The Miracle of Eisengrad (3)
With the distribution of the steel plows, the terror of starvation had eased somewhat, but my plans still had mountains of work left to do. After the plow demonstration, the territory's people—who had previously seen me as nothing more than a frightening warmonger—had done a complete one-eighty. Genuine respect and expectation shone in their eyes, but I couldn't afford to get complacent with the current situation. Food came next: hygiene.
When armies gathered and populations densified, an unwelcome guest was sure to follow. Epidemics.
"Milord, you're not planning to make soap out of that lump of grease again, are you?"
Ella wrinkled her nose beside me as she asked. Her gaze fell on the massive piles of fat rendered from the carcasses of warhorses—stacked like mountains.
"Listen up, Ella. Even in my past life... no, in history, more soldiers died from disease than from weapons. No matter how well we arm ourselves with muskets, one epidemic could wipe out the territory."
I pointed at the horse fat chunks in the warehouse. Ella recoiled in disgust at the stench, but I ignored her and pressed on.
"This soap will save our people—and later, it'll blow our enemies to kingdom come."
"Eww! The smell! You're seriously making soap from that? Are you insane?"
I chuckled heartily at her scream-laced question and rolled up my sleeves.
"This is all soap material. Not some luxury for nobles—it's an everyday necessity for every single person in the territory."
The principle of soap was simple. Mix animal fat with lye and boil it to trigger saponification. Soap, with its cleansing power, was the most effective and cheapest way to kill germs.
I set up a makeshift factory right next to Grody's smithy—which I could now call the First Armory without shame—and put a few territory folk to work. They dumped the horse grease into huge cauldrons as ordered and lit the fires. The oily stench and greasy steam billowed out, blanketing the whole village. The workers pinched their noses at the unfamiliar sight but labored on in silence.
The next day, they watched me with reverent eyes as I climbed the platform and adjusted my green cap.
"Attention, everyone! From today, every person in Eisengrad must wash their hands and feet with this soap at least once a day. Understood?"
At my stern command, Butler Thomas ventured cautiously, "Milord, is it truly alright for commoners to use something so precious? I heard it's a luxury for nobles only."
"It's not a luxury—it's a necessity! No more half-assed scrubbing with lye water. Cleanliness prevents disease, and no disease means you can work and fire your muskets!"
I personally handed out chunks of crude soap, fresh from the cauldrons and hardened.
"Don't think of it as free! Washing with this soap is your duty as territory folk. Remember: hygiene is strength!"
The people took the soap half-doubting, half-wondering. But that afternoon, by the stream, as they lathered up and scrubbed away the grime, ecstasy spread across their faces. The musty stench that had clung to them their whole lives vanished, revealing smooth skin. They poked and prodded each other's hands in awe, as if magic had been cast. Everyone was drunk on the scent of victory soap when I quietly collected the transparent, sticky byproduct I'd separated at the bottom of the cauldrons.
"Young master, what's that sticky stuff for? What weird thing are you making this time?"
"Weird, huh? Yeah, it's pretty weird."
My real goal wasn't just clean hands for the territory folk.
Soap-making always leaves something behind.
The byproduct turned transparent amid the saponification in the cauldron. Glycerin.
"This stuff we call glycerin? It'll be the true devil's gift that cleans up anyone who eyes our territory."
For now, it'd serve as a moisturizer or cleansing aid, but react it with nitric acid and you'd get nitroglycerin—the devil's brew Nobel invented. In other words, the core ingredient for dynamite, stockpiled in massive quantities.
I stirred the bubbling cauldron with a satisfied grin. While Grody fine-tuned his tools, I was forging the territory's firepower.
Ella peered at it curiously, but I just smiled and held a glass bottle of the liquid up to the sunlight. No one knew nitroglycerin's value yet, but in my mind's blueprints, it was already vaporizing thousands of enemies at once.
From my office, I gazed at the mountains. An ominous beastly scent rode the wind, it seemed.
"Milord, what if they come with an army again?"
"Let 'em come. We're already preparing."
My mutter scattered into the cold north wind before it could linger. At the end of the newly paved road, beyond the foggy horizon, a plume of dust began to rise. It'd normally be carts from the mines, but the speed was unnaturally fast.
"W-what's that? Horses are coming, but they look off!"
A sentry on the walls shouted. I furrowed my brow and fixed my gaze. The approaching figures were two riders doubled up on one horse, and as they neared, the metallic tang of blood arrived on the wind first.
"Open the gates! Wounded incoming!"
The heavy gates groaned open at the command echoing outside. The horse stumbled inside, gasping raggedly before collapsing. Its riders tumbled to the ground. One was a dead mercenary; the other, a young woman in a tattered robe.
"Gah... hack...!"
A mage. Her clothes and face were bloodied; the mercenary's armor bore deep claw gashes.
She shoved away the soldiers trying to help her and locked mad eyes on me.
"Are you... the lord here?"
Her voice was hoarse, dark blood surging from her mouth.
"Close the gates now... prepare to hole up. From the northern mountains... orcs... ."
I gripped her shoulder hard to steady her.
"What happened? Did you fight orcs?"
"Fight? No, it was a one-sided slaughter...!"
She spat out the words. She was an investigator from the Imperial Magic Academy, probing recent ecological shifts in the northern mountains.
"They're insane. Eyes blood-red with rage, purple foam at their mouths. They didn't seem to feel pain from wounds."
What she'd faced weren't the usual lumbering orcs, but pain-ignoring monsters charging like mad. That tiresome nemesis, Volf Count, flashed in my mind. Instead of regular troops, he'd unleashed uncontrollable beasts as hounds. But it was just suspicion for now. Priority: defense.
"How big is their force?"
"The horde I saw was at least a thousand... no, more keep joining from behind the mountains. Thousands for sure. Unnaturally fast—two weeks at latest before they hit here."
Thousands of berserk orcs. Outnumbering Eisengrad's entire population. Pain-immune berserkers? Even ten times the troops couldn't hold with conventional forces.
The gathered folk's faces darkened instantly.
"O-orcs...? Milord, this can't be real! We gotta evacuate now!"
"We're done for! Orcs'll shred these walls like paper!"
Panic spread like an epidemic. The territory, high on soap bliss moments ago, turned to chaos. I barked coldly at the terrified crowd.
"Shut your mouths!"
The clamor died at my sharp command. I fiddled with the glycerin vial in my pocket.
"Orcs immune to pain? Charging even if bisected, huh?"
I smiled with interest, looking down at the fallen mage.
"Perfect. I needed test subjects to see how well my devil's brew cleans house. Thousands? Great sample size."
To the dazed Thomas and Grody, I issued orders.
"Thomas, get the wounded mage to the infirmary. Use the best herbs—no skimping. Once she's lucid, get their exact route."
I shoved blueprints at Grody and clamped his shoulder.
"Grody, no more tool-tuning downtime. From today, the smithy—no, the armory—runs 24/7. Six cannons, and every shell we can make."
"Hey, six cannons in ten days? I'll drop dead!"
Grody wailed, but I was firm.
"Make it happen if it kills you. Apply the division-of-labor process from soap production to the cannon line. I'll hand-pick and prep the crew."
I eyed the northern mountains once more. The ominous beast scent on the wind grew thicker. But to me, it was just a grand proving ground for my massive firepower plans.