The present threat of the Swabian League had been crushed beneath the stone at Rothenburg, and the Fugger silver had bought the keep a brief breath of safety.

Yet... the long shadow of the Emperor’s Inquisition hung over Konrad’s lands like a dark cloud.

The Emperor’s men rode, bearing the absolute law of the Holy Roman Empire.

Konrad had mere weeks to raise a shield built not on iron or powder, but on undeniable, crushing wealth and trade.

He sat at the head of the table in the hall, sealing the guest list for a gathering unseen in the realm. He was not throwing a feast to boast of a battle won; he was opening a great fair of industry.

"The riders have carried word to every great house and neutral lord within the Swabian lands, Lord Konrad," Captain Eckhard reported. "Even to the Free Cities of Augsburg and Nuremberg..."

Konrad nodded, his quill scratching off names. "And the Duchy of Bavaria?"

Lady Katarina, sitting to his right, answered. "My father will not ride himself, given the shifting winds of the courts. But he sends his chief merchants and several high captains to watch."

"It is well." Konrad stated. "The aim is not to beg for swords, but to prove this forge is the beating heart of a new wealth. The Emperor’s men cannot tear down a house that holds the purse strings of the realm."

He looked across the table at Lady Isolde.

She sat quietly, her eyes cast down, a stack of heavily marked ledgers before her.

"Lady Isolde, speak of the Württemberg courts following the slaughter at Rothenburg."

Isolde looked up, "My uncle, the Duke, is mad with rage, my Lord. He has named you a warlock and a traitor. He begs the Emperor to let him lead the Inquisition host. Yet... he struggles to raise new swords. The slaughter in the gorge has terrified the common folk; they will not march."

"His strength to make war is broken," Konrad judged, pleased with the truth. "He must lean entirely on the Emperor’s writ."

The next fortnight was a blur of ceaseless, bone-wearying toil... The forges roared day and night. Master Dieter’s new water-driven cutting engine, spinning its great steel gears, was a fearful triumph. The forging of the grooved barrels swelled vastly.

Konrad also ordered a large, open pavilion built near the river, away from the smoke and heat of the fires, shaped to host the highborn guests.

On the day of the fair, the valley was thick with the banners of minor lords, rich merchants, and foreign envoys.

The weight of coin and power gathered within Konrad’s walls had never been seen in these lands. Konrad stood at the pavilion’s entrance, greeting the lords.

He wore a masterfully cut doublet of austere black velvet, stripped of the slashed silk and bright colors favored by the proud lords.

Beside him stood Elise, looking nervous but proud in a dark blue gown, and Lady Katarina, whose standing marked the silent shield of the Bavarian Duchy.

"Lord Konrad." A familiar, haughty voice sneered.

Konrad turned to see Sir Ulrich, the local knight he had cast from the smithy, strutting into the pavilion. Ulrich walked with several lesser Swabian lords who had long stood with Uncle Lothar. They looked upon the fair with deep scorn!

"Sir Ulrich," Konrad greeted. "I trust the rust on your breastplate has finally eaten through."

Ulrich’s face flushed. "You play a deadly game, Konrad. The Emperor’s Inquisition rides... All your cunning toys will burn, and you will hang for the butchery at Rothenburg."

"I did not bid you here to argue the Emperor’s law, Sir Ulrich." Konrad replied, "I bid you here to see the future of war and coin. Pray, find a seat."

As the pavilion filled, Konrad marked a clear divide among the guests.

The older lords, many deep in debt to the Fuggers or bound to the Swabian League, sat together, whispering dark words.

The younger lords, the merchants from the Free Cities, and the Bavarian envoys took the front benches, their eyes bright with curiosity.

When the sun stood high, Konrad stepped onto a raised floor at the front of the pavilion. The low hum of talk instantly died away.

"Lords, ladies, and honored guests," Konrad began, his voice carrying clearly without the need to shout. "You have heard dark tales of witchcraft, of treason, and of forbidden arms... You are here today to see the plain truth."

"...the Empire clings to an old, dying way," Konrad stated, pacing slowly. "You lean on costly, heavy-armored knights and great, slow blocks of pikemen. You buy your wars with clipped copper coin and the forced sweat of starving serfs."

He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the older, hostile lords.

"That age is dead."

On Konrad’s mark, Captain Eckhard marched a band of thirty watchmen into the open field beside the pavilion.

They were not the unarmored serfs who had held the northern pass.

With the Fugger silver, Konrad had bought scores of plain, strong half-plate armor from a neutral forge in Nuremberg. The watchmen wore matched, hardened steel breastplates and simple, open helms.

It was not the gilded, fitted armor of a knight. It was plain, alike... and deadly strong!

But it was their weapons that drew gasps from the lords.

They did not carry the short wheel-lock pistols... They carried long, sleek guns.

"This is the von Frundsberg long-arm," Konrad announced, "A true, grooved barrel, fired by a sure and steady wheel-lock."

He turned to the crowd, pointing to heavy wooden marks set up at a fearful distance of two hundred paces.

"The common matchlock shoots wild beyond fifty paces, and its burning cord is a deadly flaw," Konrad taught. "This long-arm uses winding grooves within the barrel to spin a cunning, pointed lead ball. This spin grants it terrible striking force and true aim at ranges unseen before today."

Sir Ulrich stood up, scoffing loudly. "Madness! No hand-gun can strike a mark at two hundred paces! It is a mummer’s trick!"

Konrad did not argue. He simply raised his hand.

"Captain Eckhard," Konrad ordered. "Loose."

Eckhard barked a command. The thirty watchmen dropped to one knee as one man, bringing the heavy guns to their shoulders.

"Fire!"

BANG! The crashing roar of thirty long-arms was deafening, far sharper and louder than the boom of a common gun!

A great cloud of white smoke burst across the field.

The lords instantly turned their eyes to the distant marks.

Even through the smoke, the truth was plain... The wooden marks, backed with scrap iron, had been torn to splinters. Broken wood and twisted iron rained down on the grass.

"..."

The older lords, men who had spent their lives training in heavy steel to rule the battlefield, saw in one heartbeat that their lifelong mastery of war had just been rendered dust by a peasant holding an iron tube.

"The loading takes but twenty-five breaths," Konrad continued, breaking the quiet as the watch swiftly reloaded. "A steady line of these guns can loose a storm of lead that no charge of horse or block of pikes can ever reach."

He stepped to the edge of the platform, "I am no traitor, and I deal in no witchcraft." Konrad stated, "The weapons you see are forged by the hundreds even now. The tools of making are perfected. The roads bringing brimstone and iron are secure."

He paused, letting the heavy truth settle over the crowd.

"The Emperor’s Inquisition rides to this valley to seize this craft," Konrad finished, "...but this craft cannot be seized; it can only be bought. I offer the sole right to buy these arms to the houses and cities that pledge their swords and coin to shield these lands against the Emperor’s men."

The older lords shouted in fury, crying out against the foulness of arming peasants to slay knights. But their cries were swiftly drowned by the greedy shouts of the merchants and the younger nobles, who were already rushing toward the platform, desperate to buy the pacts that would grant them absolute might in the coming wars.

Lady Katarina watched the madness... Konrad had not just forged a weapon; he had turned the very greed and wealth of the Empire into a sword against the Emperor himself!

In the back of the pavilion, largely unseen by the frantic crowd, Lady Isolde watched Konrad with look of reverence.

She knew, better than any soul there, that the Inquisition marched into a snare far deadlier than a falling mountain.