Gears of Blackpine Fief

The air in the Gray Fog was cold enough to bite through bone.

Finch rubbed his stiff, frozen hands and pulled up the collar of his rough linen shirt.

He was forty-two and had once been a mid-level manager in an Inland noble's Workshop.

He could not forge a sharp sword, but he could keep dozens of ill-tempered Blacksmiths who spent their days swinging hammers at one another in line and working on schedule.

Because he had failed to make room in the work schedule for a steward's son's private commission, he had been kicked onto Lord Valen's list of people bound for the Eternal Night Wall.

From the day he left Inland, Finch had felt that his life was as good as over.

By some miracle, he had survived the journey to Gray Iron Fief. But after the lord's sudden death, he and hundreds of Iron Gleam Fief's craftsmen and clerks had been herded toward Blackpine Fief like livestock bundled together for transport.

The knights escorting them said nothing. They merely kept order along both sides of the column.

By now, the tension in the middle of the column had reached a breaking point.

"I heard it from an Auxiliary Soldier hauling grain up front—" whispered a young Blacksmith's apprentice behind Finch.

"That brute from Blackpine Fief hacked our Lord Valen into eighteen pieces with a greatsword! Even the bits of bone went to the dogs!"

A clerk clutching an old ledger flinched and stepped into a puddle, splashing mud over half his body.

His voice trembled as he whispered, "Blackpine Fief's lord is a madman!

Why else drag so many craftsmen and clerks here? He must be planning to stuff us into a breach on the front line as human shields before Blood Moon Season!"

"Right! Tie us