You had to hand it to them: the builders of Findetann knew their trade and hadn’t been idle. In spite of having seen them in action several times, Shevlov watched in fascination as they assembled the piledriver again. The three connected timbers formed a tripod at the top of which a pulley was hung. A rope was tossed over the pulley and a heavy metal-edged block—called a ram in the builders’ jargon—was fastened to it. Shouting rhythmically, the builders tugged on the line, lifting the ram right to the top of the tripod, then quickly released it. The ram fell heavily onto a post positioned in the hole, forcing it deep into the ground. It took three, at most four, blows of the ram for the pile to be standing securely. The builders swiftly dismantled the tripod and loaded the parts onto a wagon, during which time one of them climbed up a ladder and nailed an enamel plaque with the Redanian coat of arms—a silver eagle on a red field—to the post.

Thanks to Shevlov and his free company—and also to the piledrivers and their operation—the province of Riverside, part of the Kingdom of Redania, had increased in area that day. Quite significantly.

The foreman walked over, wiping his forehead with his cap. He was in a sweat, although he hadn’t done anything, unless you count effing and blinding. Shevlov knew what the foreman would ask, because he did so each time.

“Where’s the next one going? Commander?”

“I’ll show you.” Shevlov reined his horse around. “Follow me.”

The carters lashed the oxen and the builders’ vehicles moved sluggishly along the ridge, along ground somewhat softened by the recent storm. They soon found themselves by the next post, which was decorated with a black plaque painted with lilies. The post was lying on the ground, having been previously rolled into the bushes; Shevlov’s crew had made sure of that.

Here’s how progress triumphs, thought Shevlov. Here’s how technical thought triumphs. The hand-sunk Temerian posts could be torn out and tossed down in a trice. The Redanian post driven in by a piledriver couldn’t be pulled out of the ground so easily.

He waved a hand, indicating the direction to the builders. A few furlongs south. Beyond the village.

The residents of the village—insofar as a handful of shacks and huts could be called a village—had already been driven onto the green by Shevlov’s riders, and were scurrying around, raising dust, being pushed back by the horses. The always hot-headed Escayrac wasn’t sparing them the bullwhip. Others spurred their horses around the homesteads. Dogs barked, women wailed and children bawled.

Three riders trotted over to Shevlov. Yan Malkin, as skinny as a rake and nicknamed Poker. Prospero Basti, better known as Sperry. And Aileach Mor-Dhu, nicknamed Fryga, on a grey mare.