Chapter 125: The Torrent of Fire
The blast furnace’s roar resonated like contained thunder in the center of the fortress, shaking the stone ground beneath their feet. The suffocating heat emanating from the refractory brick tower distorted the air above the yard into thick, incandescent spirals, melting the snow several meters around it.
Garik, covered in a leather mask with a grid visor and reinforced gloves, raised a long iron rod sharpened at the tip. He looked toward Kellar, who stood at a safe distance alongside Ron and Lía, inspecting the inner crucible’s level through the sight glass with a sharp eye.
"The level has reached the limit, Great Shaman!" shouted Garik, raising his voice above the roar of the fire blowing through the tuyeres. "The metal has reached perfect fluidity! If we don’t drain it now, the plug’s clay will yield!"
"Open the channel," said Kellar, pointing to the molded sand trough leading directly to the stone ingot molds lined up on the dirt ground.
"Clear the way! Everyone back!" shouted Krag, pushing curiosity-seekers back to maintain a safety perimeter.
Garik drove the iron rod against the soft clay plug at the furnace base and struck it hard using a wooden mallet. Upon the third impact, the dry clay gave way with a pop.
A dazzling torrent of liquid iron, glowing incandescent yellow that blinded the eyes and showering brilliant sparks, burst from the opening with a deafening hiss. The molten metal rushed down the trough like a serpent of living fire, filling the molds lined on the ground one by one. The vivid orange light illuminated the wide-eyed faces of Krag, Mark, and hundreds of villagers who watched the spectacle in absolute silence.
"It is... it is completely pure iron," said Garik in a whisper, feeling the radiant wave of heat on his face. "No ash, no air bubbles, none of the slag that always ruined our tools. This metal will change our weapons and our lives forever."
"Never in my life have I seen the earth flow like honey," said Mark, swallowing hard as the iron’s glow reflected in his eyes. "This is not the work of men... it is divine magic."
Once the pour finished filling the first set of molds and the lower plug was sealed again with a lump of fresh clay, Kellar turned to Lennis and Krag.
"Lennis, you will remain here three more days supervising Garik’s work before returning to the main village," said Kellar, adjusting the clasps on his fur cloak as the first ingot molds began to darken. "I want the first three tons of iron that come out of this tower converted exclusively into mining pickaxes, wedges, axes, and agricultural tools."
"It shall be done, Great Shaman," said Lennis, bowing his head with deep devotion. "When I return to the village, the fortress’s storehouses will be overflowing with iron bars ready for the great forge."
Kellar headed toward the fortress’s southern gate. Several of Krag’s hunters and Mark’s men attempted to step forward to form an armed escort to accompany him on the journey, concerned about the frozen valley’s dangers.
"Do not bother forming a guard," said Kellar, gesturing with his hand to stop them. "In this region, there is nothing and no one that can harm me. Having Grok by my side is more than enough."
Behind his steps, Ron carried a satchel filled with construction blueprints and design scrolls, walking with his chest puffed with pride in his new role as the shaman’s apprentice. Beside him, Lía marched with a steady stride, keeping her eyes fixed on Kellar’s back and adjusting her wool cloak whenever the freezing wind blew hard; her cheeks still held a faint blush whenever the leader’s gaze met hers.
Krag walked alongside him to the wooden gate. At that moment, a small feline shadow emerged from the wall’s upper beams. Freyja leaped nimbly through the air and landed silently on Kellar’s shoulder, nestling against his neck while baring sharp fangs in a yawn. Upon seeing the small cat, no one in the fortress doubted the shaman’s words: that seemingly harmless creature was, in truth, one of the most ruthless and dangerous forces in the entire tribe.
"The mountain will remain protected, Shaman," said Krag, striking his chest with his fist in a formal salute. "When you return, this fortress will yield more iron than the tribe can mold."
"I trust you, Krag," said Kellar, offering him a firm nod before crossing the threshold.
The small group left the wooden walls behind and stepped onto the frozen trail descending toward the main valley. The era of industrial iron had begun for the Overlord Tribe, and back at the main village, the youths’ military instruction in handling the first firearms was about to begin.
Krag watched as Kellar’s silhouette vanished into the distance beyond the defile’s bend. The moment the wooden gate shut, the veteran hunter turned toward the yard and fixed his gaze on Mark.
"Let’s talk in private, Mark," said Krag, his tone neutral and revealing nothing of his intentions.
Mark nodded in silence, gesturing with his head to the former nobles accompanying him to follow into the command cabin.
Krag and Lennis sat on one side of the wooden table, while Mark and his men took their seats opposite them. Silence lingered for a few moments until Krag rested his hands on the table and looked Mark straight in the eye.
"Let’s speak directly, Mark," said Krag, without beating around the bush. "We have fought all our lives in these lands. Now I hold the Great Shaman’s favor and the title of mayor in this fortress. I could make your life miserable if I wanted to, and when your evaluation comes, ruin everything so you never earn the title of leader for the next settlement."
Mark clenched his jaw, but remained silent, listening to the old hunter.
"However, doing that would cause my own evaluation to go to hell," said Krag, leaning forward. "And I have no intention of failing the Shaman over stupid disputes. We both know each other’s weaknesses. So let’s get along, work in order, and deliver the results the Shaman expects. That way, you will get your chance, and I will keep this fortress standing firm. There will be no problem between us as long as that is kept."
Mark offered a faint smile of respect, extending his hand across the table to seal the pact.
"Sounds like a fair deal to me, Krag," said Mark, shaking the veteran’s hand with a firm grip. "This mountain will yield more iron than the Shaman ever imagined, and we will both prove that we are worthy of his trust."