomplete sets would be disqualified from that role. Perhaps they could serve as pikemen or halberdiers... but not as gunners. Then came the final test. Flat feet. I asked them to wet the soles of their feet in buckets and walk across a stretched-out cloth. I examined each footprint. I was looking for the arch, the curve. Those without it... out. Flat feet are a sentence. On the march, they give out first. They tire faster. Their ankles buckle sooner. And when they hurt, they don't just hurt a little — they hurt to the point of becoming useless. If I couldn't trust a man to march thirty kilometers with full gear on his back, he was no good to me. Not even if he stood two meters tall. So, one by one, I began marking those who didn't make the cut. Though, to be honest, I only found one man with flat feet. Just one. Among hundreds. So, in the end, the test turned out to be a waste of time. I spent nearly an hour examining the feet of peasants And each of these men would have to learn how to use them if they didn't want to have them ripped from their hands in their first real fight. I had already raided my family's armory like a starving dog. It was the place where weapons and armor were stored in case we had to arm the men called to join state regiments if the Emperor ever required it. But considering the Emperor was unlikely to launch a massive campaign anytime soon, those armors reserved for emergencies were better put to use now — especially with the threat posed by the Margrave. I rummaged through shelves, boxes, and old chests forgotten by past generations. What I found didn't surprise me: padded jackets, old, with the smell of damp leather and dust, but still usable. A good cleaning, patching a few seams... and they were ready to return to the field. Unfortunately, some armors that might have served were too rusted or broken to use. And although some of my guards weren't too keen on recruiting so many foreigners, the numbers were clear: seventy percent of the recruits were migrants. Outsiders from the north. From Ostland, Middenland, Norland. Tall men, hardened, with no roots in these lands... but with something far more useful: hunger. If necessity turned me into a killing machine, it could forge them the same way. So, after dismissing those who didn't meet my standards, I took the rest marching toward the Grey Mountains, to a clearing I had scoped out some time ago. Initially, I had considered it for farmland, but the presence of too many trees, deep roots, and scattered rocks made me change my mind. Better to expand the fields elsewhere. This ground would serve a different purpose now. As we advanced, I watched the mess unfold. The recruits didn't know how to carry a five-meter pike. Some tried balancing it like a log. Others tripped, bumped into one another, or spun the shaft, accidentally hitting those beside them. More than one cursed when a tip scraped their back or head. But they kept marching. Disorganized. Noisy. Without rhythm or coordination. Little more than a mob of peasants armed with long sticks... but at least they did it under my command. When we reached the clearing, some of my guards were already waiting. They stood by the supply wagons: tools, axes, ropes, wheelbarrows, picks, and shovels. Nothing the recruits were expecting. I could see it on their faces. I made them form up. One hundred lines of ten men. Nothing fancy. Just enough so they could see one another and understand where each of them stood. Once they were all in position, I pointed to one of the wagons full of tools. "Well, good men of the Empire...," I said loudly and clearly, without kindness, "...today your training as soldiers begins. And it begins the old way." Many stood still, tense. "Today you will not wield weapons. Today you will not learn how to charge with a pike. Today you will build the place where you'll sleep, bleed, and become the warriors the Empire needs to defend itself. This will be your new regimental camp. Here you will train. Here you will live. Here you will earn your bread. And here you will sleep until you become a force capable of enduring the harshness of the world." I finished and pointed to the wagon of tools. At last, they began setting down their pikes and picked up shovels, axes, and picks. They started digging trenches, cutting down trees, and removing rocks from the terrain, trying to clear it completely so they could begin setting up tents. I joined in with a shovel, especially in the trenches, since all the time I had spent digging made me quite good at it. Besides, it brought me closer to the troops — and I knew all too well what happened when an officer became too unpopular with his men. In the chaos of battle, it's hard to tell whether a bullet comes from the enemy... or from an ally tired of following the orders of the officer in charge. So, keeping that closeness was always important. ------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------