Efrain was left, more or less, with two things left to teach. First was the more complex magical motion, how to draw flows and glide things along them. The second was how that applied to the wondrous black metal, and then to shape it into whatever she had seen.
Efrain, not for the first time, wished that he’d seen the knife, that way he wouldn’t have to rely on the girl’s amateur talents. There was a good chance that she would not be able to construct it soundly or missed crucial details that were essential. It was a risk, giving her this greatly expedited tutelage, then making her build a magic tool with nothing but educated guesswork. Practically like explaining pulleys and counterweights, and then asking a student to design an elevator.
He didn’t let his mind rest on it for too long - he had enough horrors today without contemplating what lay beyond the stone. Still, it weighed on him, as even moving the water around was noticeably more difficult than it would’ve been in the free air. He set out another filled bucket and an empty one, provided gratis by the workers.
“Are you having fun yet?” he said aloud, drawing the attention and a few nervous chuckles.
“It might be good for you to listen in,” he continued, “magic is here, has been here, and will continue to be here long after any of us are gone. One of these principles might save your life one day?”
After a few moments, a younger member hesitantly spoke.
“Are there any schools? To teach magic,” he said, before immediately trying to shrink back into the crowd.
Efrain regarded him as he considered the question.
“Why? Do you have an interest?”
The men around him laughed, and the boy’s face flushed as he locked eyes with what must’ve been a very attractive bench.
“Yes. There are, and were, schools. The greatest was the Angorrah Academy in the capital, but it has long been ransacked and converted to other uses. Centuries ago, now.”
The men were listening with interest now. Efrain wasn’t surprised, given the way the church stepped on the toes of history when writing its edicts.
“Yes. Angorrah used to be a heart of learning of all kinds,” he said, gesturing off to the western mountains, “magic, science, the arts, craftsmanship. The academy was beautiful, in its way. Still… what happened happened.”
“The night of the burning tree?” one of the older men ventured.
“Indeed,” Efrain said, “the night of the burning tree. A bunch of hotblooded youths getting involved in open rebellion. Anyone care to take a guess at what the seniors were doing?”
No one responded, all were looking on with bated breath.
“Nothing. Sitting in their towers, sipping their wine. All the while a bunch of idiots painted a target on all of our backs, and they did nothing to stop them.”
He was conscious of the potential hypocrisy he was engaged in. It was only a couple of years after the night of the burning tree when he had awoken in his new body. For all he knew, he could’ve been one of the idiots involved. He would like to think that he was not so stupid as to burn the most holy symbol of the church. But there was no way to know for certain.
“Then the purges began,” he said, “I had left the city before. I saw the writing on the wall.”
“But that would mean you’re hundreds of years old,” protested one of the men.
Efrain looked at him, the other men looked at him, and the man faded back with a quiet ‘oh’.
“Yes, I’ve lived for a very, very long time,” he said, stretching as he did, “there’s several different ways you can go about it, but… well, the results speak for themselves.”
Now that caught their attention, as tales of immortality often did.
“Before you ask, there’s a steep price for extended life, regardless of which way you do it. Not to mention, it’ll most likely take decades upon decades of study, and help from others besides. Even with all that, it’s still a very risky business. One mistake, and you’ll be greeting death early.”
That seemed to quell most of the curiosity, though not extinguish it completely.
“Well,” he said, “back to the original question. As for the remaining schools of magic, you’re not likely to find anything west of the mountains. The church’s hold is too strong for any sort of formal study to flourish there. The best one would be…”
Efrain tapped his mask as he ran through the locations, hoping that two centuries hadn’t wiped them away.
“Karkos, to the south east,” he said, “though I haven’t been there for many years. I recall… well, there was the idea of a school once. If you’re really interested, that would be the place to try.”
Some of the men nodded thoughtfully, though Efrain doubted any of them were actually vying to go.
“What can magic do?” said one of the younger ones again, “can it make swords sharp, or on fire or…”
He stuttered out as he reached the limits of his creativity. Efrain didn’t mind - it was nice to have queries to take his minds off of recent events.
“Magic weapons?” he said, mentally thumbing through his collection of knowledge on the topic, “yes, you could. Most ordinary weapons can be infused with magic, with appropriate skill. As for things custom made for the purposes of handling magic, well…”
He thought back to his vault in his holdfast, missing home, as cold and isolated as it might’ve been. There were a handful of weapons in his collections, usually cursed, but little that he would actually use. They were mostly there for preservation and study, rather than actual warfare. His armoury on the other hand had enchanted items, but they tended to be more along alchemical lines rather than physical ones.
“They are rare, quite rare. Some of you are steel workers, I would think?” he said, witnessing a few nods, “well then, how many years would it take to become a good one, usually?”
There was a smattering of guesses, until a big, keg-chested man offered “five or tener’ years, depends.”
“Then I’m sure you can imagine, my friend,” Efrain said nodding, “combine learning magic and smithing, then learning how to weave the latter into the former. Many, many years. True master enchanters and magesmiths are not something seen since Angorrah’s golden years, and that was centuries ago.”
He remembered the site of the great forge works under the academy, situated near the cistern so that they had a constant supply of water to fuel engines and quenching pools. The smell of hot metal and burning wood barely eclipse the stench of sewage. There had been several doddering craftsmen by the time he’d left, though the days of their magnum opuses were long past.
“Even in my time, they were dying out, and when the Academy was ‘decommissioned’, well, most of their works and knowledge was destroyed. I only knew barely beyond the basics. In any case, most magic weapons are too expensive to be practical. However you could ‘enhance’ in the way you’re thinking’ - holding edges for longer and so on.”
He paused, trying to recall the few examples he’d witnessed first-hand.
“Why, they even used to pre-enchant metal at the academy, so you could temper them faster at higher temperatures, without risking warping or weakening.”
The men began to nod more fervently - this was a subject they were more familiar with.
“But nothing dramatic. To be sure, there are tales. Weapons of light, tools to replant forests and cure illness,” he said, reaching over for the cube.
Watching the streams and rivers of metal form and reform in his hands, he began to recite.
“Long lost, long lost, across the waves,
Past brothers’ tombs and fathers’ graves.
Long lost, long lost, across the sea.
Lands old and rich and everfree.
The first lands where we long to be,
Long lost, long lost, across the sea.
Where all are found, where all is saved.
Long lost, long lost, across the waves.”
“I know that!” one of the men said, “it’s in one of the church books the priest used to sing.”
“Aieadda. It’s an old poem, one of the oldest. It’s one of the few surviving writings from the times of Eblem.”
The name of Angorrah’s founding king turned the last of the bowed heads.
“You’ve been?” said a number of astonished labourers, drawing a mental grin from Efrain. The ‘first lands’ must’ve been a legend to them, something spoken about in terms of gods and myths.
“No, no I’ve not,” he said, “they do exist, far to the south west. Several weeks by ship, if the wind is in your favour. It’s a hazardous crossing. But, if the verses are to be believed, ‘anything’ can be found there. Magic runs strong in that country.”
He lifted up the now solid cube as an example.
“For instance,” he said, “and if this is the metalwork they could do, who knows what else they could create?”
The men were enchanted now, transfixed by stories they’d never heard. But it’d have to wait for later, he thought, as he saw Sorore led by Lillian cut around the corner.
“Right then, back to work. Though you are welcome to listen in as you wish,” he said, as Sorore sat down in front of him, frowning at the two buckets.
“You ready?” he said, and she nodded, “very well, let’s begin.”
“The second lesson of magical motion is as follows…”
For the next half-hour he taught her about the process of drawing flows. How to imagine an invisible line, like carving a channel for the water to follow. How to start from before the mass, and move magic through it, simultaneously pushing the magic through it, and pushing the mass on the magic.
“And to practise that, I’ve brought back your favourite teaching aid,” he said, gesturing to the pair of buckets in front of them.
He thought he detected the hint of a scowl on the girl’s face.
“Quite simple, really, just draw an arc between the two points. We’ll stop when you’ve filled the empty bucket to the best of your ability.”
The hour after that was relatively simple, Sorore imagined a line, drew magic across it, then drew the water across that. A few false starts and water explosions later, she had a steady stream falling into the bucket.
“That’d be useful,” said one of the men, “wouldn’t have to move around the smithy too much.”
“Solid objects get a little more tricky,” said Efrain, “if I taught you how, you’d spend just as much time learning how to dodge wayward tools.”
There was genuine, not nervous laughter this time. Sorore was sitting there, quite focused on the stream, though not particularly tense, watching as the water slowly filtered from one to the other.
“A fun minor lesson,” he said, “try to make a flow with right angles only.”
The girl’s concentration lapsed, spilling water on the cobbles to her annoyance. But regardless, she tried, and largely succeeded in the first part. When she attempted to push water up, it sprayed off past one of the men, leading to it being quickly dropped.
“Any object has mass, and thus momentum. Think of running and rapidly turning around. Takes a lot more effort, doesn’t it? Curves are almost always more efficient. Now, back to it.”
Within another twenty minutes or so, she had filled up the second bucket. The last of the drops were drawn over the arc, and vanished under the surface.
“Well done,” he said, “you now know the basics of moving liquids like water, and even gas like the air around us. Solids get a little more tricky, so there’s really no time to teach you that. When we get to forging the knife, let me handle that part.”
She nodded, beaming at the bucket that was empty less than an hour ago.
“You’re ready,” he said, “now for one little note about this material. This has no resistance to magic. You’ll have to create your own, for reasons that we can discuss later. Two forces, equal, pushing against one another. Are you ready?”
She nodded, fingers twitching in excitement as he handed her the cube.
“Merely make them equal as you can,” he said, “don’t try and-”
The partially liquid cube shot out to the left, which Efrain caught and circled around into the main mass. The girl’s magic was still quite chaotic, and it was potent.
“Try again, two opposite forces at the same time. Like pressing your finger tips against each other. You’re holding it under tension.”
She did so, and a couple of tries later, the cube collapsed into fluid.
“Well done,” he said, despite the gasp she made as she attempted to grab at the fluid, “now comes the hard part. You need to maintain that tension as you guide it along the flow.”
He demonstrated, letting the material pool and coalesce into a streamer that floated into the air.
“This will be tricky. We’ll work at it,” he said, letting it spatter back onto the pavement.
The girl tried, and tried, and tried, and tried. For hours and hours as her face grew pale and sweat once more dripped from her chin. They were well past midday before she managed to get a decent grip on the technique, even though it still vibrated violently.
Efrain was completely unsurprised by the imperfection. Working with material like this was a challenge even for senior students. She had managed it in an afternoon. On its own, she would be considered exceptional, even if she had years worth of theory to catch up on. Efrain seized control and moulded it back into a cube, letting it solidify once more.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve gotten the gist of it. Not so easy, hm?”
She nodded, brushing her hair back and rubbing at her eyes.
“Now comes the really hard part,” he said, with less sadistic, teacherly mirth than he might want to, “You need to create a flow that is the shape of the blade.”
Sorore’s eyes widened at the proposition, and she audibly gulped.
“How?” she said.
“Imagine the shape of the blade in space, and divide it up into flows that you can guide the metal to. Simple in theory. But far, far from easy. This is the challenge we’ve been leading up to. You need not worry about making it solid, just let me handle that. You need only to work on the shape.”
Sorore was eager to try, if a little daunted perhaps by the complexity of the task. First Efrain managed to make a concept wire piece of the blade with her. They discussed features, the chisel tip, the furled blades, the tang of the blade. The small rivulets and channels she’d seen in her ‘visions’ of it.
Then came the actual ‘forging’ of it, and by the Lost, was it difficult. Attempt after attempt after attempt fell apart, the girl growing grey by the exhaustion. As the light around them began to darken, they stopped, adjusted and retired. All to no avail.
“I just can’t…” she said, face red with effort after the latest attempt, “there’s too much to keep track of.”
Efrain had watched, with occasionally gentle prodding, as the girl attempted to fill in the gaps. The actual flow wasn’t particularly difficult, but forming the total structure of the blade, while maintaining cardinal paths for the metal to follow was clearly beyond her level. Efrain sighed - at least now, he had an idea of what the shape was and could make a good approximation of what was needed.
It was unfortunate that the young girl didn't manage to fully develop the skill over the afternoon’s course, but it was hardly unexpected. He had been pushing her far too hard, and at this point it was probably going to be more economical to just simply create the blade himself. It wouldn't be perfect, but he had to hope that it would be enough for the door.
"Well,” he said, “ it would appear that we’ve run out of time. Good progress despite. I think I'll try to finish the rest of it.”
As he’d expected, the dismissal made the young woman's shoulders slump further. He was almost tempted to reach out to her, but the ever-present glare of Lillian dissuaded him. She would get over it, assuming they all survived, and for that, he needed the knife. Soroe was led away into the afternoon, and Efrain was left to find a solution he wasn’t entirely sure existed.
Within a few minutes he had managed to get the basic shape, the details, however, were an entirely different story. Try after try after try, he spent what hours he had attempting to get every single detail he could. Night was oncoming before he had something he thought might work. The actual utilisation and technique he hoped weren’t as important as the structure.Efrain was not looking forward to the most likely outcome - the first usage of magic would immediately revert the solid metal to fluid.
Sighing, he finally rose, bizarre blade in his hand. With a nod to the rest of the labourers, well at work repairing blades and mending armour, he departed to the church. The remainder of the townsfolk were littered about, preparing for the siege. If they were lucky, they had a few more hours before the attacks began, but that did not still the fear obvious in their eyes.
Efrain crossed into the main hold of the church, and made his way to the stair door. Innie picked herself up off the stones and walked beside him.
“The child?” Efrain said, looking back towards the medic bay.
“Leave her,” said the cat, “she’s needed, and the happiest I’ve ever seen her. Did you have any luck?”
“She came close. Somewhat,” Efrain said, letting the black blade catch the light, “I finished it.”
“Oh that’s comforting,” said Innie, “using a tool you finished.”
“If you have a better suggestion,” Efrain responded with a snort, “we can’t get much more desperate than we are now. Is this or roof.”
“I'd rather fight them here on, at least that way I can burn the church down while I die,” she said.
The catacombs greeted them - dark, cold, and smothering. The duo came before the black stone wall, Efrain glancing over to check if there was nothing he’d missed. Finding that his powers of observation were sound, he raised the blade tip to the smooth black stone.
“Here we go,” he said.
Efrain was left, more or less, with two things left to teach. First was the more complex magical motion, how to draw flows and glide things along them. The second was how that applied to the wondrous black metal, and then to shape it into whatever she had seen.
Efrain, not for the first time, wished that he’d seen the knife, that way he wouldn’t have to rely on the girl’s amateur talents. There was a good chance that she would not be able to construct it soundly or missed crucial details that were essential. It was a risk, giving her this greatly expedited tutelage, then making her build a magic tool with nothing but educated guesswork. Practically like explaining pulleys and counterweights, and then asking a student to design an elevator.
He didn’t let his mind rest on it for too long - he had enough horrors today without contemplating what lay beyond the stone. Still, it weighed on him, as even moving the water around was noticeably more difficult than it would’ve been in the free air. He set out another filled bucket and an empty one, provided gratis by the workers.
“Are you having fun yet?” he said aloud, drawing the attention and a few nervous chuckles.
“It might be good for you to listen in,” he continued, “magic is here, has been here, and will continue to be here long after any of us are gone. One of these principles might save your life one day?”
After a few moments, a younger member hesitantly spoke.
“Are there any schools? To teach magic,” he said, before immediately trying to shrink back into the crowd.
Efrain regarded him as he considered the question.
“Why? Do you have an interest?”
The men around him laughed, and the boy’s face flushed as he locked eyes with what must’ve been a very attractive bench.
“Yes. There are, and were, schools. The greatest was the Angorrah Academy in the capital, but it has long been ransacked and converted to other uses. Centuries ago, now.”
The men were listening with interest now. Efrain wasn’t surprised, given the way the church stepped on the toes of history when writing its edicts.
“Yes. Angorrah used to be a heart of learning of all kinds,” he said, gesturing off to the western mountains, “magic, science, the arts, craftsmanship. The academy was beautiful, in its way. Still… what happened happened.”
“The night of the burning tree?” one of the older men ventured.
“Indeed,” Efrain said, “the night of the burning tree. A bunch of hotblooded youths getting involved in open rebellion. Anyone care to take a guess at what the seniors were doing?”
No one responded, all were looking on with bated breath.
“Nothing. Sitting in their towers, sipping their wine. All the while a bunch of idiots painted a target on all of our backs, and they did nothing to stop them.”
He was conscious of the potential hypocrisy he was engaged in. It was only a couple of years after the night of the burning tree when he had awoken in his new body. For all he knew, he could’ve been one of the idiots involved. He would like to think that he was not so stupid as to burn the most holy symbol of the church. But there was no way to know for certain.
“Then the purges began,” he said, “I had left the city before. I saw the writing on the wall.”
“But that would mean you’re hundreds of years old,” protested one of the men.
Efrain looked at him, the other men looked at him, and the man faded back with a quiet ‘oh’.
“Yes, I’ve lived for a very, very long time,” he said, stretching as he did, “there’s several different ways you can go about it, but… well, the results speak for themselves.”
Now that caught their attention, as tales of immortality often did.
“Before you ask, there’s a steep price for extended life, regardless of which way you do it. Not to mention, it’ll most likely take decades upon decades of study, and help from others besides. Even with all that, it’s still a very risky business. One mistake, and you’ll be greeting death early.”
That seemed to quell most of the curiosity, though not extinguish it completely.
“Well,” he said, “back to the original question. As for the remaining schools of magic, you’re not likely to find anything west of the mountains. The church’s hold is too strong for any sort of formal study to flourish there. The best one would be…”
Efrain tapped his mask as he ran through the locations, hoping that two centuries hadn’t wiped them away.
“Karkos, to the south east,” he said, “though I haven’t been there for many years. I recall… well, there was the idea of a school once. If you’re really interested, that would be the place to try.”
Some of the men nodded thoughtfully, though Efrain doubted any of them were actually vying to go.
“What can magic do?” said one of the younger ones again, “can it make swords sharp, or on fire or…”
He stuttered out as he reached the limits of his creativity. Efrain didn’t mind - it was nice to have queries to take his minds off of recent events.
“Magic weapons?” he said, mentally thumbing through his collection of knowledge on the topic, “yes, you could. Most ordinary weapons can be infused with magic, with appropriate skill. As for things custom made for the purposes of handling magic, well…”
He thought back to his vault in his holdfast, missing home, as cold and isolated as it might’ve been. There were a handful of weapons in his collections, usually cursed, but little that he would actually use. They were mostly there for preservation and study, rather than actual warfare. His armoury on the other hand had enchanted items, but they tended to be more along alchemical lines rather than physical ones.
“They are rare, quite rare. Some of you are steel workers, I would think?” he said, witnessing a few nods, “well then, how many years would it take to become a good one, usually?”
There was a smattering of guesses, until a big, keg-chested man offered “five or tener’ years, depends.”
“Then I’m sure you can imagine, my friend,” Efrain said nodding, “combine learning magic and smithing, then learning how to weave the latter into the former. Many, many years. True master enchanters and magesmiths are not something seen since Angorrah’s golden years, and that was centuries ago.”
He remembered the site of the great forge works under the academy, situated near the cistern so that they had a constant supply of water to fuel engines and quenching pools. The smell of hot metal and burning wood barely eclipse the stench of sewage. There had been several doddering craftsmen by the time he’d left, though the days of their magnum opuses were long past.
“Even in my time, they were dying out, and when the Academy was ‘decommissioned’, well, most of their works and knowledge was destroyed. I only knew barely beyond the basics. In any case, most magic weapons are too expensive to be practical. However you could ‘enhance’ in the way you’re thinking’ - holding edges for longer and so on.”
He paused, trying to recall the few examples he’d witnessed first-hand.
“Why, they even used to pre-enchant metal at the academy, so you could temper them faster at higher temperatures, without risking warping or weakening.”
The men began to nod more fervently - this was a subject they were more familiar with.
“But nothing dramatic. To be sure, there are tales. Weapons of light, tools to replant forests and cure illness,” he said, reaching over for the cube.
Watching the streams and rivers of metal form and reform in his hands, he began to recite.
“Long lost, long lost, across the waves,
Past brothers’ tombs and fathers’ graves.
Long lost, long lost, across the sea.
Lands old and rich and everfree.
The first lands where we long to be,
Long lost, long lost, across the sea.
Where all are found, where all is saved.
Long lost, long lost, across the waves.”
“I know that!” one of the men said, “it’s in one of the church books the priest used to sing.”
“Aieadda. It’s an old poem, one of the oldest. It’s one of the few surviving writings from the times of Eblem.”
The name of Angorrah’s founding king turned the last of the bowed heads.
“You’ve been?” said a number of astonished labourers, drawing a mental grin from Efrain. The ‘first lands’ must’ve been a legend to them, something spoken about in terms of gods and myths.
“No, no I’ve not,” he said, “they do exist, far to the south west. Several weeks by ship, if the wind is in your favour. It’s a hazardous crossing. But, if the verses are to be believed, ‘anything’ can be found there. Magic runs strong in that country.”
He lifted up the now solid cube as an example.
“For instance,” he said, “and if this is the metalwork they could do, who knows what else they could create?”
The men were enchanted now, transfixed by stories they’d never heard. But it’d have to wait for later, he thought, as he saw Sorore led by Lillian cut around the corner.
“Right then, back to work. Though you are welcome to listen in as you wish,” he said, as Sorore sat down in front of him, frowning at the two buckets.
“You ready?” he said, and she nodded, “very well, let’s begin.”
“The second lesson of magical motion is as follows…”
For the next half-hour he taught her about the process of drawing flows. How to imagine an invisible line, like carving a channel for the water to follow. How to start from before the mass, and move magic through it, simultaneously pushing the magic through it, and pushing the mass on the magic.
“And to practise that, I’ve brought back your favourite teaching aid,” he said, gesturing to the pair of buckets in front of them.
He thought he detected the hint of a scowl on the girl’s face.
“Quite simple, really, just draw an arc between the two points. We’ll stop when you’ve filled the empty bucket to the best of your ability.”
The hour after that was relatively simple, Sorore imagined a line, drew magic across it, then drew the water across that. A few false starts and water explosions later, she had a steady stream falling into the bucket.
“That’d be useful,” said one of the men, “wouldn’t have to move around the smithy too much.”
“Solid objects get a little more tricky,” said Efrain, “if I taught you how, you’d spend just as much time learning how to dodge wayward tools.”
There was genuine, not nervous laughter this time. Sorore was sitting there, quite focused on the stream, though not particularly tense, watching as the water slowly filtered from one to the other.
“A fun minor lesson,” he said, “try to make a flow with right angles only.”
The girl’s concentration lapsed, spilling water on the cobbles to her annoyance. But regardless, she tried, and largely succeeded in the first part. When she attempted to push water up, it sprayed off past one of the men, leading to it being quickly dropped.
“Any object has mass, and thus momentum. Think of running and rapidly turning around. Takes a lot more effort, doesn’t it? Curves are almost always more efficient. Now, back to it.”
Within another twenty minutes or so, she had filled up the second bucket. The last of the drops were drawn over the arc, and vanished under the surface.
“Well done,” he said, “you now know the basics of moving liquids like water, and even gas like the air around us. Solids get a little more tricky, so there’s really no time to teach you that. When we get to forging the knife, let me handle that part.”
She nodded, beaming at the bucket that was empty less than an hour ago.
“You’re ready,” he said, “now for one little note about this material. This has no resistance to magic. You’ll have to create your own, for reasons that we can discuss later. Two forces, equal, pushing against one another. Are you ready?”
She nodded, fingers twitching in excitement as he handed her the cube.
“Merely make them equal as you can,” he said, “don’t try and-”
The partially liquid cube shot out to the left, which Efrain caught and circled around into the main mass. The girl’s magic was still quite chaotic, and it was potent.
“Try again, two opposite forces at the same time. Like pressing your finger tips against each other. You’re holding it under tension.”
She did so, and a couple of tries later, the cube collapsed into fluid.
“Well done,” he said, despite the gasp she made as she attempted to grab at the fluid, “now comes the hard part. You need to maintain that tension as you guide it along the flow.”
He demonstrated, letting the material pool and coalesce into a streamer that floated into the air.
“This will be tricky. We’ll work at it,” he said, letting it spatter back onto the pavement.
The girl tried, and tried, and tried, and tried. For hours and hours as her face grew pale and sweat once more dripped from her chin. They were well past midday before she managed to get a decent grip on the technique, even though it still vibrated violently.
Efrain was completely unsurprised by the imperfection. Working with material like this was a challenge even for senior students. She had managed it in an afternoon. On its own, she would be considered exceptional, even if she had years worth of theory to catch up on. Efrain seized control and moulded it back into a cube, letting it solidify once more.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve gotten the gist of it. Not so easy, hm?”
She nodded, brushing her hair back and rubbing at her eyes.
“Now comes the really hard part,” he said, with less sadistic, teacherly mirth than he might want to, “You need to create a flow that is the shape of the blade.”
Sorore’s eyes widened at the proposition, and she audibly gulped.
“How?” she said.
“Imagine the shape of the blade in space, and divide it up into flows that you can guide the metal to. Simple in theory. But far, far from easy. This is the challenge we’ve been leading up to. You need not worry about making it solid, just let me handle that. You need only to work on the shape.”
Sorore was eager to try, if a little daunted perhaps by the complexity of the task. First Efrain managed to make a concept wire piece of the blade with her. They discussed features, the chisel tip, the furled blades, the tang of the blade. The small rivulets and channels she’d seen in her ‘visions’ of it.
Then came the actual ‘forging’ of it, and by the Lost, was it difficult. Attempt after attempt after attempt fell apart, the girl growing grey by the exhaustion. As the light around them began to darken, they stopped, adjusted and retired. All to no avail.
“I just can’t…” she said, face red with effort after the latest attempt, “there’s too much to keep track of.”
Efrain had watched, with occasionally gentle prodding, as the girl attempted to fill in the gaps. The actual flow wasn’t particularly difficult, but forming the total structure of the blade, while maintaining cardinal paths for the metal to follow was clearly beyond her level. Efrain sighed - at least now, he had an idea of what the shape was and could make a good approximation of what was needed.
It was unfortunate that the young girl didn't manage to fully develop the skill over the afternoon’s course, but it was hardly unexpected. He had been pushing her far too hard, and at this point it was probably going to be more economical to just simply create the blade himself. It wouldn't be perfect, but he had to hope that it would be enough for the door.
"Well,” he said, “ it would appear that we’ve run out of time. Good progress despite. I think I'll try to finish the rest of it.”
As he’d expected, the dismissal made the young woman's shoulders slump further. He was almost tempted to reach out to her, but the ever-present glare of Lillian dissuaded him. She would get over it, assuming they all survived, and for that, he needed the knife. Soroe was led away into the afternoon, and Efrain was left to find a solution he wasn’t entirely sure existed.
Within a few minutes he had managed to get the basic shape, the details, however, were an entirely different story. Try after try after try, he spent what hours he had attempting to get every single detail he could. Night was oncoming before he had something he thought might work. The actual utilisation and technique he hoped weren’t as important as the structure.Efrain was not looking forward to the most likely outcome - the first usage of magic would immediately revert the solid metal to fluid.
Sighing, he finally rose, bizarre blade in his hand. With a nod to the rest of the labourers, well at work repairing blades and mending armour, he departed to the church. The remainder of the townsfolk were littered about, preparing for the siege. If they were lucky, they had a few more hours before the attacks began, but that did not still the fear obvious in their eyes.
Efrain crossed into the main hold of the church, and made his way to the stair door. Innie picked herself up off the stones and walked beside him.
“The child?” Efrain said, looking back towards the medic bay.
“Leave her,” said the cat, “she’s needed, and the happiest I’ve ever seen her. Did you have any luck?”
“She came close. Somewhat,” Efrain said, letting the black blade catch the light, “I finished it.”
“Oh that’s comforting,” said Innie, “using a tool you finished.”
“If you have a better suggestion,” Efrain responded with a snort, “we can’t get much more desperate than we are now. Is this or roof.”
“I'd rather fight them here on, at least that way I can burn the church down while I die,” she said.
The catacombs greeted them - dark, cold, and smothering. The duo came before the black stone wall, Efrain glancing over to check if there was nothing he’d missed. Finding that his powers of observation were sound, he raised the blade tip to the smooth black stone.
“Here we go,” he said.
