by S. R. Witt
The dwarf hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “That corner over there, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Don’t get excited just because you know the basics, though. After you get them ingots made, turn ’em into sheet metal. I need flat sheets, curved sheets, and hammered sheets.”
<<<>>>
Quest Alert: A Dwarf’s Dogsbody
Help the gruff dwarf Rozak transform raw ore into finished sheet metal. You must create thirty ingots, which must then be worked into three different types of finished product.
Quest Class: Rare, class-based
Quest Difficulty: Moderate
Success: Make ten flat sheets, ten curved sheets, and ten hammered sheets.
Failure: Fail more than five skill checks before achieving success
Reward: Class change; faction increase; 500 EXP
Accept: Yes/No?
<<<>>>
Robert’s lips quirked into a smile. He drew a deep breath and accepted the quest.
Time to get to work.
FOURTEEN:
Iron and Ingots
Rozak swaggered away with a dismissive frown that told Osmark all he needed to know. The dwarf thought he was going to fail miserably at the task—it was etched into every line of his stout body—which set Osmark’s teeth on edge.
“You’re about to find out that betting against me is a sucker’s bet,” Robert muttered after the dwarf, hands curling into tight fists. Then, louder, to Horan, “Time to earn your keep.”
“I thought that’s what I was doing when I saved your arse from the bandits,” Horan said with a grin. “What do you need?”
Robert opened his interface and reviewed the blueprints that had landed in his inventory when he’d accepted the quest. Each of the metal sheets he had to manufacture required a single ingot, and each ingot required three pieces of ore. So far, so good.
Then Osmark took a closer look at the instructions for creating ingots from the raw ore—the process was surprisingly complex and involved for such a relatively simple task. He needed to light the smelter and get it up to temperature, load a crucible with raw iron and heat it, before finally pouring the molten metal into an ingot mold. Successfully crafting each ingot required four passed skill checks, and Robert needed thirty of the damned things. Osmark didn’t like the odds of getting through 120 skill checks, even easy ones, without failing five of them and blowing the quest.
Even if he had the skills he needed—and he most certainly didn’t—the law of averages put Robert at a severe disadvantage.
Just the way I like it, he thought.
Time was a concern, too.
Some of the crafting steps were long, tedious, and guaranteed to burn through a lot of time. Starting the fire took five minutes, and getting it up to temperature took another five. For thirty ingots, that alone would eat up five hours of Osmark’s day, which would never work. Not with Sizemore out there actively gunning for him. He needed to reduce the production time, or he’d be stuck in the surly dwarf’s shop all damned day. Robert took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then opened them slowly to clear his thoughts.
He surveyed his surroundings and formulated a plan.
“Okay, we can do this,” Osmark said, mostly for himself. “Horan, head over to that closet and grab as many crucibles as you can carry. Line them up on the floor there in front of the forge.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Horan replied, hurrying to the closet to begin his work.
In the meantime, Osmark snatched up an armload of gritty coal from the bin to load into the smelter’s belly. The soot-stained structure reminded Robert of a beehive. It had the same general shape, though the dwarf had fashioned it from red brick, not dirt and bee spit.
Robert pulled a drawer out from the side of the smelter near its base and dumped his armful of coal into the drawer, before clapping the black dust from his hands. A shelf on the side of the smelter held small twigs and dried leaves to use for tinder, and Robert pushed these into a mound in the center of the coal.
Osmark found a flint and steel on the same shelf that held the tinder, but after a few moments of staring at the fire-starting tools, he shook his head. No. He was a tech genius, not a woodsman, and he’d certainly never started a fire without a lighter. Trying to start one with flint and steel was an experiment better left to a time when he didn’t have to worry about every errant spark ruining a critical quest. Fortunately, he didn’t need to screw around with primitive tools.
Robert grabbed a pair of tongs from the tool rack on the wall. He pinched the air experimentally, then headed toward the front of the shop.
Rozak lounged at the small desk near the front door. He had his hobnailed boots up on the furniture’s scarred and dented surface and held an enormous, vile-smelling pipe clenched between his lips. He blew out a plume of dark smoke when he saw Robert and cocked a failed-already eyebrow. “Your business is on the other side of the shop, boy,” he said flatly, nodding toward the back room.
Robert bobbed his head respectfully but didn’t change course. Instead, he beelined to the large forge near the front of the shop and used the tongs to pull open the drawer on its side. A wave of intense heat gushed out of the opening, stinging Robert’s skin and making his eyes water. Undeterred by the warmth, he fished a single glowing ember from the forge’s belly, then kicked the drawer closed.
“Cheeky cheating bastard,” Rozak grumbled and sent another cloud of reeking smoke at Osmark’s face.
Robert ducked away from the plume to hide his grin and hurried back to his corner of the workshop. He dropped the orange ember into the open smelter drawer, and the tinder immediately burst into flame with a crackle. The other lumps of coal smoldered as the ember nestled in among them, sending up a few wispy curls of smoke.
Osmark’s chest swelled with pride.
He shoved the drawer back into place and sealed the latch to make sure it didn’t slide out. Ruddy light rose through the thick stone slats that made up the floor of the smelter, giving the structure a menacing glow. It reminded Osmark of the time he’d spent lava surfing on the big island with Sandra and the rest of his senior team. A twinge of loneliness pricked at Osmark’s thoughts, but he pushed it aside. He’d be with his people soon enough.
“I’ve got your crucibles,” Horan said, gesturing toward a row of porcelain cylinders in a neat column. “I think I’ll head back to the inn and fetch an ale, maybe kick up my feet—”
“Or you can head outside and work the bellows,” Osmark said with a wink, cutting the man short. “I’ll let you know when to stop pumping.”
“That’s what she said,” Horan muttered on his way outside.
With his NPC outside, Osmark took a good look at the racks of ore on the wall. There was another puzzle here, one which he was sure the dwarf hadn’t expected him to spot without a lot of trial and error. The ore came in all different sizes, but every ingot needed exactly three pieces of ore. Select a piece that’s too big, and he wouldn’t be able to fit another pair into the crucible with it. And if he screwed up filling a crucible, that was a failed skill check. Five of those, and he was a washout. Everything he’d worked for would end here in this dingy little shop.
No, I don’t think so, Robert thought as he reviewed the blueprints for any clue as to how he could get around this challenge with minimal risk.
A heavy grating noise echoed from deep within the brick-lined smelter as Horan worked the bellows. The orange glow brightened to a harsh red glare as heat billowed out, tightening Osmark’s skin against his bones where it touched him. He’d have to be careful working around the contraption if he didn’t want to end up as a crispy critter.
Osmark turned his attention back to the task of picking pieces of ore from the hundreds stacked up before him. He shrugged out of his backpack and opened the flap, holding it out as he scoured the pile for the smallest bits of ore he could find, plucking them as he went.
Five minutes later, he had ninety pieces he hoped would fit the bill.
Next, Robert cro
uched down in front of the first crucible in line and dropped in three tiny pieces of raw iron; a wide grin spread across his face as he watched them morph, shimmer, and swell, suddenly filling the crucible right to the rim. The blueprints called for three pieces of ore in each crucible, but it didn’t say anything about those pieces needing to be a specific size. Though V.G.O. looked indistinguishable from the real world, Robert reminded himself that it was still a game. Three minutes later, Osmark had emptied the ore into the thirty crucibles without a single failure.
Then it was time for the first scary part of the process: loading the blistering hot smelter.
Osmark retrieved the heavy leather gauntlets from the shelf next to the molds and pulled them over his hands, wiggling his fingers in place. The thick leather would save his skin from the forge’s heat, but the gloves also made his hands dumb and clumsy. He couldn’t feel anything, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up making a terrible mess moving crucibles in and out of the smelter.
There wasn’t much danger of an injury while loading them in, but once the iron was molten and ready to be moved to molds, it would be hellishly hot. Horrible visions of liquid metal splashing out of the crucible and melting the flesh from his bones rose to the surface of Robert’s thoughts.
“One step at a time,” he said, picking up the curved crucible tongs from their peg on the wall.
Robert stooped to pick up the first crucible and realized he’d made a mistake. Several mistakes, really—about thirty of them. He stood, his brow furrowed, and regarded the cylinders. Damn.
His first error was putting the crucibles on the floor. There was a rolling table against the wall, and its marble surface was at the exact height of the smelter’s opening. If he’d been thinking, Osmark could’ve easily had Horan load the crucibles onto it, and then it would’ve been a simple matter to fill the crucibles and move them into the forge without having to bend at the waist every single time.
“I’ve seen that face before,” the dwarf said with a hearty guffaw. Rozak had ambled over from his desk to watch Osmark’s progress, arms folded, smug satisfaction on his weather-beaten face. “Probably should’ve used the table, aye?”
Osmark refused to give the dwarf the gratification of seeing him angry.
He took a long, slow breath and crouched down to grasp the first crucible between the curved surfaces of the tongs. It took more strength than Osmark had thought to close the tongs and keep them secured against the crucible’s sides. For a beat, he even considered throwing a few points into Strength to see if that made it easier, but he quickly dismissed the idea since he didn’t want to squander his Stat points so frivolously. Especially not on something as useless to his future class as Strength.
Five minutes later, he loaded the last of the crucibles into the smelter. The fiery breath of the bellows had built the heat inside the stone hive until Osmark could barely stand to be in front of it. The fine hairs on his forehead had long since burned away, leaving a faint dusting of powdery ash on his face, which mingled with the sweat to leave his forehead and cheeks black and sticky. Osmark didn’t care, though. By loading all the crucibles into the forge at the same time, he’d cut the number of skill checks for this phase of the quest in half.
“Think you’re smart, do you?” the dwarf barked around his pipe’s filthy stem. “What happens if you overcook ’em, eh? You ever think about that, Mr. Fancy Pants? I reckon you’ll lose all your work in one fell swoop.”
Robert’s guts tightened at the thought. Would that be one failed skill check? Or thirty?
The sweat dotting his brow was no longer just from the smelter’s heat.
Robert scooted back a few paces to watch the crucibles from a safe distance, and it wasn’t long before a faint glow lit each vessel’s interior. The ore was smoldering. Melting.
Osmark headed out the shop’s back door to fetch Horan. The cool morning breeze lapped at the beads of perspiration covering every inch of his flesh, and suddenly Osmark wanted nothing more than to find a frosty mug of ale and a shady spot to sit. When this quest was over, he’d need two drinks just to soothe his jangled nerves.
Horan looked as sweaty as Osmark felt, his face drenched, hair mussed, linen shirt clinging to his chest. “We done yet?” he wheezed, sounding half dead with exhaustion.
Osmark nodded and moved his hand in a seesaw motion. “You’re done out here. But there’s more to do inside.”
With a grunt, Horan released the bellows, stretching his back with a wince. The heavy counterweight slammed down onto a thick grounding plate with a loud clang. The dwarf shouted something inarticulate and furious from inside the shop, drawing a grin from both Horan and Osmark.
Back inside the shop, Osmark started laying out their next plan of attack. “Pull that rolling table over to the smelter. We need to wrap this up. Time for some teamwork.”
Osmark pointed at the wall next to the forge. “Put five molds across the table. I’ll start filling them from my left. When I finish with the third, the first one should be cool enough to dump in that bucket of water next to the smelter. From there?” He paused, shrugged. “Well, we’ll just keep up that cycle until we’re done.”
“Let me find another pair of them gauntlets, and we’ll get to it.” Horan left to find his protective equipment, and Osmark pulled his gloves back on. He hefted the tongs and went through the motions in his head: Open the tongs. Slide them around the crucible. Close the tongs. Pull the crucible out. Twist at the wrists to pour the metal into the mold.
It seemed like an easy enough task, and Osmark was sure he could handle it. At least, he thought so until he started filling the first crucible. As soon as he twisted his wrists, his muscles strained to keep the tongs closed. The awkward angle robbed Osmark’s arms of their strength, and his eyes widened in horror as he lost control of the tongs.
The ceramic vessel slipped just a hair, and a hot blob of red-hot metal the size of a quarter burped out and splattered on the floor near Osmark’s feet, sizzling on impact. He struggled to right the tongs, but his grip was too weak. He was losing it. No, no, no. In his head, he envisioned the crucible flipping over and splattering boiling metal down his legs. He imagined the agony of hot iron coursing through his flesh in screaming streams. Even worse, he imagined the pain of failing.
If he lost this crucible, he’d have to fire another one, risking more skill checks, wasting more time.
But just when it seemed he was on the brink of absolute disaster, Horan lunged across the table and steadied the tongs with his gloved hands. His eyes met Robert’s. Osmark caught his breath, braced himself, and nodded to Horan. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Whoa, careful there,” the dwarf called out, his tone oddly delighted at their near catastrophe. “I don’t need you burning the place down. Do I need to come over there and show you girls how to hold a pair of tongs?”
Osmark ground his teeth. He refused to respond to the dwarf’s gibes because he didn’t have any mental or physical energy to spare for banter. His hands and arms ached, but he wasn’t going to let the dwarf beat him. He would finish this. Horan said nothing, his forehead creased in concentration, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the ingot molds. They had stout iron handles jutting from their back ends, which made it easy enough for him to transport them and swap them out.
The work was exhausting, true, but with the pair of them working together it was manageable. Before Osmark knew it, they had ten ingots cooling in the bucket and three more poured.
Despite the aches gnawing on his muscles and hammering at his back, Osmark pressed on. In less than an hour, he’d fashioned all thirty of the ingots he needed.
Unfortunately, he also was completely exhausted. The yellow Stamina bar in the upper corner of his vision had drained down to next to nothing, and he needed time for it to refill. Time he didn’t have to waste.
“I need a break,” Osmark begrudgingly admitted, angry with himself.
The dwarf snickered from his post near the wall,
and the sound burned Robert’s ears as surely as the splattered molten metal had burned the floor.
Osmark’s temper flared hot as the forge. He wanted to slam the tongs alongside the surly dwarf’s skull, and consequences be damned. It would feel good to shut Rozak’s hairy mouth. Too good.
Knock it off, he told himself. You need him, no matter how much of a pain in the neck he is. Pull it together.
Robert forced himself to turn and walk away without looking at the dwarf or his mocking, bearded face. A deadly calm had descended over him, cooling his emotions like an arctic breeze and stilling his thoughts. The dwarf’s jabs didn’t matter, not really. They were painful to his ego, but not to the quest. He was in great shape really—far further along than he’d expected and with only one minor slipup. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, he reminded himself.
He’d take a break. He’d catch his breath. And then?
Then he’d show the cocky, disgruntled dwarf the best sheets of metal he’d ever seen.
Even if it killed him.
FIFTEEN:
Artificer
Osmark walked away from the forge and leaned against the wall, his body aching, his throat raw from inhaling the smelter’s scorching breath. Horan took up a spot next to him, mopping the sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of one soot-stained hand.
“You want me to do the next part? I was just shuffling molds. I’m pretty fresh,” Horan offered, even though he looked far from fresh. Not that Osmark was in any better state—he was much worse. Straddling the line of complete burnout, even.
Osmark shook his head. “I’d let you, but I need to do this myself. Need to. I have to earn it.”
Horan raised an eyebrow. “You’re the first boss I ever had who didn’t want me to do the grunt work. And what makes this different from all the shoveling and pumping you had me doing?”
Robert considered the question. Maybe this was part of the test. He didn’t have the Strength or Stamina to keep bowling through every challenge that popped up in front of them. He needed to keep increasing his Intelligence and Dexterity, which meant someone else was going to have to be the muscle. Wasn’t that the same as any team he’d ever led? There had to be a leader, and there had to be followers. This was exactly the thing Sandra had warned him about before they’d transitioned to V.G.O.
