Chapter 92 - Forging Friends

“Make hot the coals and put backs to bellows, my lads!” shouted Sourtooth. The old orc had swapped his blanket for a thick leather apron and a pair of hide gloves. “These metals mine must be shaped with haste, should we wish to be ready whence the Stampede begins to march.”

The old orc strutted through the forge yard, still a bit uncertain on his new spring-steel prosthetic—a larger mirror to my own. But beneath the hangover he’d found his fire. His renewed zeal had trickled down to his smiths. All across the yard, bar stock and billets were heating up, and goblins were beginning to assemble bricks for kilns to tap the clay supplies of the Flock. Not only that, but heated vats belched forth black, acrid fumes. The orcs had rubber from trees in the badlands. We were going to have actual tires for the second-generation orc buggies.

All throughout the yard, Promo worked with his smiths, blending the principles of orc and goblin technology to make our buggies larger and tougher, adding panels and platforms. Our canonneer scrambled back and forth, transcribing sanctified engineering diagrams onto paper.

As for me? Well, I couldn’t lose sight of my end goal. Simple small-caliber guns weren’t going to cut the mustard when it came to big game. With access to the orcs’ ample stores, I was going to make something that a thundercleave couldn’t shrug off. The orcs had sulfur and charcoal, of course. But they also had impure bauxite powder, magnesium, grain alcohol, and plenty of old iron parts, rusted beyond use. Trash to them, because they didn’t have an Earth scientist’s understanding on how to properly combine them into something amazing. Since Sally had come in person, I coopted her and the canonneer in order to codify a new set of devices into the Church of the Right Angle, in hopes that would tighten tolerances enough for the igni to produce working designs.

I began sketching out designs for armaments on the new buggies. By the time the wranglers and scrappers started waking up, I had the basic schematics figured out. I found Sourfang once I was ready to start forging components. I showed him what I was working on, and then explained how it would work. Then I pantomimed it. When he still didn’t understand, I appealed to System.

Very funny. But I got the message: it was something we’d have to unlock in order for the tree to translate it to orcish tech through the auxiliary system.

Sourtooth just shrugged. “What more have I to lose? To the forgemasters, get ye.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said.

I made my way over to Promo where he worked with the orc smiths at the forges. An ignis was a new novelty for the orcs of the Flock, and his cooking had ingratiated him with our new hunting team. It didn’t hurt that the orc smiths got a bonus to heat-based crafting through the auxiliary system when he was around.

I ignored System and presented the designs for the new parts to my forgemaster. “You think we can rig these up?”

He took the vellum (the orcs had no shortage of hides) and turned the drawing about, taking in the drawing. “This will kill goblins.”

“Only if they don’t let go. Think I’ll have a shortage of volunteers?”

Promo emphatically shook his head. “The S&M club’ll be over the moon. Like to try one myself, truth told. How big we talking at this end, boss?”

I made a circle of my finger and thumb. Promo grinned. “No problem. The orc iron isn’t as good as our boom furnace steel, but it will do in a pinch.

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I reached up and slapped him on the side of the arm.

We worked well into the evening, the entire contingent of goblins that I’d brought with me into the desert, as well as Sally and the small flight crew she’d brought. I sent her home after lunch, watching as the strange pusher-plane took off in much the same way it had landed.

I had intended to keep working through the evening, as well. But three horn blasts sounded. I looked up from my work as the Stampede camp suddenly buzzed with frenetic activity. Orcs ran this way and that, carrying equipment or bundling up supplies.

“Sourtooth?”

He limped by, stuffing effects into a bag. “The Dawn just signaled their intent to put hoof to turf and the hunt resume.”

I chased after him. “You said the party from a thundercleave would last 3 days.”

“Could last, little brother. Advanced the game, has Lura. She presses us, and answer we must this challenge given.”

“But they’re not ready! We haven’t even tested the new modifications!”

“He shaded his eyes against the sun. “Time not to dally and dither upon doubts. We must beseech Grandfather Spirit for his blessing, and hope to find his mood not coy. You have until the sun dips a hand’s span from the horizon. As much as I can offer, this.”

“Your hand or mine?”

The sour old orc glared down at me.

“Right. Stop wasting time. We’re going to wing it,” I translated. At the end of the day, this was still Sourtooth’s show, his culture, and his traditions and rules that we had to follow in order to be allowed to participate in the Stampede and feed the tribe. Hunting rights were on the line.

Prototype, test, rapid iteration. Combining quick and dirty engineering with monstrous beasts capable of killing dozens of goblins? What could ever go wrong?

I delivered the news to Promo, who offered much the same complaint I did, before supervising the teardown of the forges and the BHR.

Once things were packed up, I climbed up onto my newly-enhanced buggy and dropped a rockette into the starter slot. I pulled out the bestiary as the engine warmed up, trying to get a clue as to what we might be in for. I thumbed through the pages of the plains beasts, but the weight shifted as Sourtooth pulled himself up to the rear position. He eased down into the seat and dropped his bag of forge tools by his feet. He looked over my shoulder.

“What have you there?” he demanded.

I handed the bestiary back, and he flipped through it, scowling. He tossed it over his shoulder in contempt.

“Hey!” I said. “Why did you do that?”

“I can’t read,” he said. “But a book which with four spines a rockscraper presents is worth not the vellum of its pages.” He tapped the side of his head. “Trust that I know the beasts of the land, little brother.” He reached down and rubbed the connection with his new prosthetic. “All too well, some.”

He slapped the side of the buggy.

The gears shifted under my hand and the throttle pedal pulled away from my foot as Girmaks revved up the engine. The buggy lurched forward, churning turf on its new rubber tires. While not exactly performance rallycross tires, the hard rubber was still leaps and bounds better than the metal-banded wheels as they bit into the badlands ground. Engines across the forge yard roared as the rest of the Flock scrambled to find places on vehicles of their own as my goblins hooted and hollered and waved spears and guns.

I couldn’t help but grin. I lifted my feet entirely and left the controls to the Ifrit, who pulled us out into the mass of orc hunting teams scrambling to quit the camp. The Stampede had sounded like a rolling thunderstorm when we’d been watching from the outside. But now, in its midst? The cacophony of hundreds of mounted orcs pounding across the badlands riding baying beasts of a dozen different sizes was intense. It was infectious. The orcs were trampling, and we were trampling with them. We were part of this dangerous, deadly festival of speed and skill. Maybe it’s the competitor in me talking, but aside from launching the first glider, this was the most excited I’d been since coming to Rava. And I wasn’t the only one.

I felt another subtle pressure mounting, the tell-tale weight of the System’s increased attention on me. Well, we’d give it a show.

I stood up in my chair and looked back at the dozen goblin vehicles arrayed behind me, with goblins in questionable leather garments hanging on by their dozens. Scrappers had their rifles in the air, while wranglers at the controls of the buggies and bikes expertly maneuvered the vehicles. Even the canoneer was furiously scribbling on a piece of paper that flapped so hard in the wind I’m surprised the fibers didn’t come apart.

I put my fingers at the corners of my mouth and whistled. The trill rose above the clamor of the Stampede, soon joined by other goblins who had mastered the trick of whistling. Those who hadn’t simply screamed, and then the orcs of the Flock joined in, and I even caught a half-smile creeping onto Sourtooth’s twisted face. That clarion pierced the wall of sound that was the Stampede, and I saw other hunting teams looking over at us.

I raised my hands above my head, making the circle in the air.

“Ad Luna!” I shouted.

The tribe cheered, mirroring the sign.

“Maybe we won’t all die!” Sourtooth shouted over the cheering. “Who’s Adluna?”