“Shit!” I yell as I snatch the titanium rod out. It hisses violently as I plunge it into the water with the rest.
How long was it in there? I guess about a minute and a half extra, but it's impossible to tell now. I curse and throw my tongs down into the sand. Damn this! The book warned me that the timing for this operation is extremely important. There's a sweet spot for the amount of essence that has to come into the metal. Undershooting it isn't usually a problem, but overshooting can cause drastic weakening.
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“What's he done, guildmaster? I can't see!”
“Left a rod in the furnace too long,” sighs Wharoth.
He and a large group of his guild members are sitting in the west part of the stands, where they can see Zathar most clearly. He's spent a rather large amount of gold from the Association of Steel's coffers to ensure every dwarf who wanted to come could. However, in the interests of economy, he had his senior guildmembers buy their own tickets, so he's ended up sitting with the more junior ranking ones.
“Is that such a problem?” asks another runeknight. Her voice is high and youthful, of true youth, not that which comes from an amulet. She was but a child when the black dragon came.
“It is for this technique, Meldae. Fireflea oil is very tricky to use.”
“Why did he try using it then?”
“Because if he doesn't take a few risks he's got no chance of winning.”
“I wish we could see what Barahtan's doing from here.”
Wharoth does not. He's dreading the moment two long-hours from now when Zathar's helmet will be tested, because judging by what he's glimpsed of Zathar's sketches, it's clear he doesn't understand how to win this contest of crafts.
In fact, he may have lost this first round already.
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I lay the six rods on the anvil for examination. The first five are all a uniform dark red-orange tint, but the last is brighter. Should I risk using it? No, I decide. That would be foolish.
Could I use the off-cuts? I made sure to purchase extra titanium just for this kind of occurrence. But welding them together will take time, and result in weaknesses I can't afford. I'll just have to buy another rod.
Feeling terribly humiliated—I can hear laughter from the stands—I call over Judge Daztat. He saunters over.
“Yes?”
“I need another titanium rod. Ten and a quarter inch this time, same thickness and alloy.”
He smirks. “Very well. That's another gold wheel and a silver loop off your total, though.”
“How much do I have left?”
“Let's see... Eight and three... Twenty-six... And now one and one. You've spent thirty five gold and four silver. So that makes fourteen and six remaining.”
That isn't much. I tell Judge Daztat to wait on ordering while I take a look at the catalogue. How much is the platinum for the runes going to cost? I calculate—fifteen gold wheels. Too much. I'll have to downgrade half to silver. That will make the cost for metal for the runes only ten.
How much reagent will four golden wheels and six silver loops get me? Barely enough. Thankfully reagent is a little cheaper in Allabrast—at least compared to the cost of everything else—since there's a lot of grand old refineries here, and the close-guarded techniques they use are less wasteful. Even so, I won't be able to afford even a single mistake with the runes.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
That's too dangerous. If my abilities go awry somehow...
“I won't order the rod just yet. Instead, I'll order six feet of platinum wire, gauge two hundred fifty, and three of silver. Plus twelve grams of incandesite, grain size four.”
Daztat raises his eyebrows. “Ordering all your materials so soon?”
I refuse to take the bait. “Just get them for me, please. The total comes to twelve gold wheels. Plus one for your tax.”
“One and one silver.”
“Whatever you say.”
He relays the order to a guard and I move onto the second part of hardening the five rods. It's going to take a while, so I better get it done early—fortunately all I have to do is heat them to nine hundred degrees, then switch the furnace off and let them cool slowly. Very slowly: it's going to take more than half of one of my long-hours.
I repeat the fireflea oil hardening with the inner loops. Thankfully this time all goes to plan. Hopefully the next part of my craft will too. It's time to start on the sheet metal.
It's going to be all one piece wrapped around the rods. I start to shape. It's tricky, because this alloy feels a little different from what I'm used to, but at least the mistakes I make can be fixed with a few more careful hammer strikes.
Soon I get into a rhythm. I sink into that familiar feeling where everything around me vanishes and there's just the clang of metal on metal and the shiver of my strikes traveling up my arm. Everything around me disappears, arena, crowd, walls, the furnace; even my legs seem to vanish. All that remains is metal, anvil, hammer and tongs.
My new materials arrive; I barely notice.
I finish it. Upon the anvil now stands the main part of the helm, and it is perfectly proportioned and smoothed. The metal of amateur runeknights ends up beaten and battered, even after many attempts to fix, but I have progressed beyond that stage. My metal is smooth and gleams brightly in the glow of the arena lights. I hold it up to the crowd, defiantly.
There is murmuring. I move my gaze across the faces of the crowd; most look reluctantly impressed. Some even look excited—probably they think they'll get more entertainment if I put up more resistance than expected.
Then I spot him: Guildmaster Wharoth! He's holding up an odd pair of lenses to his face, like many of the crowd have, but I recognize his ashen beard and big scarred hands. He's surrounded by young-looking dwarves. I guess they're junior members of the Association of Steel.
I wonder how they feel about me: if they hope I'm innocent or are keen to see me proven guilty. Briefly I consider waving up to them, but decide against it. It would probably just cause trouble.
I return to my work. Next is to weld the back-seam evenly, which will be a tricky process. I pick up a welding stick. It's a strange design, shorter than I'm used to and made of some kind of ceramic, and the skin around the handle is unidentifiable, but I'm sure it'll be easy enough to use.
I heat the tip to white hot in the furnace, and start the welding process. It goes wrong immediately: whatever the stick is made from, its heat capacity is unprecedented. The titanium melts and spatters like water on a hot pan. A spark flies at my eye—misses by a millimeter to land on my brow. The pain is shocking. I jump back and drop the welding stick on my foot. I yelp in pain and fall over.
I stare up at the arena lights for a few seconds, cursing loudly. In my ears is a roaring—the laughter of the crowd.
How dare they? Have they ever forged under this kind of pressure? Have they ever had a fate worse than death hanging over them as they worked the metal? I get to my feet and scream every insult I can think of up at them, but they only laugh harder.
Eventually I run out of breath. The laughter continues. I stand there, panting, watching them point at me. Even some of the Association of Steel are laughing, though I'm glad that Wharoth is not. He simply looks depressed.
Sighing, I examine the damage to the titanium shell. There's now a deep scar in the back. Another mistake.
I bet Barahtan hasn't made any.
Well, all I can do is try again and be more careful this time. But I'm fatigued. My arms feel heavy; the euphoria from the hammering is now completely gone. Should I sleep? I'm sure Barahtan won't. Like all dwarves of Allabrast he'll be well used to lengthy periods without rests.
But I am not used to such a schedule, and I really don't want to make any more foolish errors. There's no bed, but at least the sand is soft. I switch off the furnace and lie down next to it.
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“Hah!” says Batarast. “Look at that idiot. Sleeping! His jester performance seems to have tired him out.”
“While our son is still hammering away.”
“Well, yes. On what, though, I can't guess.”
“It is an odd shape for a hammer. Looks more like a mace.”
“Yes, and a primitive one at that. Looks like something a troll might use.”
“Well, we'll just have to trust him.”
“Indeed.”
Batarast rubs his eyes; he's getting sleepy as well, much to his distaste. Old age? Maybe he needs to reforge his amulet.
“Shall I call for some more blankets?” asks his wife.
“No! I'm not going to sleep. Not at the same time as the traitor, anyhow. Let's get some more hot beer instead. And some more steaks too.”