“Ordering this much lead won't cause any kind of delay, will it?”
“It shouldn't.”
“You look surprised, Judge Caletek.”
“Your father might wish for you to use finer materials.”
“I don't care that much about what he wishes. I know what I'm doing.”
“Very well, prosecutor.”
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First, I need to make the inner framework. It's going to be composed of six rods joined at the top, with a loop around the bottom and one in the middle too. These eight rods will be where the main structural integrity of the craft comes from—they will be well-runed also. Around them I'll wrap the titanium sheet.
I cut the spare inch and three-quarters I don't need from each of the six rods, then get a metal-quill to draw the angles I need to cut at their tops. Each needs to have a sixty degree corner to fit to the adjacent two.
The saw I've been provided with is far sharper than any I've used before. The diamonds at its edge are frighteningly small. It's amazing to me that a non-runeknight could have made something so exact. I'm thankful to whoever did make it though, because my cutting goes perfectly. The planes need very little sanding to make them smooth.
I push the rods together into their conical shape and am satisfied. Now for a tricky part—bending them. They need to curve evenly around to fit the head of the armor stand, and need to do this in symmetrical fashion, or at the moment the hammer strikes some of the rods will take more strain than the others, and snap or warp.
Immediately I run into a problem: the main horn of this anvil is smaller than I'm used to. I'll need to strike often with softer taps. I make a few experimental strikes. They hit with more force than I was expecting—whatever this anvil is made of, it's got far more rebound to it than steel.
Very carefully, I hammer the first rod curved. It looks decent, but when I lay it onto my sketch, I see that it isn't curved enough, and also that the curve is uneven. There's little flat dents where my hammer struck which will need to be evened out.
Cursing, I return to the anvil. This time I'm extra careful with my strokes. I compare it to my sketch again. Still not right. I look at the sand timer—most of another short-hour has already passed. Shit!
This is no time to panic, I remind myself. I'd expected to run into issues, just like every runeknight does in the forge. I just need to overcome them calmly and trust in my skill. I go back to the anvil, and this time I shut my eyes and listen.
Yes, this is the way to do things. I learned down below that eyes aren't the only means of observation a runeknight has. I hear the notes the titanium makes and feel the vibrations in my flesh and bones.
This time when I compare the rod to the sketch, it's perfect. I move on to the other rods. They go very smoothly, and within a short-hour and a half—about three regular hours—this part of the forging is complete.
Next for the loops. They need to be perfectly circular. I start with the smaller one first, the remaining twelve inch rod, which will sit just over the crown of the armor-stand's head.
To my happy surprise, the crafting goes smoothly. The larger loop, made from the twenty inch rod, is a little harder: my first attempt ends up elliptical. I try again. I wish I had my runic ears, then I'd be able to properly hear the shape of the metal. As it is, all that's with me of my own belongs is my amulet of unaging—the sapphire one—cold against my breastbone.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
This is in the interests of a fair trial, apparently. Taking the amulet of a runeknight away can result in rapid deterioration—yet also, I realize as I stand here, this rule probably benefits Barahtan more than me. His amulet surely grants more vigor than mine does.
At the end of the third short hour of seventy, I finish the base loop. It's very even. Hopefully it'll mostly stay that way at the next part of the process: hardening.
I sit down at my writing desk and think hard. I'm about to take a risk. If it pays off, I might just be able to make this armor the toughest piece I've ever completed. Yet there's a high risk of failure.
But Guildmaster Wharoth told me I had to push my skills to their utmost.
I decide to take the risk. On paper, it's no trickier than any other kind of heat treating. I can manage it. I open up the catalogue and soon find what I need, then I call over Judge Daztat.
“Yes?”
“I want two gallons of this, and this tungesten bucket too, please.”
“That's thirty golden wheels. You don't have enough.”
“The tungsten bucket is a hire, which makes it only two golden wheels. Plus the fireflea oil, my total comes to eight golden wheels.”
“Of course. I apologize for the misunderstanding. Plus tax, that comes to eight golden wheels and three silver loops.”
“Thank you.”
Still trying to scam me—I glower at the back of his head as he relays my request to one of the guards. I wonder if he'll be here with me the whole trial, or just the first round.
Not that I think either of the other judges will be more fair.
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“What in hell is that boy doing?” rages Batarast, peering at Barahtan through a pair of magnifying lenses. “What in hell is all that for?”
“Lead is heavy,” says his wife, dressed all in gold. “Seems an obvious choice for a hammer.”
“Yes, but so much! He's ordered something very impure. Fool!”
“Why would he do that?”
“No bloody idea. If he loses this...”
“Relax. I'm sure he knows what he's doing.”
“He always thinks he knows what he's doing. But he never has a bloody clue!”
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The hardening technique I'm about to employ is called solution hardening. No one is quite sure how it works, least of all the author of the tome I discovered it in. She theorized that the inner particles of the metal, which some dwarves believe to exist, somehow rearrange themselves after being air-cooled in the second stage. What's important is this: it makes the titanium much more resistant to deformation.
I pour the fireflea oil from its foil bag into the tungsten bucket. It doesn't glow like I'd expected it to; instead it's just a dull orange. It stinks like infected snot, and there's a few bits of leg and shell floating on top of it. I hold my nose with one hand and pick those out with the other, flick them into the pearlescent sand.
Next, I switch on the furnace to a very precise temperature—one thousand and thirty five degrees. I wait until it's reached its maximum heat, then I pick up the bucket with my longest tongs. It swings back and forth pendulously. I have to put it in very slowly in order not to spill any.
A little slops out. It bubbles and steams on the interior of the furnace and the stink nearly makes me choke, but I manage to place the bucket down without spilling any more.
Now I wait precisely ten minutes until the oil has reached its maximum temperature. I glance up at the crowd; they are staring back at me. A few jeer and try to meet my eyes. I turn back to my craft.
A glowing mist has formed inside the furnace, just as it's supposed to. Fireflea oil is no ordinary type of oil: that mist can pass into metals if both are at high temperatures. After the metal is cooled, the essence will be trapped within the metal, lending it strength.
I gather together the straight titanium rods, and use my widest pair of tongs to grip them all at once. I'm glad the furnace is so wide—it makes it easy to manipulate them into the bucket of oil. The surface shivers violently, and glowing mist rushes out, stinging my eyes. I rub the tears away and look at the sand timers. I've already calculated how long they need to be in for—ten minutes and forty three and a half seconds.
There's some kind of commotion in the stands; dwarves are standing and pointing to the other side of the dividing wall. Barahtan has done something incredible perhaps, or, hopefully, has made some terrible mistake. There's no way to tell which, and I try to ignore the noise.
I drag a workbench over to the front of the furnace, then place a bucket of water next to it. I keep my eyes on the timers. The ten minute mark passes. I count the seconds, open and close my tongs in time with them. Now forty have passed; I reach into the bucket.
I gather the rods up smoothly and pull them out. Oil drips onto the sand. The stink has changed into a heady scent that makes my head swim. The titanium glistens with an orange tinge, as if dark fire runs across it. I plunge them into the water bucket; steam erupts.
Gradually the mist clears.
My heart nearly stops—there's only five in the bucket. Horrified, I rush to the furnace and peer into the oil bucket, and see that I've left one of the rods inside.