Annan visited the Waterwheel Mill. The same hammering that filled the Blacksmith Shop rang through it. The rushing Glacier River let the mill produce nearly fifty suits of Plate Armor a day, though they were crude versions.
Switching to wrought-iron Plate Armor would cut that to a pitiful dozen or so. Even then, they could equip every Soldier before the Ratfolk arrived.
A separate workshop in the Waterwheel Mill housed the production line for Magic Powder Rifles. The Elite Mages Annan had hired from the Mage Tower worked there.
Mages were proud and esteemed. Any Elite Mage would be an honored guest of the nobility elsewhere. The reason these Mages stayed in a noisy mill doing work no different from a commoner's was simple: they were devoted admirers of Annan—or rather, of Jack.
Ratte, whom Annan had rescued from Betar City, was there too.
Annan borrowed Ingrid's notes, turned to a page, and pointed at a drawing resembling a water tank laid on its side. "I want you to make another Magic Powder weapon with this structure. Fill it with Gunpowder, then load a Cannonball."
"An enlarged Magic Powder Rifle?"
"More or less."
A Magic Cannon was essentially a Magic Powder Rifle with a bore dozens of times larger and dozens of times more Gunpowder.
Ratte was the first to shake his head. "Magic Powder is powerful. Pack that much in, and the thing might burst."
Neither pig iron nor Wrought Iron would do. Fortunately, this world had Tempered Steel. But when Annan suggested it, Murat looked at him as though he were a spendthrift noble. "You want to use six or seven hundred pounds of Tempered Steel to make this? Here's my advice: use that money to hire a dozen Elite Mages. They can do anything this giant Magic