The Golden Dawn military camp was evolving. The makeshift wooden hovels of the old blacksmith village were gone, torn down and reduced to charcoal. In their place, a brick kiln roared day and night, forging local clay into solid red blocks.
Near the construction sites, engineers mixed Cement—the Lightbringer's grey alchemical adhesive—to bind the bricks into barracks that could withstand more than just a season's wind. They were unique in the Seven Kingdoms: sturdier than a peasant's wattle-and-daub shack, yet cheaper than a Lord's stone keep.
The soldiers volunteered for the labor with a fervor that bordered on greed. They knew that once the war ended, a man who knew how to lay brick and mix cement would never go hungry. The landscape was being stripped bare for fuel, but Aldric had already ordered apple saplings planted in the clearings.
A legacy of fruit and stone, Kevin thought as he led the Hollow Hill Company toward the camp.
They found the drill grounds in a state of suspended tension. Hundreds of soldiers sat in silent, disciplined squares along the perimeter. No one was sparring. All eyes were fixed on the center of the field, where five armored wagons stood in a line.
Kevin spotted a familiar face. "Sir Duncan."
Duncan Baker, the first Riverlands knight to trade his lord's banner for the Sun, turned with a look of surprise. "Kevin? You're back from the shadows."
"Just now. I've brought the Brotherhood." Kevin gestured to Harwin and the others. He lowered his voice. "Have you felt it yet? The Light?"
Duncan shook his head, a trace of regret in his eyes. His loyalty to his old oaths still clouded the Seed. He shifted the subject, pointing to the field. "The Master is testing his new toy. The War-Wagon formation."
"How does a cart win a battle?" Kevin asked.
"Watch. It's starting."
A sharp whistle pierced the autumn air. The five wagons suddenly veered outward, grooms shouting as they unhitched the horses. Within seconds, the heavy carriages were locked end-to-end, forming a rigid, wooden pentagon.
A second whistle blew. From the edge of the grounds, thirty riders thundered forward like a whirlwind. At their head was a massive man with a four-meter lance. He slammed the point into the wagon's side, but the structure didn't budge. The cavalry circled the "wooden fort," looking for a gap, but found only solid oak and iron reinforcements.
Suddenly, crossbowmen popped up from behind the wagon panels. They loosed a volley of blunt bolts. The riders hissed in pain as the heavy projectiles battered their armor.
"Negating the charge," Kevin murmured. "In the Riverlands, where good destriers are rare, this turns a peasant into a mountain."
"Aye," Duncan agreed. "But the speed is the problem. This is the third trial today. The first two times, Marco's squadron wasn't fast enough. The 'enemy' broke through before the locks were set. The Commander had to tell Sandor to wait until they were ready."
"Sandor?" Lem Lemoncloak cut in, his eyes widening. "Clegane? The Hound?"
"The same," Duncan said. "He's the Master's 'Wolf.' He leads the aggressor squads to show our boys how the real world fights."
The exercise shifted. This time, Sandor led a combined force. Infantry with tower-shields approached the wagons under a rain of blunt bolts. They reached the joints and began hacking at the connecting chains with heavy axes.
Bang! Bang!
Sparks flew. A panel shattered. The infantry prepared to swarm the gap, but long ash-poles—spears in a real fight—thrust out from the dark interior, impaling the "enemy" before they could clear the threshold. The infantry broke and fled behind the cavalry.
"Impressive," Harwin whispered to Rand. "It's a poor man's fortress. A horse and a wagon cost less than a knight's barded plate."
"But they are wood," Rand noted. "Fire will turn that fortress into a coffin."
As if hearing him, Sandor's riders produced torches wrapped in pitch-soaked hay. They charged, braving the crossbow fire, and hurled the flames onto the wagons before retreating.
A white mist erupted from the wagons—water and sand—dousing most of the flames. But on the far side, blue smoke began to curl.
"It's caught!" Rand shouted.
A frantic whistle blew from the wagon. The formation scrambled to unlock. Packhorses were led out in a panic as soldiers scrambled for water buckets from the nearby stream. The burning wagon was left in the center, a pyre of blackened timber.
Aldric stood on the reviewing platform, megaphone in hand. His voice boomed across the silent ranks.
"Golden Dawn! Every tactic is a lie until it survives the field. Captain Marco failed to see the final ignition point. He ran out of water before the embers were dead. On a real battlefield, with fifty wagons, that oversight is a death sentence."
He surveyed the nine squares of fifty men each—four hundred and fifty soldiers standing like iron pines in the wind.
"Leave your sweat on the drill ground, or you will leave your blood in the mud! Squad leaders, take your men. Discuss the failure. Cultural classes for the next two days will focus on wagon-defense. Dismissed!"
"The Sun Never Dies!" the soldiers roared, their voices shaking the trees.
Aldric stepped down from the platform, wiping soot from his hands. He approached the Brotherhood with a weary, apologetic smile.
"Forgive the wait, Captain Harwin," Aldric said, his eyes scanning the new arrivals. "The fire waits for no man. It has been a long road from the Hollow Hill."
Harwin, seeing the discipline of the men and the raw power of the industrial camp, bowed his head deeper than he ever had before. "Lord Commander Aldric. The road was long... but I think we've found where it leads."