The morning sun had already risen halfway above the distant mountains. Paul had found Elric atop the castle. He had been pacing. The elf hadn't even noticed him as he approached. It wasn't until Paul cleared his throat that Elric realized he wasn't alone.

  “Paul, morning to you. I didn't hear you if you’ve spoken. I'm very sorry, I find myself lost this morning. As you can see, there is much to ponder on.”

  He waved a hand out over the wall and towards some hills outside of the city. It appeared at first to be like the hill was swarming with tiny elf shaped ants. Despite the distance he could hear the sound of such little things as those elves. It was the army that the outriders from before had heralded. And it was massive. It spanned the whole of the hill it occupied. They swarmed to and fro setting up tents and a palisade, a trench, and other fortifications. A little closer were platforms with fewer figures running about them. Paul could see that they were building something on the platforms.

  “It is quite the sight,” Paul said, stepping up to the stone wall beside the elf. “And you have nothing to apologize for, Elric. Anyone would be lost in thought. What are they waiting for? Why do they just sit upon that hill?”

  “They’ll starve us, I'm sure. No help will come from the South, the West is dealing with the orcs. The East is cut off from us by the river. The North is our only hope and I doubt they could muster enough forces in time to save us. With the stores we have in the castle, we could last maybe a month, two if we ration brutally.”

  Paul scratched his chin, and was surprised to find wispy hairs had begun to cover his lower face.

  He ran a hand over his jaw, bemused.

  Elric was still staring out at the distant army, his expression unreadable and his knuckles white on the stone. Paul couldn’t blame him. The army was so big it seemed like it could just spill down the hill and smother them at any moment.

  “We need you, Paul. I don’t think guns will be enough. The cannons can help us keep them from the walls, but we cannot eat gunpowder. We need a way to break the siege.”

  Paul stared out over the rooftops. Elric’s jaw was tight. Paul guessed he was probably on the verge of either saying something very leaderly, or failing that, and throwing himself off the nearest turret. That was the sort of morning it had been.

  Paul held out his journal.

  “There’s something I want you to see. I’ve been thinking about it all night, honestly. Couldn’t get it out of my head, not even when I really, really wanted to be asleep.”

  Paul thumbed to the appropriate page, feeling a jolt of nerves as he did so. He placed the battered journal flat on the wall between him and Elric. The elf’s hands trembled as he picked it up and Elric angled the page to catch the sunlight, lips moving as he scanned the lines.

  The silence as Elric pored over the crude blueprint was terrible. His eyes moving back and forth from the sketch to the city below, as if measuring one against the other. The city was a patchwork of rooftops, the streets still mostly empty in the early hour, but the distant hum of preparation was already building. Meanwhile, the army on the hill was a shadow on the land.

  “What am I looking at?” Elric finally asked, voice subdued. He tapped the cannon, then the massive sloping armor plates. “Is that a battering ram?”

  Paul considered. “No, it's... Well, it is a cannon but I'm not sure on the logistics of it. It’s called a war-wagon, or at least that’s what I’d call it. Maybe an assault carriage, if you want to make it sound more grand.” He hesitated, scratching again at the unfamiliar hair on his chin. “I’ve never actually designed one before. Back home, there was a man, an inventor who came up with something like this centuries before anyone knew how to build it. He drew plans for an armored wagon, powered by men inside, but he made mistakes on purpose so no one could copy it for war. There’s a story that he hated what weapons did to people, so he left the designs useless. But he still drew them.”

  Elric’s eyes narrowed. “You intend to make it work.”

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  “Yeah. I think I can. If I can make a sort of engine, or a gearing system, or even just a wind-up spring… anything that moves the wheels and lets the armor hold up under fire. I know it sounds insane, but with enough iron and strong enough wood, I actually believe we could build it. You could drive it right into their lines.”

  Elric traced the outline of the sketch again, his finger lingering over the gun barrel set deep in the nose. Paul realized the elf’s hands weren’t just shaking; they were nearly white from how hard he was pressing them to the page.

  “You would have our people… what? Charge the enemy encampment head-on?”

  Paul shrugged, trying to look casual but failing. “I don’t see why not. If the armor’s thick enough, and the gun can punch a hole in their barricades, it might work. It’s not about winning a battle. It’s about shocking them. The first time anyone saw tanks back in my world, they fled. Ran for their lives. The machines were slow, ugly, and broke down constantly, but the fear was what mattered. Sometimes, that’s all you need, one good scare.”

  Elric looked up, his eyes hard. “A scare,” he repeated, almost to himself. “You propose that we gamble everything on a single moment of terror.”

  Paul said nothing.

  The wind shifted, carrying a blend of woodsmoke, dry grass, and fear. From here, the city looked terribly fragile. Elric stared at the page for a long time, then back at the distant horizon.

  “How many would it take to operate?” he asked. “How many would die if it failed?”

  Paul considered. “One to drive it. Maybe four more to load and fire the cannon, plus a few smiths crawling all over to keep it from falling apart. I can make it safer, maybe a hatch, a way to bail out. But yes. If it failed, they’d all die. If it worked, though…”

  He trailed off, but they both saw the same thing: a way out, slim but real.

  Elric was silent, weighing the idea. Paul could see the lines at the corners of the elf’s mouth, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. For a time, Paul thought he might be about to throw the journal from the wall, or laugh him out of the city altogether.

  Instead, Elric closed the book and handed it back with care. “We have iron. We have Elves willing to try anything. The city’s best smiths serve in the forges. If you believe you can make this, you will have all the help I can command. But you must build it quickly, and it must work.”

  Paul exhaled, surprised at the surge of relief that accompanied Elric’s words. He had expected a fight, a lecture, or at the very least, skepticism. Instead, he saw in Elric the controlled desperation of a elf who saw no other path forward.

  “I can do it,” Paul said..”

  Elric nodded. “Done”

  Paul took the notebook back.

  “Wait,” Elric said, stopping him before he could turn away. “You are certain you want to risk it? This… gamble. If it fails, our last hope dies with it.”

  Paul hesitated, feeling the weight of the city pressing down. “I don’t want to risk it,” he said softly. “But if we do nothing, we still lose. At least this way, we have a shot.”

  ***

  Paul was running before his brain had even caught up with his legs. He nearly clipped some poor servant rounding a spiral stair, but managed to catch himself on the bannister. Down, down into the belly of the keep, through drafty corridors and winding halls, until he found himself back in the dense stink of sweat and fire that filled the royal forges.

  There was a racket in the main room. At least half a dozen elves were arguing around the newly finished lathe. Paul looked for the familiar wild mane of hair and the sooty knuckles of the Iron Monger.

  “Gibkin!” Paul called, louder than he meant to. “Found you.”

  Gibkin glanced up from a crucible he was tending, eyes narrowed in surprise. “What’s got you running?” he barked. The other smiths turned too, some of them frowning at the interruption, but most just looked curious.

  Paul wrestled the journal out from under his arm and shoved it at Gibkin. “Look at this, I need you to tell me if you think we can actually build something like it.” He opened the page, careful not to let the sweat on his fingers smudge the already-chaotic scrawl.

  “The Steward said I’ve got all the backing I need, and I’m supposed to use whatever it takes to break the siege.”

  Gibkin snatched the journal up and squinted at the sketch. At first, his jaw just worked silently, like he was chewing on something stubborn. Then a slow grin started to creep across his face.

  “Well I’ll be damn’d,” he said. “You want a house on a cart essentially? that’s also a cannon? Kadrêni thinking if I ever saw, ah apologies, non-elvish thinking, ” He barked a laugh, then shoved the journal into the hands of the nearest smith.

  “Get a load of this. Boy’s outdone himself. Look at these wheels, and the plates here. Show this to Tarwin, he’s been going on about shield wagons since spring.” Gibkin’s wide finger jabbed lines on Paul’s journal.

  Tarwin snatched the book, eyes gone wide. He nearly howled with laughter. “This is mad! You want us to make the shell out of whole logs or cut beams?”

  The workshop was in uproar now. Paul braced himself as the tide of questions flooded in. Elves jostled for a better look, arguing already about how best to shape the frame, which wood would stand up to shot, whether iron should be riveted or cast in slabs. The commotion rose so high that for one dizzy moment Paul felt almost at home. Then of course homesickness set in.

  Gibkin’s voice thundered above them all. “Oi! That’s enough bickering, you lot. If the engineer says use iron bands, you use iron bands. Quit it now and let him speak.”

  The room quieted a bit, all eyes on Gibkin. He jabbed the journal at Paul.

  “Explain it to me.” Said the elf.

  “Ok, right, so first thing is the frame.”