Dragon Mage 029 - Hard at Work (Patreon)

389 days until the Arkon Shield falls

3 days to Earth’s destruction

3 days until the Warren is destroyed

Tara met me on the lower riverbank. “Good job, Jamie,” she said quietly.

I nodded, not breaking stride. I was trying hard not to think of what I had done. Once again, the Trials had rewarded me for my efforts, and I had gained another level from the death I had dealt on the river’s shores.

You have gained in experience and are now a: level 19 Trainee.

“The old lady wants to see you,” Tara said.

Involuntarily, I glanced at the upper slope of the riverbank. Jolin and her guard were nowhere in sight, and the spearmen were dispersing, some heading to the training yard while others, jogging in formation, headed east. I hoped that meant the commander had sent them to aid the loggers.

“Later,” I said, waving away Tara’s words. I knew it hadn’t really been a request, but I didn’t care. “That crafter from yesterday’s conference,” I said. “I want to go see her.”

“Who? Melissa?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Tara said nothing for so long I thought she would refuse. “Alright,” she replied eventually.

We made the journey up the riverbank in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Today’s battle had finished even quicker than yesterday’s, and I could scarce believe that it was less than an hour since Tara and I had descended to the river.

As we neared our destination, Tara finally spoke up. “Why do you want to see Melissa?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t think Tara would understand. This excursion to the crafting yard was partly an excuse to hide from the commander and her soldiers’ adulation. The tribute the spearmen had paid me at the end of the battle had caught me by surprise. Their praise had seemed heartfelt, and it had felt good to hear it. But it had also made me feel guilty.

Today, the spearmen had lost none of their companions. My magic had spared them. But when I left, they would start dying again. I knew I couldn’t save them all, even if I stayed. It didn’t stop me from feeling responsible though.

And I couldn’t help but wonder if that was what Jolin intended. Had she ordered her troops to salute me, knowing it would make me feel this way?

Escaping the commander’s manipulations was not the only reason I wanted to see the crafters, though. There was something else I had in mind.

The crafting yard was mostly deserted today. The few present were already hard at work when we stepped into their yard.

Tara led me to the centre of the camp. There, I spotted Melissa and two other men near what appeared to be a misshapen clay oven.

No, not an oven, I realised, remembering Melissa’s words from the conference. A furnace.

One of the men, wearing oversized hide gloves, used two wooden poles to pull a clay pot out of the furnace and set it on the table beside it.

The three huddled over the contents and inspected it intently. “Damn it,” growled Melissa. “We’ve failed again.”

“Maybe we need more coal,” said one of them men.

“It ain’t the coal,” said the other, spitting to the side in disgust. “It’s the blasted furnace. It’s not good enough.”

The first man scratched his head. “What else is there left to try?” His companions didn’t answer, and the three fell silent as they pondered their options

I examined the furnace as we drew closer. It was a simple conical construction formed from clay and mud. A chimney belching black smoke stuck out of the top. Unlike everything else in the Outpost, the furnace seemed—at least to my inexperienced eye—to be well-fashioned, if primitive.

Melissa looked up and caught sight of us. “Tara,” she said, surprise clear in her voice. “What are you doing here?” Her face fell. “Is there trouble at the river?”

“No,” Tara replied. “Nothing like that.” She jerked one thumb towards me. “He wanted to see you.”

Melissa’s gaze swung to me, her face uncertain. “Jamie, isn’t it? The mage?” The two men’s eyes jerked upwards at Melissa’s words and they studied me, openly curious.

“That’s right,” I said. “I heard what you said in the conference yesterday and I thought maybe I could help.”

Melissa looked taken aback. “With making the tools?”

Before I could answer, the second of the two men barked out, “What? You’re a blacksmith too?”

“Hush, Anton,” said Melissa, casting a chiding glance at the man.

When she turned back to me, I nodded. “Yes actually, with making tools.” I glanced at Anton. “I’m not a blacksmith, but I think I may be able to help.”

Melissa’s eyebrows rose. “Explain,” she said.

“If I understood you correctly yesterday, you’re having trouble reforging the murluk spear tips, right?”

Melissa nodded. “Yes, whatever metal they’re made from is beyond our furnace’s ability to melt.”

“I can help with that—I think.”

“How?” she asked.

“Magical fire,” I replied.

Anton snorted. “Look here, lad. No open flame is going to melt these here spear tips. My furnace is hot enough to melt steel, and if that ain’t done the job, your fire ain’t gonna do squat either.”

“Maybe,” I said with a shrug. “But it can’t hurt to try.”

Melissa glanced at Tara, who had been silently observing. Tara caught the look and nodded.

“Very well, Jamie,” said Melissa. “It’s worth a shot.”

“You can’t be serious!” protested Anton.

“Quiet, Anton,” snapped Melissa. “Let the boy try. He’s right. At this point, we’ve nothing to lose.”

Anton muttered imprecations under his breath, but didn’t object further. Folding his arms, the blacksmith watched as I joined them at the table and peered into the clay bowl.

Inside there were two murluk spearheads, blackened and soot stained, but otherwise appearing none the worse from their time in the furnace.

“Will you set the bowl down on the floor, please?” I asked the first man, who I assumed to be Anton’s assistant. Without comment, he picked up his poles and used them to place the bowl on the ground.

Falling to my knees, I bent over the bowl while the others—even the scowling Anton—leaned close to watch. I glanced up at them. “Everyone may want to take a step back. This might not go as planned.”

They fell back hurriedly.

Alright, I thought, staring into the bowl, here goes nothing. I reached within myself and charged the spellform of flare with mana and lifeblood. Then, doing my best to focus the inferno raging within me, I attempted casting flare only through the single finger I pointed at the bowl.

I failed.

Flames burst from my entire hand and enveloped the bowl, its contents, and the ground underfoot. “Damn it,” I muttered.

I’d thought my control of flare was better than that. But done was done. I let the flames rage for a few seconds before cutting off the flow of mana and lifeblood and peering at the results of my handiwork.

Urgh.

The grass and soil were scorched black. The clay bowl had disintegrated. And the spearheads’ precious metal—the whole point of this bloody exercise—had vanished into the ground.

“Sorry,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the others. “I hoped to do better.”

“Ha! I knew it!” said Anton. He strode forward triumphantly. “I told you you wouldn’t—” He stopped in stunned silence as he caught sight of the shattered bowl and traces of metal soaking the ground. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed.

Melissa’s eyes grew wide as she too noticed the spearheads were gone. “You’ve done it!” she breathed.

“Well not exactly,” I pointed out, “I may have melted the spearheads, but the metal has been lost.”

“Unimportant,” she pronounced. “We can come up with a means to better trap the metal.”

“Perhaps we can try using rocks,” said the other man, whose name I still didn’t know. His voice fairly quivered with eagerness.

“Or a thicker vessel,” grunted Anton. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Much thicker.” His scowl had vanished entirely, I noticed.

“So, we can make this work?” I asked Melissa, bemused by their reactions.

“Definitely, young man,” she said. “Definitely.”

✽✽✽

It was not as easy as the three crafters made it out to be.

Into pot after pot, I cast flare. One and all, they crumbled, shattered, or cracked. Eventually, the blacksmiths stopped filling the vessels with spearheads, and we focused purely on creating a suitable container.

It took longer than expected, but finally we achieved a workable solution: a monstrous slab of clay and rock that was able to withstand the five-second burn necessary to melt the spearheads.

“Well done, laddie!” shouted Anton, thumping me heavily on the back as he inspected the metallic liquid floating in the shallow indentation at the slab’s centre. “We’ve finally done it!”

Anton, it turned out, had been an amateur blacksmith back on Earth. Being unable to apply his skills on Overworld had upset him greatly. But now that I had proven my usefulness, it seemed I was destined to become his new best friend.

“Thanks,” I said, giving the man a wan smile. “Give me a second to rest before we continue.”

I sat and wolfed down the food the crafters had brought for me. Tara had long since disappeared, grown bored by our repeated failures. Since she’d determined I was safe enough in the crafting yard, she had gone to see to her own much-neglected duties.

Anton’s assistant—I had learned his name was Jeremy—was inspecting the slab of clay and rock. His brows were furrowed as he traced his fingers along its surface.

He looks concerned, I thought. “What is it, Jeremy?” I asked between mouthfuls.

He glanced from me to Anton. “There are hairline cracks in the clay. I don’t think the slab will last more than three or four further attempts.”

Anton bustled over and together the two men scrutinised its surface. Eventually, the blacksmith straightened. “You’re right, Jeremy. I’ll ask Melissa to get the others started on a second one.”

It had taken the crafters a long time to make the slab. My gaze stole to the heap of discarded spearheads on my left. The pile was still growing as junior crafters bought in bags more of the stuff from wherever they had been stored. Accumulated from ten-odd days of fighting, the spearheads made for a tidy pile.

I tried to calculate how long it would take to melt them all. If the crafters had to remake a new slab after every five attempts… then the answer was simple: too long.

I couldn’t afford to spend days melting spearheads. I closed my eyes, mustering together my will. I knew what needed to be done. The smiths had done their best with creating the slab, and the solution was not a bigger, better one.

Its time I refined my control. If I could more narrowly focus flare, I could spare the mould its scorching flames.

In battle I had not needed to finely regulate the flow of my dragonfire. Time and again, I had simply unleashed its flames unchecked, trying to do as much damage as possible.

It was possible to focus the flames. I knew that. I had done so already—albeit on a small scale—by varying the span of flames released through my hands.

But the degree of control necessary to concentrate my dragonfire into a finger-wide jet of flame seemed beyond me. All morning, I had been trying to do that without success.

Now though, faced with the possibility of days spent melting spearheads, I was determined to succeed. With a heartfelt sigh, I rose to my feet. This crafting business was in many ways more exhausting than fighting.

Seeing me back on my feet, Anton asked, “Feeling better, lad?”

I nodded. “What’s next?”

“Now that we’ve proven the concept,” said Anton rubbing his hands in glee, “we can begin the real work and start forging some equipment. The others have prepared the moulds we need already. If you are ready, we can begin.”

I wiped my mouth free of crumbs. “Alright, let’s get to work.”

Anton and his fellows had thought long and hard about what needed to be created and in what order. There was minimal fuss as they cut a channel in the slab for the melted metal to flow into the chosen mould.

The piece they had chosen to create first was not at all what I’d expected.

You have created a basic blacksmith’s hammer. The special properties of this item are: unknown. Your lore skill is insufficient.

Your skill in blacksmithing has advanced to: level 1.

Your artistry and industriousness have increased to: level 2.

For all the simplicity of the hammer, it had the crafters who had gathered around to witness its creation cheering as loudly as the spearmen after our victory at the river.

Anton grabbed my hand and pumped it vigorously. “Thank you, my boy,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”

I smiled and patted his shoulder awkwardly.

From there, things proceeded apace as we crafted tongs, shears, knives—plenty of knives—axes, needles, and hammers.

With every crafting, I applied my will and did my utmost to suppress the dragonfire spewing out of me. And even though I could discern no difference from my efforts, I persisted. The morning wore on, and we created item after item.

When we broke for lunch, I collapsed in a heap, both physically and mentally exhausted. All my reserves of energy were in the red, but I had been steadfastly ignoring them, focusing instead on the task at hand.

While I munched mechanically through my bowl of food, I watched Anton and Jeremy circle the latest slab. Both men were scratching their head. “What is it?” I called.

Anton glanced back. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just strange, that’s all.” He fell silent.

“What’s strange?” I prompted.

Anton pointed to the clay block. “This here slab has lasted six meltings so far and it is still going strong.” He barked a laugh. “Jeremy and I are trying to figure out what we did right in its making.”

I paused between mouthfuls. “Did you say it has lasted longer?” I hadn’t noticed. Over the morning’s work, my world had narrowed to the simple task of creating dragonfire. I had been become so fully immersed in refining and observing my spellcasting through my magesight that I had blocked out awareness of everything else. I had even lost sight of the items we had created.

Jeremy was nodding. “Yep. In fact, the last few moulds have all lasted longer than the original ones.” He shrugged. “But we don’t know why.”

I mulled over his words. Could it be me? I wondered. Was my control of flare improving?

✽✽✽

Shortly after lunch, any doubts I harboured that my efforts at control were failing, vanished. Mid-crafting, I paused as a wall of floating text covered my vision.

You have spellcrafted a: touch-based spell, from the Discipline of: dragon magic. The name assigned to this spell is: restrained flare. Restrained flare is a persistent spell that produces less dragonfire than flare, but at a lower energy cost. Its casting time is: fast and its rank is: common.

You are the first player to have spellcrafted the dragon spell: restrained flare. For this achievement, you have been awarded: dragon lore and two Marks.

Lore note: Restrained flare is a common dragon magic spell. It produces a jet of flame whose intensity and span can controlled by the caster.

The spell demands precision and it is one that any hatchling wishing to tame the dragonfire within themselves must learn. With the spell, the wise hatchling recognises that dragonfire is not only destructive, but also has an incredible potential to create.

I smiled foolishly at the Trials alert. I had done it. Studying the spellform of restrained flare with my magesight, I realised it was not so much a new spell as an evolution of an existing spell, brought about the continuous application of will and my attempts to leash the raging fire within me.

That led me to wonder: could I evolve flare further? And if so, what additional benefits would it yield? I would have to think further on the matter.

“You alright, lad?” asked Anton, seeing my frozen expression. “Something’s happened?

“Something has,” I admitted. “But nothing bad.” I turned to the blacksmith’s assistant. “Jeremy, will you bring one of those clay pots we started with originally? I want to try something.”

“You sure?” he asked, eyeing me doubtfully.

I nodded.

Anton frowned. “What are you up to now?”

“You’ll see,” I said, smiling.

Jeremy placed a clay bowl with two spearheads on the slab. I bent over the vessel and pointed one finger at its contents. Then, constructing the spellform of restrained flare in my mind, I released a fine jet of flame directly at spearheads.

“Wow,” said Jeremy as he beheld the bar of white gold that leapt from my hand into the bowl. “What is that?”

I nodded, not looking away from the bowl. My smile widened as the spearheads melted without damaging the clay bowl. “Now,” I said to the two men, “our work can proceed much faster.”

✽✽✽

By day’s end, all the spearheads had been melted, and every crafter in the Outpost had been provided with the tools of their trade.

The spearheads had not produced nearly enough metal to forge weapons for the fighters, but neither I nor the crafters even questioned the need to prioritise tools over weapons. The tools were crucial to the settlement’s survival, and at this stage better weapons were not.

All in all, it had been an exhausting—but satisfying—day of work. And while the day’s efforts had done little to advance my combat prowess, it had yielded other benefits.

Your skill in blacksmithing and lore has advanced to: level 10 and reached: rank 2, Trainee.

Your spellpower, artistry, and industriousness have increased to: level 10 and reached: rank 2, Trainee.

It was surprising that even without newcomer, my blacksmithing Discipline and craft Attributes had advanced so rapidly, but they had only been at the Neophyte rank, and we had forged hundreds of items today.

“Lad,” said Anton, walking up to me just as the sun was beginning to set. “You’ve done great work here today, and I can’t begin to thank you enough.”

“No thanks necessary, I am just glad I was able to help.”

“That’s mighty generous of ye, boy. But we all thought you deserved something for your efforts,” the blacksmith said. He held out an object.

Solemnly, I took the proffered item.

You have acquired a basic metal dagger. The special properties of this weapon are: unknown. Your lore skill is insufficient.

It was a simple knife, one of the last we had created. It had been affixed with a comfortable wooden handle and placed in an unadorned leather sheath.

“Thank you, Anton,” I said with a small bow.

“You’re welcome. And don’t be a stranger. You need anything, you come see me. Take care, Jamie,” Anton said in farewell before walking away.

✽✽✽

I made my way back to my tent, feet stumbling and head drooping. The crafting had claimed its toll and I was as weary as I had ever been. I chuckled. Exhaustion seemed to be my constant state of being these days.

I splashed water across my face and ate the supper left waiting for me by some kind soul.

Then I got to work again.

Sitting down cross-legged on my pallet, I began channelling mana. Given the business of the last two days, I hadn’t had time to create a ranged spell. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

I called up the construct for flare and studied the spell within my mind. How do I modify it to create a ranged variant? I wondered. My success with restrained flare had given me a few ideas for evolving flare in other ways, and despite my tiredness, I was eager to try them.

I prodded at the spell construct in my mind, modifying the design and shape until I was satisfied with its new form. Then, pointing my hand towards the unoffending pail, I infused the spellform and released the casting.

You have failed to create a spell.

I sighed and began anew.

✽✽✽

Hours later, I gave up.

No matter how many variants of the flare I had tried, no matter how much or how little lifeblood I infused, no matter the will I exerted in propelling dragonfire further than a few yards, I failed to create a projectile spell.

I had tweaked and re-tweaked the spell construct. I had refined and perfected its spellform until I felt the spell vibrate in faultless harmony with itself. My projectile spell design was flawless. I was sure of it.

Yet some vital ingredient was missing.

I drummed my fingers restlessly. Perhaps my skill is too low. Or perhaps I am just too tired to see the flaws in my design. Whatever the case, I realised further experimentation that night would not yield different results.

I would sleep on it. And maybe in the morning, I would figure out what I was missing. Then, unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I collapsed onto my pallet.