Transmigration: Rise of the Iron Lord

Every Penny Rings True

The river port of Riverbend smelled of brackish water, rotting river reeds, and fried fish.

Wooden piers jutted out into the wide gray channel of the rushing river, crowded with flat-bottomed trade barges, grain scows, and timber rafts from the upstream hills. Along the stone wharf, teamsters shouted curses at stubborn pack mules, while dock laborers in woolen smocks hauled crates of dried cabbage and beer barrels toward the market square.

At the southern toll gate of the town, Robin brought his four-mule wagon to a halt.

Behind him, eleven heavy freight carts rumbled over the wet cobblestones, their iron rims grinding loudly. The twenty pikemen of Greyrock marched on either side of the wagons, their boots striking the ground in perfect unison. Their iron breastplates gleamed under the pale afternoon sun, and the four-sided diamond points of their twelve-foot pikes stood straight in the air like a wall of dark metal.

The town watchmen at the gate lowered their light crossbars, their eyes wide with disbelief.

A crowd of wharf loafers, dock workers, and river traders gathered along the roadside, staring in stunned silence. They had seen border convoys before, but they were always ragged trains of starving wretches guarding battered handcarts. Nobody had ever seen a frontier garrison march in standardized iron armor, escorting wagons that sank deep into their springs beneath tons of freight.

A round, middle-aged man in a fur-trimmed brown cloak came bustling through the crowd, puffing hard for breath.

It was Master Jonas.

When the merchant saw Robin sitting tall on the lead wagon with the sealed requisition scroll tucked into his leather belt, a broad smile broke across his face.

"You made it through," Jonas called out, waving a gloved hand to signal the town watchmen to lift the barrier. "By the saints, you actually made it through the Low Marches. Did Brandon's bailiffs give you trouble at the marsh ford?"

Robin climbed down from the driver's bench, landing on the cobblestones with a firm, solid thud. "They stood on the ridge with their bows in their hands, Master Jonas. But they looked at our pikes, saw the Count's wax seal on my belt, and let the reins pass without asking for a copper."

Jonas laughed out loud, slapping Robin on his mailed shoulder. "The whole town has been talking about it for two days. When my riders brought word that Lord Wellington had penned the Count in his own cellar, the Guild Council thought it was tavern gossip. Come, pull the wagons into the central guild yard before the river crowd blocks the street."

The wagons rolled through the open gates, turning into the wide paved courtyard of the Ironmongers' Guild.

Within ten minutes, three guild masters in velvet caps had gathered around the tailboard of the third cart. Robin climbed up, untied the hemp lashings, and threw back the thick oilcloth cover.

The guild men gasped.

Stacked in neat rows inside the wagon bed were four hundred polished iron hoe heads, fifty heavy steel-edged plowshares, and three crates of four-sided pick heads. The metal was dark, smooth, and free of slag pits, each piece stamped with the clean crest of Greyrock: a crowned anvil resting between three sheaves of wheat.

A master smith with thick gray burns on his forearms stepped forward, pulling a heavy file from his leather apron. He picked up an iron hoe head, turned it over in his rough hands, and dragged the file hard across the socket weld.

The tool didn't notch or bend. It gave off a clear, high ringing sound that made every smith in the yard turn their heads.

"This metal is puddled and beaten under continuous weight," the master smith muttered, running his thumb over the clean surface. "It isn't brittle cast iron. It has the temper of high-grade spring steel. How many men does Wellington have working his bellows?"

"One waterwheel, sir," Robin said proudly. "The river works the hammer day and night. We can forge forty of these every twelve hours without breaking a man's back."

The guild master of the metal trade, a tall man named Aldus, pushed his way to the front. "What is your price, lad? We'll buy the entire shipment on the spot. I have thirty river barges waiting for tools to ship down to the capital grain estates. The Duke's wars have stripped every forge in the valley."

Robin shook his head calmly, reaching under the front bench of the lead wagon. He pulled out the iron-bound wooden chest and set it down on the open tailboard with a heavy thud. He threw open the iron latch, revealing three thousand freshly minted bronze pennies resting in neat wooden slots.

The deep yellow bronze gleamed in the sunlight, looking rich, substantial, and bright.

Aldus reached into the box with trembling fingers, pulling out a handful of the heavy coins. He examined the raised letters, the crisp detail of the anvil seal, and the tiny, milled notches running around the rim.

"What is this?" Aldus breathed, turning a coin between his fingers. "This isn't royal coin."

"That is Greyrock bronze," Robin announced, his voice carrying across the silent yard. "Seventy percent copper, twenty percent zinc, and ten percent tin. Every coin weighs seven grams, and every edge is milled so it can't be shaved by dishonest hands. If you drop it on stone, listen to the tone."

Aldus dropped one of the bronze pennies onto the granite curb.

A sharp, bell-like ring rose into the air, clear and true, vibrating for several seconds before the coin came to rest.

"Every penny rings true," Jonas spoke up from the crowd, his voice full of tradesman's pride. "I watched them cast the blanks myself in Wellington's undercroft. That coin has more honest value than the watered silver the Duke is handing out to his mercenaries."

Aldus looked from the heavy bronze coins to the mountains of forged tools in the wagons. His eyes were wide with realization. A border lord who had his own iron, his own grain, and his own currency was no longer a castoff noble hiding in the ruins. He was a power.

"We'll take every hoe, every plowshare, and every bar of pig iron you brought," Aldus said firmly, turning to his ledger clerk. "We pay the full rate. Two pounds of raw copper ingot for every pound of finished iron tools. And for your bronze coin, our guild will accept it at face value for wool, oil, and draft leather."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the assembled crowd of carters, dock hands, and wandering tradesmen.

In the back rows, three journeyman blacksmiths and a dozen displaced tenant farmers were whispering among themselves, staring at the armored guards and the bags of grain. One of the young smiths stepped forward, looking up at Robin with anxious eyes.

"Is it true, soldier?" the young man asked. "Is Lord Wellington hiring men who know how to swing a hammer? Do you truly give land and regular wages in this valley?"

Robin smiled, resting his hand on his pike shaft.

"If you're willing to work an honest day, you'll never go hungry in Greyrock," Robin said. "The road is open, and our lord pays in coin that doesn't lie."

The young smith looked back at his companions, their minds already made up.

By sunset, Robin had unloaded all twelve wagons of iron. In their place, the carters packed twenty barrels of fine lamp oil, six crates of refined copper ingots, and four bags of leather harness tack.

Behind the freight train, thirty-five skilled craftsmen and their families stood gathered with their handcarts and bundles, ready to make the march north.

Robin climbed back onto the driver's bench, gathering the reins in his hands.

Greyrock had reached the river port. And the river port was coming to Greyrock.