The South Slope was alive. For the first time in a generation, the sound of rhythmic digging and the low lowing of oxen drifted up to the castle battlements. But Alaric knew that planting was only half the battle. In the 21st century, a farmer had industrial pesticides and climate-controlled silos. Here, a single damp week or a swarm of locusts could turn his "economic miracle" into a mass grave.
"The soil is too acidic," Alaric muttered, kneeling in the dirt. He rubbed a damp clump of earth between his fingers. It was heavy, smelling of sour moss. "And the smut... if the fungus takes the wheat before the frost, we've just wasted the Duke's stolen seed."
"My lord?" Martha stood behind him, carrying a bucket of water. She looked at him with a mix of awe and fear now. The village was whispering that the Young Lord hadn't just recovered from a fever, he had brought something back from the other side.
"Martha, I need you to gather the wood ash from every hearth in the castle," Alaric commanded, standing up and brushing his tunics. "And I need the limestone from the old quarry. Not for building, for crushing."
"Ash, my lord? The laundry women use it for soap, but—"
"I need it for the fields. And bring me the brine from the fish-salting barrels. The bitter liquid at the bottom that they usually throw out."
By noon, Alaric had transformed the castle's outer courtyard into a primitive laboratory. To the passing guards, it looked like madness. The Young Lord was mixing grey ash, white powdered lime, and foul-smelling salt liquor in giant iron cauldrons.
"What is the boy doing now?" Count Valerius grumbled, standing on the balcony with Kaelen.
"He calls it 'Soil Tonic,' Father," Kaelen replied, his arms crossed. He had spent the morning hauling sacks and was surprisingly invigorated by the physical labor. "He says the lime 'sweetens' the earth and the ash 'feeds' the grain."
Alaric was actually performing a crude version of Chemical Soil Conditioning. The lime (calcium carbonate) would neutralize the soil's pH, while the wood ash provided essential potash (potassium). But his most important "invention" was the treatment of the seeds themselves.
He soaked the stolen wheat in a copper-sulfate solution he'd derived by boiling old copper scraps with sulfur-rich runoff from the nearby marshes.
"This," Alaric explained to a skeptical Old Tom, who was watching the blue-tinted grain, "is the difference between a harvest and a famine. It kills the spores of the stinking smut. The fungus won't eat the wheat from the inside out."
"Blue grain," Tom whispered, crossing himself. "It looks like devilry, Lord Alaric."
"It's not devilry, Tom. It's Science. It's the study of how the world is put together."
As the villagers began spreading the treated seed and the "tonic" over the South Slope, Alaric felt a familiar itch. The agriculture was moving, but he needed a way to protect it, not just from mold, but from the Duke.
He looked toward the castle's crumbling forge. He had the plow. He had the seed. He had the soil. But he lacked Steel.
Medieval iron was brittle, riddled with slag. If the Duke sent his "Blackhawks," Oakhaven's spear-tips would shatter against their superior plate armor. Alaric closed his eyes, visualizing the molecular structure of a Bessemer converter. He couldn't build a factory yet, but he knew the secret of the Blast Furnace.
"Father!" Alaric called out, seeing the Count descending the stairs. "I need the old masonry from the collapsed North Tower. And I need the strongest bellows in the County."
The Count stopped, his hand on his sword hilt. "More 'geometry,' Alaric? Or are you planning to turn the castle into a kitchen?"
"I'm going to turn Oakhaven into an armory," Alaric said, his eyes flashing with a cold, modern light. "Because once the Duke realizes his grain is missing, he won't send a Bailiff. He'll send a legion."