The air vibrated with the sharp, anxious cries of the warhorse. "Hiss, hiss…" It's dark eyes, wide with unease, followed the old blacksmith's movements as he knelt beside its hooves, his hammer striking rhythmically against the iron horseshoes. The metallic clinks, though precise, rattled the beast, its muscles tensing beneath its glossy coat.
"Finished," The old blacksmith announced, his voice steady despite the sweat beading on his weathered brow. With a final tap, he secured the fourth horseshoe and rose, stepping back deliberately. He knew the hammer in his calloused hand was the source of the horse's agitation, and he moved with care to avoid spooking it further. The courtyard, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, seemed to hold its breath as the old man retreated.
"Up you go," Henry said softly, his hands gentle but firm as he released the warhorse from its restraints. He patted its muscular neck, his fingers lingering to stroke its sleek mane, soothing the animal's frayed nerves. His touch was practiced, born of years handling the city's steeds, and the horse responded, its snorts softening.
"Hiss, hiss~~" The warhorse let out a piercing neigh, its powerful legs trembling as it struggled to its feet. It stood tall in the cobblestone courtyard, its hooves now clad in iron, and took cautious steps, testing the unfamiliar weight. The group watched, their eyes fixed on the beast as it moved. Suddenly, it halted, its head dipping low as it shook its mane, as if puzzling over the sensation. Then, with a long, exuberant neigh that echoed across the courtyard, it began to prance, its steps light and almost joyful, as though celebrating its newfound strength.
Annie's fox tail swished playfully, her brown eyes sparkling with delight. "It seems the horse adores its new shoes," She said, her voice bubbling with a soft laugh. "These horse shoes are truly remarkable, aren't they?" She tilted her head, her ears twitching as she imagined the warhorse galloping across fields, unhindered by rocky terrain.
Henry, ever the pragmatic soldier, turned to Lucas, his expression grave but tinged with excitement. "Young Master, these horseshoes are a blessing for our knights. They'll transform how we fight." His words carried the weight of a man who had seen battle, who understood the difference a single advantage could make on the battlefield.
Lucas's dark eyes gleamed with a calculated intensity. "Indeed. Instruct the military workshop to begin mass-producing horseshoes immediately. Within five days, every warhorse must be fitted with them. But this must be done in secret," He said, his voice low and commanding. "Emphasize confidentiality. I don't want the purpose of horseshoes spreading beyond our walls."
In his mind, Lucas weighed the inevitability of discovery. Horseshoes were a simple yet revolutionary innovation, and their secrecy couldn't be maintained forever. A keen observer, perhaps a spy or a rival, would eventually notice the iron-clad hooves of Sedona City's cavalry. But even a brief period of exclusivity would grant his forces a critical edge, one he intended to exploit fully.
"Yes, Young Master. I'll ensure everyone understands the need for silence," Henry replied, his tone resolute. He stood straighter, already mentally organizing the workshop's tasks.
Lucas turned to Annie, his voice unwavering. "Annie, issue the same order to Aiden. The army is forbidden from discussing horseshoes. Not a word."
"Understood," Annie said, her fox ears perking as she flipped open her notebook. Her pen scratched across the page, recording the command with precision. The notebook, a constant companion for Sedona City's inner circle, was a testament to Lucas's insistence on order and documentation.
Mina, her eyes bright with curiosity, pointed to the iron stirrups in Lucas's hands. "Young Master, what are those for? Are they also for the warhorse?" Her voice was soft, but her gaze was sharp, eager to unravel the purpose of the unfamiliar objects.
Lucas held up the stirrups, their metal glinting in the sunlight. "These are called stirrups. They're attached to the saddle's sides to assist with mounting and dismounting, and to provide a foothold while riding." He handed them to Henry, guiding him with precise gestures on how to secure them to a saddle. His movements were deliberate, each word chosen to convey the stirrups' significance.
In his mind, Lucas saw the broader implications. Stirrups were more than a convenience; they were a revolution in cavalry warfare. By anchoring a rider's feet, they granted unmatched stability, allowing knights to wield weapons with both hands while maintaining balance. A cavalryman with stirrups could loose arrows with deadly accuracy, dodge incoming blows, and remain seated even in the chaos of battle. Without stirrups, riders clung desperately to their mounts, one hand tethered to the reins, their movements stiff and constrained. Lucas recalled a distant era on Earth when stirrups had tipped the scales of war, elevating knights into unstoppable forces that dominated entire regions.
"This…" The group fell silent, their minds racing as they pieced together the stirrups' potential. The implications were clear to all, for none among them were fools.
Henry's eyes widened, his voice rising with awe. "Young Master, stirrups could double—no, triple—a knight's combat prowess! The things we could do on horseback…" His words trailed off as he envisioned cavalry charging with newfound freedom, their lances and bows wielded with devastating precision.
Annie's fox ears drooped slightly, her voice laced with concern. "Young Master, stirrups will be noticed quickly. Your brilliant invention—how can we prevent others from copying it?" Her loyalty to Lucas burned fiercely, and the thought of rival factions stealing his ideas stung her.
Lucas sighed, his expression tinged with resignation. "For now, we'll restrict their use to the army. But stirrups are too visible to hide forever. Once seen, any competent smith could replicate them." His pragmatism tempered his ambition, acknowledging the limits of secrecy in a world of watchful eyes.
Elisa, who had been quiet, stepped forward, her emerald eyes thoughtful. "What if we extend the leather flaps on the saddle's sides to cover the stirrups? Or perhaps add a cloth drape to conceal them entirely?" Her voice was steady, her suggestion born of careful observation.
Lucas's brow arched, a spark of approval in his gaze. "That's a clever idea, Elisa. It'll cost extra materials, but it's worth trying." He turned to Henry. "Have the workshop test Elisa's proposal. Ensure the cover doesn't slow down mounting or dismounting. Produce a few prototypes for review."
"Yes, Young Master," Henry said, his notebook already open as he scribbled the instructions. The habit of carrying notebooks had spread among Sedona City's elite, a silent testament to Lucas's emphasis on precision and accountability.
A sudden thought struck Lucas, and he turned to the old blacksmith, who stood patiently nearby. "Old Blacksmith, how's the stamping press progressing? Have you calibrated its stamping weight?" His voice carried a mix of curiosity and expectation, for the press was another of his ambitious projects.
The old blacksmith's weathered face tightened with cautious pride. "City Lord, we've started trial runs. Would you care to inspect it?" His tone was deferential, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of excitement, eager to show his progress.
"Let's see it," Lucas said, nodding. His curiosity was piqued, for the manual stamping press represented a step toward mechanization, a dream of efficiency that danced in his mind.
"Please, City Lord, this way," The old blacksmith said, his steps brisk as he led the group across the sprawling courtyard. The military workshop was a labyrinth of interconnected quadrangles, each courtyard buzzing with distinct purpose. Some housed forges roaring with heat, others sheltered scholars poring over experimental designs, while a few were dedicated to the steady rhythm of production.
"Clang!" A thunderous metallic crash rang out, reverberating through the air as Lucas and his entourage approached their destination.
They arrived at a sturdy iron workbench, its surface scarred from heavy use. Four iron pillars, each as thick as two fingers, rose from its corners, supporting a square iron block. Circular rings at the block's edges slid along the pillars, guiding its movement. A heavy chain, linked to a pulley system overhead, dangled from the block's center.
Two workers strained at the chain, their muscles bulging as they hoisted the iron block high. At a signal, they released it, and the block plummeted, slamming into the workbench with a bone-rattling "clang" that echoed across the courtyard.
"Pull it up!" The old blacksmith barked, his voice cutting through the din. As the workers hauled the block back into place, he darted to the workbench, where a concave mold rested. This was the heart of the stamping press, the key to shaping metal with force and precision.
With careful hands, the old blacksmith pried the stamped piece from the mold and approached Lucas, holding it as if it were a sacred offering. His eyes, lined with years of toil, searched Lucas's face for approval, his breath held in anticipation.
Lucas took the piece, his fingers tracing its contours. "An armor plate," He said, noting the residual warmth. The shape was slightly warped, its edges uneven—a flaw that would need correction before it could be used. Yet the fact that it existed was a triumph, however small.
Mina's eyes widened, her voice trembling with wonder. "Young Master, this press made an armor plate so quickly? A single plate takes hours of hammering by hand!" Her awe was palpable, for she knew the grueling labor required to shape metal with nothing but muscle and will.
Lucas's lips curved into a faint, wistful smile. "It's a form of pseudo-industrial production," He said, his tone tinged with dissatisfaction. The manual press was a step forward, yes, but it was a far cry from the mechanized marvels he envisioned. True stamping presses, in his mind, were tireless machines that churned out perfect components with minimal human effort. This contraption, reliant on sweat and pulleys, was faster than handcrafting but riddled with limitations—low output, inconsistent quality, and mechanical quirks that demanded constant attention.
Still, Lucas recognized its value. The press was a bridge, a humble milestone on the path to industrialization. Compared to the laborious process of hammering each piece by hand, it was a revelation, a glimpse of what Sedona City could achieve with time and ingenuity.
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