Chương 19: A Forge: Part 1

There's a saying where I come from. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. —The Artificer's Guide to Patient Crafting [Hunger] [Pain] [Fatigue] The creature did not understand why it hurt. It did not understand why it was hungry. It did, however, understand being tired. The bone weariness that had seeped into its very core was a known constant, and it didn't know what to do about it. [Sense] The creature could not move. It felt something. It didn't understand that either. [Anger] Something was approaching.

An unwanted intrusion. The sense grew, and the feeling was in range. [Strike!] The creature missed. The feeling faded. [Hunger] [Pain] [Fatigue] The HOA had been hard at work in my short absence. Danny had laid white river stones in large rectangles, marking the boundaries of future properties. He'd delegated the job of rock collecting to the children, who were beyond excited to participate in something so important.

They'd made a game out of it, racing to see who could make a larger pile of the rocks, with Danny the unknown factor, depleting a random pile each time he ran out of the markers.

To everyone's relief, fishing the creek turned out to be a resounding success. Trout-like fish were abundant, having traveled upstream for the colder, more oxygen-rich waters. Tabitha had several fillets already cooking over a large fire. She had to recruit help to keep up with the demands of cutting and cleaning the fish. I found Darby inside his inn's stone-marked rectangle, squinting and squaring his hands at arm's length, as though framing future furniture layouts.

"Hello, is anyone home?" I mimed knocking at the door. Darby put on a panic-stricken face and pretended to draw invisible curtains.

"I know you're in there! I am here by order of the duke to requisition you for clay gathering duties."

"He's not here. Go away!" Darby's voice caught in his miserable attempt at a high-pitched tone.

"There's probably a level in it for ya." Darby dropped the act.

"Dude, that's the same thing as saying you'll let someone work for you for free, for the exposure. Besides, you never paid me, and I had to carry that stupid anvil all the way here!"

"Oh, shit! I forgot about that!" I really did, which was strange for someone with a memory like mine. The irony didn't escape me. I felt bad, but damn, Emmie's tale of the mass destruction of semi-aquatic creatures had captivated me in morbid curiosity. I walked into his house and handed him five of my remaining silver, leaving me with just four and some copper change.

"That's better." He clicked his tongue and gave me a side-eye.

"What about payment for today?" I sighed, dug around in my pocket, and slapped two more into his outstretched hand.

"That's half of what I've got left. Happy?"

"Quite." He said, grinning.

"I've already talked to Aaron—the guy driving the wagon—he said he'd be happy to take it to load up the clay once everything is unloaded."

"Wait, then why am I paying you extra—""Anyway! We need to get some lunch before we head out!" He got up and walked past me, ignoring my question. I pushed his front door marker inward, making his house just a little smaller.

Bellies full and back to work, we used sharpened planks with a hole carved through them, about a foot up the length, for a foothold. It made for an unwieldy shoveling experience, but it cut into the clay well enough. That was our lives over the next several hours. Dig, ply off the layer of clay into the cart, fill the cart, return to town, unload the clay, turn around, and do it again. After our fourth trip, we had collected a large amount of clay.

The first trip was plenty for my purposes of creating the forge, but Danny had requested a lot more for building materials and some for pottery essentials. I'd hardly kept up at all, with Darby doing the majority of the work. Truth be told, he deserved the silver, even if he wasn't actually working that hard. He was just efficient with his massive amount of strength. I felt like I'd completely worn myself out just trying to keep up with a third of his output.

Our presence had scared away the tantar and any other smaller game. Aaron was a quiet guy, more of a watcher than a talker, and mainly tended the horses, listening as Darby and I discussed our plans for our future houses.

"You think Danny's gonna let us have input on how it's built?" Darby asked as the cart neared its capacity.

"I just worry he doesn't know how an inn is supposed to look, and I don't want to be stuck with some weird box."

"And you know how one looks?"

"Well, yeah. I saw an inn at Fairfield. It was a little on the small side, but I figure I can expand on the idea."

"I'll let Danny know you want to build your own house. I'm sure he'd get a kick out of that."

"It can't be that hard." The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. I snorted.

"Hard enough that Danny's got a class dedicated to, ya know, building?"

Back at town, I began the long and grueling process of hauling clay up the hill. Eight trips in, and I had begun to severely regret my decision to build at the top of this damn miniature mountain that grew with every trip. I felt like Sisyphus. My never-ending clay pile mocked me every time I returned from above. Once I was satisfied with a healthy stock, I sat down to rest and gather my thoughts.

I wanted a large, permanent forge, but that would take time that I didn't have, and a much smaller one would suit our immediate needs. I used [Recall], and memories of a video tutorial flared to life. My mana threatened to drain before I could digest it all, and forced me to focus on the clay portion of the forge. I had a faint idea, but the fresh 'viewing' brought the bits and pieces I'd forgotten back into my active memory. I needed stone, and thankfully it was available in great supply.

One of the chief reasons that this location had been selected was the large amount above our build site. Time had eroded the mountain face into usable chunks that had rolled down the slopes. I groaned. The thought of beginning the long process of hauling the heavy material all over again killed me, but it needed to be done as soon as my clay was prepared. At least it's all downhill this time… It was fortunate that the material we'd brought back was of high quality.

Creating the forge would have taken far longer if I had to resort to using the material from the stream. Diluting the clay, removing sediment, collecting the fine particulate, then drying it would probably take weeks. My problem was time. It would take at least a week for the clay portion of the forge to dry. Any faster, and it would crack soon after putting heat to it. What to do… I need this up and running ASAP.

My recollection told me how to build a forge, in a constructive sense, not the material combination or the finer details. It would be nice if [Recall] gave all the answers, but unfortunately, I couldn't remember what I was never taught. At least I had a good base to build from. A clay-mix basin would hold charcoal, and a bellows—of my own, this time—would feed oxygen through a clay pipe.

It would all sit on a throne of rocks, high enough that I wouldn't have to suffer the heat of the forge and break my back while doing it. The clay for the basin would need to be mixed with something, sand most likely, to allow moisture to transfer much more easily. If only I had some magic sponge. More magical materials are in this valley than I could shake a stick at, and all I've got so far is wood that likes to start fires.

Redicul— The thought stopped me in my tracks, and the sudden realization of what I'd missed sent me bounding down the hill to the wagon. I recovered my stuffed sack from the back and rushed to the community campfire and its stock of firewood.

"You're early if you're here for a bite to eat. I swear, I need a dinner bell with the way you lot keep showing up!" I smiled at Tabitha.

"No ma'am, just wondering if I could borrow some of your firewood? I don't need much, just a good branch of the fireleaf."

"That junk? Take it all, it don't burn. I told the boys to stop bringing it back when we were on the road, but you know them… in one ear and out the other."

"What do you mean it doesn't burn?" I looked at her, confused. We'd lit arrows during the tar fiend attack; I'd seen it burn firsthand. She picked up a small branch from the pile that she'd separated from the usable firewood and held it in the fire for several moments, then brought it out. It steamed, but seemed to be otherwise undamaged.

"Like I said, it don't burn." She had her eyebrow cocked and pointedly tossed it back on the pile.

"Huh. It doesn't burn." I was confused.

"You don't say," she replied, only a little sarcastic.

"If that's all, I need to get back to cooking; else you can deal with everyone when their dinner isn't ready." I could tell when I was in the way and left her to continue her work while getting back to my own—retrieving one of the flat sheet-like rocks from the stream. I just couldn't get why the wood couldn't burn now. Most of the arrows were from spindlebark, with its convenient straight shoots, but I was positive I'd made some arrows out of the fireleaf.

A large, flat rock served as a table once I wrestled one up the steep hill. The decision to build up here was heavily weighing on me, and I nearly broke down and asked Danny to work me into his plan below. I was stubborn, though. The only thing stopping me was imagining that laugh, and saying something like, "Oh, well, I wondered when you'd come crawling back down to us from your high tower," or some other quip. It will all be worth it. Just need to get these damn tools made.

I placed a large chunk of clay onto my makeshift table on the ground and began to work it with my hands while working the problem in my mind. My first thought had been to use the wood with the clay, stripping strands of fibers to mix with the clay, hopefully increasing the heat of the forge. But if they resisted the fire… Maybe that would reflect the heat? Or maybe reduce the thermal strain on the clay? There was really only one way to find out.

I grabbed the branch from my small pile, still warm from the fire, and began to strip it with my hatchet blade. The bark went in one pile, and the bare wood in another. I worked my way down the length and stopped when I reached the thinnest of the twigs. The wood was burnt. How!? Why is it—Oh god, I'm an idiot. The bark of the tree didn't burn. Of course. The arrows were stripped. It felt obvious once I had finally come to the realization.

The wood could naturally bloom into fire, at least when combined with a concept, but even the arrows I'd made didn't really burn when caught on fire, not quickly, anyway. I wasn't sure by what process it accomplished this; latent mana that it depleted, through the concept, courtesy of being fired by the bow? Hell, I didn't even know if the law of conservation of mass applied in this place.

I just knew that if I could have a strengthening material inside the clay, it would prevent cracking from too much shrinkage when heated, and the fireleaf was the only thing I'd seen that was resistant to fire. With the branch clear of bark, I used my blade to shave long sections of wooden fibers. My plan was to make multiple attempts, each with a different formula. What I didn't want to happen was to end up wasting time with a failed project and have to start from scratch.

Hopefully, at least one of them would prove successful. Once I had a large fibrous pile, I began the process of working the clay. It was cold and stiff, but pliant enough to shape. This was good, in the fact that there was less moisture to deal with, but it absolutely wrecked my hands. I knew I'd be sore the next day. I continued to knead it until I was left with a warmed-up ball that was much easier to shape. I formed a rough disk before pushing in the wooden fibers.

It was promising at first, but I quickly found this method difficult. The fibers acted as mesh, like rebar in concrete, and any folding or attempts to thin the clay made it difficult to reshape. Nevertheless, I was able to mix it well enough to form the basic bowl. This was the least promising of the bunch. The clay would need much longer to dry, and I didn't have much faith in its integrity. I was pretty sure you were supposed to mix it with sand, but wanted to try with the fibers as a replacement.

I started over again. This time, I ground the bark on my stone table with another rock. This was the most labor-intensive part of the project yet, but I was soon left with a substantial amount. Using about a two-to-one ratio of clay to bark, I was able to work it into something resembling a bowl. Much darker with the bark, the red clay came through in a visually appealing way. It was too bad it would be hidden under coals, assuming it survived the firing.

I thought it was pretty good for just being shaped by hand, and better tools would come in time. For both basins, I cut an inch-wide hole about two inches up from the base for a spot to feed oxygen to the fire. The communal pile of firewood had grown in my absence, and I was able to take more than enough of the more combustible wood to build and keep a fire going with the flint and steel from my pack. I carefully propped up the first bowl with the small fireleaf branches that still had their bark.

The fire had to be kept small and low, or the direct flames would dry it too quickly. My hope was that I could circumvent the need to wait a week for it to dry with the added stability. While the fire smoldered away, I dumped my pack and began the trek to the mountainous slopes above me. The ground quickly grew rocky, and I didn't have to go far to find what I needed. Rocks had rolled down the mountain over time, and I easily filled my pack. I carried larger, flat rocks by hand.

The sun was setting by the time I'd collected enough material. I began placing them in a square, with larger rocks on the outside and smaller ones in the middle and in between, where I could fit them around a stick about two inches wide. I mixed bits of clay into the smaller rocks so I could remove the limb without the tunnel collapsing. This would hold the clay tuyère that air would flow through to feed the flames. The flat rocks leaned on the sides, providing additional stability.

The pile grew until it was waist-high. I built up the sides with a concave center. The smallest of the rocks made up the bed where the clay bowl would sit. I returned to remove the bowl and was dismayed to see a large crack had formed across it. Bits of the wooden fibers just barely poked out of the edges where it had broken. My ratio had been off, and it split straight through the unsupported areas. So I began again. The third time, I was really getting a feel for how the clay behaved once the fibers were added.

I removed my shirt—it was foul and in dire need of a wash, anyway. It made the perfect base to work on, and it was much easier to peel off the bowl than to remove the bowl from the rock. Trying a different approach, I flattened a thin layer of clay mixed with the fireleaf bark into the circular shape needed. A layer of fiber bridged the next, and I alternated between them. Slather. Mash diagonal. Slather. Mash horizontal. Slather. Mash vertical.

I repeated the process until I had a twenty-inch disk, about a quarter of an inch thick, with no part of it missing the fireleaf fibers. I cut the air hole and shaped it into the basin before carefully peeling off the shirt and rounding the edges. I draped it onto the branches over the fire, and on reconsideration, further reduced the heat. I was fully willing to wake up more often if it meant keeping this thing from cracking again.

A shudder from the chilly evening breeze prompted me to dig through the pile I'd dumped on the ground and find one of the shirts I had purchased from Wendy. It fit well and was comfortably warm. The long day had drained me, and I slipped off to sleep while tending the small campfire.