Ash 15, 124
The Sanctuary of the Dawn was a majestic castle, perched atop a picturesque hill. It predated the order which housed it by decades, perhaps by centuries- when the first Sunsingers had fled the Imperium’s attack to arrive, it had been a Dawnmartyr possession, entirely unknown to the government of Zaichaer. It was not a huge fortress, but it was beautiful. If it weren’t the headquarters of a terrorist organization who needed to keep quiet, they probably could have turned a tidy sum by selling pictures of it on postage notes.
As is so often the case with castles, the Sanctuary had softened somewhat with time. Where once it had been spartan quarters for a battalion, it had adapted to provide better rooms for a smaller number of officers, administrators, and other such persons necessary for the operation and health of any large organization. What were once barracks-halls had been redeveloped as an accountancy and records storage, and most of the old siege storage had been filled now with wagons and stablery, and all the other odds and ends of logistics.
Yes, all throughout the complex, tools of war had long since worn away and been exchanged for tools of business; with one notable exception. The castle smithy remained as large and active as ever. It had, if anything, expanded over the long years, sprawling out into nearby rooms. Workrooms surrounded the main furnace, with several portable forges adapted haphazardly into small workspaces. Ceilings and walls had been knocked through, in places, to create ventilation for the smoke, and the Sanctuary’s coalroom held enough black resin to power an entire fleet of steamers all the way to Ailos.
It wasn’t hard to understand why this one place remained and thrived. The Sunsingers relied upon steel, good steel, in a variety of shapes and sizes. They needed ready access to blacksmiths who asked no questions, would work with strange material, and would not give them up to the authorities. This far from Kalzasi and close to Zaichaer, the only way to do that was to employ your own.
(Naturally, the Sunsingers encouraged their noviates and acolytes to take up blacksmithing, both as a useful trade for a Reaver, a good way to learn the ins and outs of weapons and materiel, and as it was good exercise. This was just one of many useful skills Imogen Ward had not been interested enough to pick up in her time. And speaking of…)
The other woman stared at the pile of snakeskin on the table, drumming her fingers against her thigh. “You can’t be serious.”
”Dead serious.” the witch replied, rubbing a loose scale off her hands. ”This stuff is the same as I took from Kegumu Rekaka a year ago. Just about unbreakable, flexible as aluminum, highly resistant to corrosion.”
The smith reached into the pile and pulled up a patch of the scales, grunting with surprise at how heavy they proved. They were burnished, like brass, but much more akin to gold in color. She took a step back towards her anvil and tapped it hard against the corner, then held it up for inspection, squinting to see if it had chipped.
“I’ll be damned.” She pursed her lips, “But I dunno how to work this. I’ll ‘ave to smelt, to start. How hot do it melt?”
Imogen shifted uncomfortably. That was the kind of question she’d had the time to test for, but hadn’t really gotten around to. At last, she responded, ”Plenty hot. Hot as the forge’ll go. I can help with that, if you need it.”
The smith grunted, and tapped her left arm, where an old scar formed the rune of Elementalism. Imogen took that as a reply- ‘I don’t need that.’
”As you like. But there’s one more thing- it’ll need to be exposed to this for a while.”
The witch produced a bottle–not glass, but heavy clay– and placed it on the table with a small grunt of effort. Water sloshed audibly inside, settling down slowly as the container stopped moving.
Curious, the Sunsinger smith uncorked the bottle, peering in at the dark liquid. She gave Imogen a quizzical look.
”There’s a chunk of… stuff inside. Dunno exactly what. If you take it out of the water, it’ll start to corrode all the metal in the room. Also start to kill both of us, so don’t pour it out yet. It’ll soften the scales.”
The other woman squinted up at Imogen. “You want me to leave the metal snake scales alone in a room with some kinda cursed rock for a few days, then melt ‘em into ingots as hot as they’ll go and cast a weapon?”
”Yes. Please.”
“Eh. But you’ll pay triple.”
The first attempts at smelting did not go well. Neither Imogen nor the smith had any expertise with the Hytori rock which hated metal (the Ork had started simply calling it ‘abmetal’) and the only way to figure out how much exposure the scales required to weaken was trial and error. Five days was too little, as was six, then seven. By ten days, however, the scales had degraded to the point of uselessness.
On the 25th, they started over again, this time holding it until the eighth day and introducing the scales to the forge. This was not enough, but on the ninth day, Imogen stayed up late into the night to catch the point where the exposed metal had just begun to soften. This, she timed out using hour-candles for future reference: nine days and six hours, almost precisely.
Thus weakened, the scales still took poorly to smeltery. Despite the smith’s bravado, they melted at a temperature so absurdly high that began to liquefy the forge itself. It quickly became apparent that despite the fairly large amount of the metal scales which Imogen had procured (and she refused to elaborate on where she’d gotten them, becoming uncharacteristically embarrassed), they were going to have to make something small.
“A knife, perhaps.” the smith suggested, as they inspected the one usable ingot the process had produced thus far. “Could do a large ‘un, like a machete. Sword, maybe, but only just the blade. And it’d be a small sword.”
”I’m not that good with small swords.” Imogen worried aloud. It wasn’t that she objected to owning a weapon she’d yet to master, of course–she hoped, in time, to master many more weapons–but the ritual was going to demand a fight. A hard one. It made sense to give herself every advantage.
“Well, what’re you good with?”
”Well, big swords… shields.” Wasn’t enough metal for a big sword, that much was certain. And she had her own problems with shields. ”Lances.”
“Ach, well. I could do a ranseur-head, probably, mount it on ash or beechwood. Mebbe a glaive-guisarme.”
Imogen thought about it. If she did this right, she hoped to only really get a single use out of this thing. ”I’ll opt for the point, then. Better if it needs to be thrown.”
The smith spat into the corner of the room, which the witch took as agreement, and that concluded their negotiation.
By the 35th, the ranseur was finished… or rather, the polearm’s head was finished. Obtaining the requisite ash wasn’t hard, but it had to be properly sanded and weathered before it could be joined. A smith of quality would have employed scrivened runes to assist the joining, but such techniques were never used in the Sanctuary, for even the most minute charms made the process of undertaking a pact a thousandfold more difficult.
Imogen had insisted that the butt of the spear also be collared and coated in the same material. This wasn’t a problem of logistics, per se, because the thin ferrule took very little metal, but because the strange material seemed disinclined to expand or shrink with the temperature, fitting was a nightmare. It took almost a week before the smith devised a way to get both ends mounted and declared it finished.
It wasn’t quite finished yet, though, and it wouldn’t be until Aurin returned with the stone she’d asked of him. Still, it was near enough to give it a test run.
The witch stood in the Sanctuary’s courtyard and hefted the weapon. It was surprisingly light- lighter and smaller than her partisan, though the balance was quite familiar. She spun it experimentally, twisting it around her back and over her shoulders in a defensive measure.
Technically speaking, she supposed, the metal she’d provided was her own skin. There had been no way around it- Kegumu Rekaka wasn’t going to stand still and let her harvest its feathers, that’s for damn sure, and hydra skin could be harvested very quickly, in relative terms. It had been a lot of work, and aether, and blood and pain for a very small amount of metal, but she expected that might work to her advantage in the ritual. The disease was infesting her body, after all; might it not be more easily coaxed into a simulacrum of that body?
Maybe not. Either way, an important part of the rite was getting to know the weapon, to understand it on a deep and personal level. Since she was going to have to fuck up the ritual in a few key ways, it would be easiest to spend a few days getting to know the feel of it now. Imogen transferred the polearm to one hand, where she balanced it on the tips of two fingers, feeling exactly where the fulcrum of gravity lay.
”You’ll be the death of me.” the witch told her spear, ”But hopefully only metaphorically.”
She flipped her hand around below the spear, letting it roll gently into her palm, then drew it back and cast it in one smooth motion, aiming for the stack of hay bales piled up against the wall of the dining hall. The ranseur flew smoothly, cutting cleanly through the hay and impaling itself with a satisfying clunk.
Imogen sniffed in appreciation of the smith’s work and started over towards the wall. The problem with non-pact weapons was that you had to go pick ‘em up after you chucked them at someone. How did regular guards deal with that? Or did they just not throw their sword at stuff very often?
Pondering these deep questions, the Ork grabbed the shaft and was surprised to find it stuck in. She pulled at it a bit, wondering what it had hit inside the bale. After a few moments of tugging, it came free, the speartip still perfectly clean.
She frowned, peering at the hay bale, then clambering over the pile to look behind it. There, in the wall- a notch. The ranseur had cut through the entire bale and embedded itself an inch into the stone brick behind it.
”Bugger me.” the witch swore. For some reason, she was beginning to get a bad feeling about this plan.
As is so often the case with castles, the Sanctuary had softened somewhat with time. Where once it had been spartan quarters for a battalion, it had adapted to provide better rooms for a smaller number of officers, administrators, and other such persons necessary for the operation and health of any large organization. What were once barracks-halls had been redeveloped as an accountancy and records storage, and most of the old siege storage had been filled now with wagons and stablery, and all the other odds and ends of logistics.
Yes, all throughout the complex, tools of war had long since worn away and been exchanged for tools of business; with one notable exception. The castle smithy remained as large and active as ever. It had, if anything, expanded over the long years, sprawling out into nearby rooms. Workrooms surrounded the main furnace, with several portable forges adapted haphazardly into small workspaces. Ceilings and walls had been knocked through, in places, to create ventilation for the smoke, and the Sanctuary’s coalroom held enough black resin to power an entire fleet of steamers all the way to Ailos.
It wasn’t hard to understand why this one place remained and thrived. The Sunsingers relied upon steel, good steel, in a variety of shapes and sizes. They needed ready access to blacksmiths who asked no questions, would work with strange material, and would not give them up to the authorities. This far from Kalzasi and close to Zaichaer, the only way to do that was to employ your own.
(Naturally, the Sunsingers encouraged their noviates and acolytes to take up blacksmithing, both as a useful trade for a Reaver, a good way to learn the ins and outs of weapons and materiel, and as it was good exercise. This was just one of many useful skills Imogen Ward had not been interested enough to pick up in her time. And speaking of…)
The other woman stared at the pile of snakeskin on the table, drumming her fingers against her thigh. “You can’t be serious.”
”Dead serious.” the witch replied, rubbing a loose scale off her hands. ”This stuff is the same as I took from Kegumu Rekaka a year ago. Just about unbreakable, flexible as aluminum, highly resistant to corrosion.”
The smith reached into the pile and pulled up a patch of the scales, grunting with surprise at how heavy they proved. They were burnished, like brass, but much more akin to gold in color. She took a step back towards her anvil and tapped it hard against the corner, then held it up for inspection, squinting to see if it had chipped.
“I’ll be damned.” She pursed her lips, “But I dunno how to work this. I’ll ‘ave to smelt, to start. How hot do it melt?”
Imogen shifted uncomfortably. That was the kind of question she’d had the time to test for, but hadn’t really gotten around to. At last, she responded, ”Plenty hot. Hot as the forge’ll go. I can help with that, if you need it.”
The smith grunted, and tapped her left arm, where an old scar formed the rune of Elementalism. Imogen took that as a reply- ‘I don’t need that.’
”As you like. But there’s one more thing- it’ll need to be exposed to this for a while.”
The witch produced a bottle–not glass, but heavy clay– and placed it on the table with a small grunt of effort. Water sloshed audibly inside, settling down slowly as the container stopped moving.
Curious, the Sunsinger smith uncorked the bottle, peering in at the dark liquid. She gave Imogen a quizzical look.
”There’s a chunk of… stuff inside. Dunno exactly what. If you take it out of the water, it’ll start to corrode all the metal in the room. Also start to kill both of us, so don’t pour it out yet. It’ll soften the scales.”
The other woman squinted up at Imogen. “You want me to leave the metal snake scales alone in a room with some kinda cursed rock for a few days, then melt ‘em into ingots as hot as they’ll go and cast a weapon?”
”Yes. Please.”
“Eh. But you’ll pay triple.”
~~~
The first attempts at smelting did not go well. Neither Imogen nor the smith had any expertise with the Hytori rock which hated metal (the Ork had started simply calling it ‘abmetal’) and the only way to figure out how much exposure the scales required to weaken was trial and error. Five days was too little, as was six, then seven. By ten days, however, the scales had degraded to the point of uselessness.
On the 25th, they started over again, this time holding it until the eighth day and introducing the scales to the forge. This was not enough, but on the ninth day, Imogen stayed up late into the night to catch the point where the exposed metal had just begun to soften. This, she timed out using hour-candles for future reference: nine days and six hours, almost precisely.
Thus weakened, the scales still took poorly to smeltery. Despite the smith’s bravado, they melted at a temperature so absurdly high that began to liquefy the forge itself. It quickly became apparent that despite the fairly large amount of the metal scales which Imogen had procured (and she refused to elaborate on where she’d gotten them, becoming uncharacteristically embarrassed), they were going to have to make something small.
“A knife, perhaps.” the smith suggested, as they inspected the one usable ingot the process had produced thus far. “Could do a large ‘un, like a machete. Sword, maybe, but only just the blade. And it’d be a small sword.”
”I’m not that good with small swords.” Imogen worried aloud. It wasn’t that she objected to owning a weapon she’d yet to master, of course–she hoped, in time, to master many more weapons–but the ritual was going to demand a fight. A hard one. It made sense to give herself every advantage.
“Well, what’re you good with?”
”Well, big swords… shields.” Wasn’t enough metal for a big sword, that much was certain. And she had her own problems with shields. ”Lances.”
“Ach, well. I could do a ranseur-head, probably, mount it on ash or beechwood. Mebbe a glaive-guisarme.”
Imogen thought about it. If she did this right, she hoped to only really get a single use out of this thing. ”I’ll opt for the point, then. Better if it needs to be thrown.”
The smith spat into the corner of the room, which the witch took as agreement, and that concluded their negotiation.
~~~
By the 35th, the ranseur was finished… or rather, the polearm’s head was finished. Obtaining the requisite ash wasn’t hard, but it had to be properly sanded and weathered before it could be joined. A smith of quality would have employed scrivened runes to assist the joining, but such techniques were never used in the Sanctuary, for even the most minute charms made the process of undertaking a pact a thousandfold more difficult.
Imogen had insisted that the butt of the spear also be collared and coated in the same material. This wasn’t a problem of logistics, per se, because the thin ferrule took very little metal, but because the strange material seemed disinclined to expand or shrink with the temperature, fitting was a nightmare. It took almost a week before the smith devised a way to get both ends mounted and declared it finished.
It wasn’t quite finished yet, though, and it wouldn’t be until Aurin returned with the stone she’d asked of him. Still, it was near enough to give it a test run.
~~~
The witch stood in the Sanctuary’s courtyard and hefted the weapon. It was surprisingly light- lighter and smaller than her partisan, though the balance was quite familiar. She spun it experimentally, twisting it around her back and over her shoulders in a defensive measure.
Technically speaking, she supposed, the metal she’d provided was her own skin. There had been no way around it- Kegumu Rekaka wasn’t going to stand still and let her harvest its feathers, that’s for damn sure, and hydra skin could be harvested very quickly, in relative terms. It had been a lot of work, and aether, and blood and pain for a very small amount of metal, but she expected that might work to her advantage in the ritual. The disease was infesting her body, after all; might it not be more easily coaxed into a simulacrum of that body?
Maybe not. Either way, an important part of the rite was getting to know the weapon, to understand it on a deep and personal level. Since she was going to have to fuck up the ritual in a few key ways, it would be easiest to spend a few days getting to know the feel of it now. Imogen transferred the polearm to one hand, where she balanced it on the tips of two fingers, feeling exactly where the fulcrum of gravity lay.
”You’ll be the death of me.” the witch told her spear, ”But hopefully only metaphorically.”
She flipped her hand around below the spear, letting it roll gently into her palm, then drew it back and cast it in one smooth motion, aiming for the stack of hay bales piled up against the wall of the dining hall. The ranseur flew smoothly, cutting cleanly through the hay and impaling itself with a satisfying clunk.
Imogen sniffed in appreciation of the smith’s work and started over towards the wall. The problem with non-pact weapons was that you had to go pick ‘em up after you chucked them at someone. How did regular guards deal with that? Or did they just not throw their sword at stuff very often?
Pondering these deep questions, the Ork grabbed the shaft and was surprised to find it stuck in. She pulled at it a bit, wondering what it had hit inside the bale. After a few moments of tugging, it came free, the speartip still perfectly clean.
She frowned, peering at the hay bale, then clambering over the pile to look behind it. There, in the wall- a notch. The ranseur had cut through the entire bale and embedded itself an inch into the stone brick behind it.
”Bugger me.” the witch swore. For some reason, she was beginning to get a bad feeling about this plan.
