Lawrence awoke on the ice. Winter’s body lay nearby. The cold sat heavy on the quad. Lawrence crawled over to Cosmic’s body.
“Cosmic? Cosmic Creepers?” he cradled the llama’s head. Tears and snot ran. Lawrence wiped his nose.
“Doc?” Cosmic’s eyes fluttered. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.” Lawrence rubbed the top of his head. “It’s over Cos. You won. You beat him.”
“My human, was I a good boy?” Cosmic moaned.
“The best. You were the best.” Lawrence supported his head. “Okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Cosmic cried. He lifted his head.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Lawrence held him. Tears ran from Cosmic’s eye. Lawrence didn’t know llamas could weep.
Cosmic keened. He gave a long, mournful cry. His neck relaxed. Lawrence hugged the llama for all he was worth.
-
With Winter dead, Lawrence and Lily stayed in Nimue’s Tower a while longer. Weatherly and another master got their immortality, to their contract-holders’ chagrin. The students added alchemy and artificing to their curriculum. The masters too, were excited for new material.
Lucrezia, the drama-obsessed master, called up Lawrence and congratulated him on livening up her week. She hadn’t seen such entertainment in decades.
Lawrence made a preservation artifact in Winter’s workshop and put it on Cosmic Creepers’ body. Then he put the body in his new, expanded bag of holding. Lily said it was barbaric. Lawrence told her to shut up.
Blood Well’s lord congratulated them on killing one of his rivals. He recognized Lawrence’s captain rank, even though Lawrence did not have horns. Lawrence had a standing invitation to come dine. Kyri brought up the remaining sugar to celebrate, which the students and staff enjoyed.
Lawrence did know how long they spent at the school. The ice melted. Classes resumed. At some point he grew so frustrated with Weatherly he knocked the old man flat and took over his lessons. The old British professor was properly furious but learning improved.
Lily did not push. By nonverbal agreement, she gave Lawrence space. Burial would be good, Lily persuaded, but the school could use the meat. It would be best to bury the llama before the students stole his body and ate it. Meat was hard to come by as it was. And besides, it wasn’t like Cosmic Creepers was a person or anything. Just an animal, right? Lily stopped talking when she saw Lawrence’s expression. She ran.
“Lily,” Lawrence opened when he next saw her. “I made a banishment scroll and a summoning scroll. I want you to banish me to a place I know and then summon me back after I call you.”
“Okay.” Lily took the scrolls. “A please would be nice, though.”
“Please.” There. It was said.
“Do you have a list of instructions for the casting? I’m not a faustian. I have no intention to become one.” She held out her hand, expectant.
“I’ll show you.”
-
“I brought you a story.” Lawrence held up the journal he’d filled. “A pulp adventure story in Hell, as promised.”
“Cool.” Frost took the journal. “Just one question: how the heck did you get here?”
“I had Lily use a targeted banishment spell on me. I showed her how it needed to be done and then I showed her how to hang a summoning spell for when I’m done.” Lawrence took his backpack off. “Can I sit?”
“Sure.” Frost indicated one of the vacant reading chairs. He took the journal to his counter. He skimmed the pages. “Not very long is it?”
“It is as long as it needs to be.” Lawrence chose one of the painted wooden chairs at the polished wooden crafting tables. Given it had been made in this fantasy world, it was made from real wood from a tree in the nearby forest. It was not particle board or whatever cheap stuff furniture stores on Earth peddled. This table, the chairs, and all the rest of Frost’s furniture had character. “Mind if I knit?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Can I borrow your workshop? For the, uh, skirting and stuff?”
“Uh huh.”
Lawrence picked up his backpack. Leaving the lovely wooden tables, he pushed through the double doors into the stock room of the bookstore. He didn’t see any slaves in cages waiting to get shipped to alien overlords. The bondage equipment was gone. That was nice. Lawrence was on the verge of falling into a trance; he wanted no interruptions.
He spread a tarp on the floor. He took two sawhorses and sat them on top with equal heights. Next he took some chicken wire and laid it over a simple aluminum fence. He covered the sharp edges of both with Styrofoam tubes so his clothes wouldn’t get cut. He laid Cosmic Creepers’ wool out on the wire with the cut side down. He had eight pounds to work with, and about half sat on the frame. It occupied an area the size of a small child and thickness of one’s pillow. Lawrence spent the next several hours cleaning the wool with his fingers. He pulled out burrs from the farm and pebbles from Hell. He rattled the wire to send loose detritus falling.
Llamas did not have wool. They had fiber. It was hypoallergenic, meaning someone with wool allergy had a better chance of tolerating it. Each strand of fiber was hollow, meaning it was lighter and stronger than wool. It provided more warmth than sheep wool. Alpaca fiber was better than llama, it was softer and warmer.
Alpacas were social prey animals. They required a herd to be happy. They were timid and avoided new friends. They were also smaller, about half the size of a llama. Llamas were the exact opposite. They were curious guard and pack animals. Indigenous South Americans used llamas for meat, clothing, sacrifices, making rope, and carrying loads for thousands of years. Lone llamas would bond with and protect the nearest herd they had. In Lawrence’s case, him. In most other cases, whatever herd animal sharing its space.
Alpaca and llama fiber had a weakness not shared by wool: memory. Sheep wool would retain its shape over time. Llama fiber would stretch. Lawrence took this into account as he worked. Cosmic Creepers’ speckled gray fiber was the color of ashes after a fire. Lawrence spread it on a screen. He spent a long time cleaning it of debris. It picked up dust and dirt in the Other World and in Hell. Lawrence went slow. He did not rush.
He had eight pounds to clean. His fingers got all sticky from the lanolin. When he was finished, he washed his hands. The fiber lay out on the wire. He went over it with gloves one more time. Satisfied, he began sorting. He pulled the hairs apart. He split them into groups based on color, hairiness, staple length, and grade.
Lawrence had learned fiber from a single animal could not be spun into yarn and then knitted. When he first got Cosmic, that was his assumption. He assumed he could shave the llama no different from shaving his own head, then wash the wool and twist it into yarn. Frost’s grandma did not laugh. Kind and polite, she explained how a single shearing produced fiber for all sorts of things. Therefore, it must be sorted.
Frost had the supplies for this, even though he did not produce raw material. Several of his customers had flocks and they brought their wool or fiber in. According to the color wheel, Cosmic Creepers’ wool was light silver-gray shading lighter and darker in places.
Next, he sorted by staple length. All fibers from 1.5” to 3.75” were labeled “woolen.” These were best suited for spinning into crochet and knit products. “Worsted” fibers were 3.75 inches to 6 inches. Worsted fibers were best suited for the type of spinning leading to weaving. Anything less than 1.5 inches went into a “thirds” pile. Anything over 6 inches went into the “discard” pile, because no mill either on Earth or the Other World could process fiber over six inches. Thus, the length of the creature’s fiber when shearing was paramount.
Grade determined the material’s fineness based on microns. Lawrence retrieved a microscope. Frost did not have a nice, modern microscope like what the school’s used. He had a bulky, unwieldy thing covered in plastic and rounded edges. It was a children’s hobbyist microscope for the elementary scientist. Lawrence turned it to the maximum setting. One micron was 1/25,000 of an inch.
The softest fleece was grade 1. The absolute softest a llama—or alpaca, because modern people used alpaca for fiber and llama for guarding—could be. Grades 2 and 3 were best for yarn intended for clothing. Grade 4 was best for socks. Grade 5 and 6, being coarser, were best for things not next to the skin, like rugs and felting projects.
Telling them apart was not an easy task. Lawrence took one of the clumps sorted by color. He held it up to the light and pulled it apart. He was careful not to separate the strands. Grade 1 fiber, when pulled thus, formed a kind of web. The strands were so small and intertwined they formed a net like an unrolled cotton ball. Grade 6 fiber did not have this property; it was more like a clump of hairs.
He was looking for the micron, as best he could see. Professionals got certified in this task. In alien lands and in traditional Earth crafts, professional textile workers received special training for this task. Lawrence had no such training. If he were on the Program, he could acquire a Skill. Alas, he had to make do without. Finer micron hairs equaled softer grades.
The final measurement was hairiness. Llamas and alpacas grew two types of fiber. The primary fiber was like a tree standing straight up. The secondary fiber was a cluster of smaller fibers winding around the central one like vines growing up the side of the tree. If the primary fiber was longer or coarser than the secondary, it was considered hairy. On a finished piece of alpaca, one might see lots of fibers sort of sticking out in random directions. Such products would be considered “hairy.”
Lawrence could tell on finished products. Hairy fibers produced a type of yarn identified, known by, and felt as “prickly.” Lawrence did not mind the prickly feeling. Compared to some of the military uniforms and the robes from Nimue’s Tower, so-called prickly yarn was rather soft. Frost was less sympathetic when Lawrence asked him about it, he recalled.
“Prickly yarn is like wearing a cactus,” Frost declaimed, shuddering as he remembered something. “Why? Ya want some?”
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
“I like it,” Lawrence admitted.
“Here. Try this.” Frost had shoved at him a beautiful white scarf with two black stripes running lengthwise. All over and around it was covered with hairy strands like a giant fuzzball. Lawrence had wrapped it around his neck. Frost hunched his own shoulders as if in sympathy and asked, “Well?”
“I like it. Can I have it?”
“It was fifty-five bucks,” Frost sounded scandalized. “I got it as the Chris Kringle Market in the Market Plaza this year. You didn’t go did you? Brought in aliens from all over this world. Showcased our ethnic artisans and their amazing abilities. Lots of people got lots of levels and classes. Cool stuff. I suppose I could part with it for… mmm… thirty-five dollars?”
“Can you do twenty?” Lawrence opened his wallet. He loathed breaking a twenty, but he couldn’t pass on the scarf. It was so beautiful. It deserved better than sitting in a closet unused.
“I can.”
Lawrence forked over the twenty. A piece of him went with the money. He needed it for other things. He disliked spending money on anything. But the scarf…
In the present, Lawrence shook his head. The scarf sat at home, in a box, because Lawrence had forgotten it when he left the first time. His excuse? He’d been expecting Hell would be hot. He did not want to get such a beautiful thing dirty. But leaving it at home, in a box, was hypocrisy. And worse: money wasted.
In the present, Lawrence subdivided each group based on hairiness. Most of Cosmic Creepers’ fiber was silver-gray. Most of the length was four to five inches, placing it square in the “weaving” category. Lawrence hated it. He wanted to knit himself a cloak with a dragonscale pattern. He saw one done using a crochet hook. He wanted to use his knitting needles. Instead, he’d have to weave.
He knew little of weaving. He’d have to hire Claret to teach him. Disappointing. No doubt the man would preach at him. Oh well. It was grade 2 fiber, perhaps 3. Perfect for his project. Not at all hairy. Lawrence put everything into separate plastic bags. He used a sharpie to mark each with the data. He disassembled the cleaning frame and put all the pieces away. He put away the sawhorses. He gathered up the tarp and dumped all the contents on it into a bin. He put the tarp away.
He went outside to pay Frost for his tools.
“I don’t have much,” Lawrence apologized. “But I’ve got some weapons. Nimue’s Tower was disappointing.”
“Mmm.” Frost glanced up.
“I still need to do the weaving and stuff. I need to summon the Claretian. Can I keep using your workshop?”
“That’s fine.” Frost shrugged. He was engrossed in Lawrence’s journal.
Lawrence returned to the back room. He got out his chalk and candles. He summoned Anthony Maria Claret, the 19th century Spanish Catholic Archbishop and patron saint of weaving. His father was a weaver. Claret had some experience in the trade before going into ministry.
“Lawrence, son, how are you?”
“I am well, and yourself?”
“Good, good. How may I assist you?” After a pause, he gave Lawrence a weird look and asked, “Are you all right?”
“This is llama fiber.” Lawrence pulled the bags out of his backpack. He looked right through Claret as if the man wasn’t there. “I just finished skirting and sorting it. It belonged to my dear friend Cosmic Creepers.”
“The talking llama, I remember. How is the old chap?”
“He took on a level 100 [Demon Lord]. He was buying time for me to escape, but I couldn’t leave him. I ran back. I saw the whole thing. He used Skills. [Iron Fiber], [Iron Hooves]. I swear he was possessed by an angel or something. He summoned spirit llamas. Golden light surrounded him. It was like he was a [Paladin] or something. I couldn’t save him.” Lawrence realized he was crying.
“It’s all right.” Claret put a hand on his shoulder.
“I killed the demon. I dunno how. I just got… really, really hungry, I guess. He disappeared. I sheared Cosmic. Now I need to turn his fiber into something. So he can keep protecting me. I can’t… I need him. He was my only friend.”
“I’ll help you.” Claret snapped his fingers. A loom appeared on the floor. Claret patted the bench. “Take a seat.”
Claret sat next to him. Lawrence wiped his face. When Lawrence revealed the fiber needed spinning, Claret banished the loom. He summoned a spinner for Lawrence to use. He showed Lawrence how to string it. Lawrence already knew much of the process. He kept his mouth shut regardless.
Claret showed him how to spin worsted yarn in two directions. Doing so would help prevent it from unravelling. Lawrence made the right sounds and asked the right questions. Claret kept giving him weird looks. Lawrence spun the worsted fiber into yarn he could use for weaving.
Claret told him the loom could not work with the discarded fiber because it was too long. Lawrence took all the fibers not used for weaving. He divided them by color and grade as best he could and spun them together. In the end, it did not matter as much as he thought would. Claret had a different opinion, but he did not offer it.
When they completed spinning, Claret banished the spinning wheel. He resummoned his loom. There were many kinds of looms. Claret preferred a table loom because it was easier for Lawrence to use. But the workshop’s counter was not conducive to the setup. Instead, he summoned a floor loom. He showed Lawrence how to string the yarn. He showed him how to rig and move the shuttle.
The process was slow. Lawrence did not care. Claret chattered enough for two people, which was fine with Lawrence. Lawrence answered all his questions. Where was Nimue’s Tower? What was Lawrence’s background? What did he want to do? Why was he so interested in weaving when he wanted to study magic? Why study magic when he was gifted with knitting?
Slowly, the garment took shape. It was a poncho, but it was far from the knitted or crocheted thing Lawrence imagined. It was made from a single piece of material. It was soft enough he could wear it against his skin. It included a hood. It was a little smaller than it needed to be to account for stretching. People often blended llama and alpaca fiber with acrylic.
Acrylic was water-resistant, almost -proof. It retained its shape unlike other materials. It was warmer than wool, but not as warm as llama. It was machine washable, unlike llama. It was not as soft as llama, but it performed great as a material for outdoor labor and temperature. It could be made in a heap of colors and patterns. It was Lawrence’s favorite material to use when knitting.
He had no acrylic with him. Oh yes, he could go buy some from Frost. But he did not think of it. When Claret suggested it, gently, Lawrence ignored it.
The poncho was silver-gray. It had a fringe around the edge, courtesy of Claret’s heeded suggestion. Claret’s job was finished but Lawrence did not dismiss him yet. Lawrence took the finer yarn remaining and a needle. Its color was not true black, but bay black. Disappointing, but Lawrence did not mind.
He embroidered a bay-black llama across the poncho’s heart. Then he took the beige yarn and sewed the outline of a heater shield around the llama. At some point, Frost appeared. He looked like he had something to say, but a look from Claret and he shut his mouth.
Lawrence watched anime. Though he would seldom admit to it, yes, he watched anime. He sometimes wondered what kind of pirate flag he’d fly in his great search for the One Piece. He’d seen all the volumes of RWBY. He’d thought long and hard about what unique emblem he could make. Emblems were a signature. It was why countries spent so much time and effort making their flag. It was why every flag was unique. Even the aliens had sigils for their Houses.
A skull and crossbones with a straw hat. A yellow heart on fire. A white wolf’s head on a gray field, and the House words: “Winter is coming.” The words were a signature as much as the sigil. The stars and stripes. Alien houses had floral and animal themes.
Lawrence chose a llama and a shield. When he acquired the colors he wanted he’d make a professional emblem on a plate or patch. Until then, a bay-black llama on a beige-white heater shield would have to do. He did not choose the symbol. It chose him. He held up the finished garment.
It was ruana-style poncho. It had a split down the opening to the hem. It hung to Lawrence’s knees. He wrapped the ends over his shoulders like a scarf, making the garment cover his torso. It was silver-gray. Lawrence’s version differed from a regular ruana by having a hood.
“It’s beautiful,” he said after examining himself in the mirror. He felt the trance he’d drifted into break. He put the hood up. He could almost feel Cosmic’s nose brushing his ear. “Thank you, Claret. Thank you for your help.”
Lawrence bowed low at the waist. His father would be scandalized.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer. I’ve got some gold if you like.”
“I don’t need any money.” Claret raised a hand. “Summon me more often. I enjoy your company.” He began fading.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll take your gold,” Frost said. “You do owe me for my workshop. And materials. And tools.”
Lawrence forked over the pouch of gold he’d gotten from Hell. It pained him to spend so much money. He had made what he considered a priceless treasure. He did not need the gold anyway, not right now. He could get more later. In any case, he saw the shine reflected in Frost’s eyes.
Lawrence gathered up his backpack. He still had some fiber left over. He put it into his backpack until he could decide what else to make.
“I need to get back,” Lawrence said.
“Right. Well, before you go, I need to tell you something. I was going to use my editor-voice but from the look on your face I’ll be a lot nicer.” He held up the journal. “You like Harry Dresden, right? You remember Storm Front?”
“Dresden battles a serial killer wizard while a wizard cop’s guillotine hangs over his head? Yeah.”
“Right. Well. Storm Front was about 86,000 words. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was 77,000. It was a kid’s book; those tend to run shorter. The Hobbit was 95,000. A Game of Thrones was 298,000 and it flew. The point is, while you were working I scanned all your pages into a computer. Then I used AI to translate them and the formatting into a pdf. Then I checked the word count.”
“It’s too long, isn’t it? I could tell when I was writing. It took forever.”
“No. It’s too short.” Frost shook his head. “The raw manuscript was only 62,000 words. After I edited, it became 52,000.”
“Is that bad?”
“Well, it’s a not a full novel. If you were a Japanese comic book writer then, yeah, you could say you’ve written a light novel. But you’re An-American-In-Another-World writer. You’ve written a longer-than-normal novella. Not a fantasy novel. Not an entry to a series. I need more material, bud. I need you to get into life-threatening, high stakes, nail-biting situations. The llama-sacrifice part was good. But we need more.”
“How do I… do that?” Lawrence floundered.
“You ever watch TV?” Frost said after a moment.
“Yeah.”
“TV shows—drama or gameshow, doesn’t matter—are all about plot lines. Stories. Take Squid Game as an example. It’s a game show of death. But they make good stories out of it. You ever read Dungeon Crawler Carl?
“The talking cat and the bomb guy, right?”
“Right. Early on, the alien fish-people tell him to make some great stories every time he gets to a new floor. The whole thing runs on it. Like the subplot with the Viking chick in an early book? That subplot took a lot of planning to pull off because he had to team up with one of her lackeys. They had to build a relationship. She had to switch her loyalties. Then everything came to a head and a great climax. It was better because they were in the middle of something else and short on time, upping the tension.”
“I just want to make friends and get into a good school so I can learn how to be a great mage.”
Frost threw his head back and laughed.
“Oh sweetie, school is overrated. I should know. I’ve got a doctorate and here I am running a business on a razor-thin profit. Find something you enjoy that you can do for money. The best mages might start at school but they don’t stay there. You like RWBY, right? Ruby Rose didn’t stay at school long. By the end of Volume Three school was out forever and they were walking the earth like Frodo.”
“So you’re saying?”
“Go have some adventures. Chase danger. You ever play Dark Souls 2? ‘Seek misery. Seek souls. Larger, more powerful souls.’ Seek stronger enemies to kill. Go do those tough things and grow. It’s like Ikora Rey in Destiny. ‘Seek out things that challenge you. Force yourself to grow. Do not allow yourself to become complacent. If anything comes between you and the Light, destroy it.’”
“Can I go, now?” Lawrence looked away.
“Fine.” Frost sniffed. “You remember what I said? Bring me more than a novella this time. Go do risky stuff and stay away from Dis. School is overrated.”
Lawrence used a hung message spell to notify Lily. His entire body tingled. The bookstore turned transparent. The gray summoning circle of Nimue’s Tower superimposed itself on the surroundings. Lawrence decided he would ignore Frost’s advice. He would go to Dis and hopefully Pandemonium. He would do as he pleased.
-
“Oh wow. It’s beautiful.” Lily touched the poncho without his permission. She ran her fingers over the detailed embroidery. “Did you buy this?”
“I made it using Cosmic’s wool.” Lawrence wrapped the poncho around his shoulders. He slipped some leather loops over the buttons to keep everything together.
“Lawrence this is incredible.” Lily stared open-mouthed. “Can you make me one?”
“Bring me some wool and I can make you anything you want.”
Burial was not a subject Lily broached again. The other students tried. It would help. It was a form of healing. It would help him say goodbye. Lawrence ignored them all. When that didn’t work, he shouted at them until they left.
A long time later, he packed up the things he thought he’d need. He had the faustian robes in his bag of holding, but he didn’t plan on wearing them much. He had spent a long time preparing hung spells. Now he was ready.
“You don’t think you’re leaving without me, are you?” Lily asked him. She linked an arm with him and half-tugged him down the slope. “Come on, kid. How are you planning on getting to Pandemonium? It’s a long way.”
“Pandemonium is the stretch goal,” Lawrence rasped. His voice was rough from disuse. “Let’s start with something easier. Like Dis.”
“Fine,” Lily chirped. “Dis it is. I haven’t been to the sea in so long. I can’t wait to stretch my fins.”
Lawrence groaned. It was going to be a long walk.