Sunday, May 16
th
Spiders.
I was thinking about how to make better, lighter armor, and I had a brilliant idea. Spider silk. It’s stronger than steel, even stronger than Kevlar. The problem has always been how to get it in quantity.
So, to get spider silk, I got spiders. I’ve collected dozens of them and laid spells on them to convince them to weave a very specific web. They’re working together in blissful arachnid harmony—as opposed to a cannibalistic arachnid slaughter—to weave webs of unprecedented thickness. That is, a multi-stranded cable of spider silk. It’s about as thick as heavy thread. It’s mostly the non-sticky form of webbing with just enough sticky strands to help it hold itself together. As thread, it’s a trifle clingy, but mostly it just behaves like thread. If they can produce enough of it, I’ll get it on a loom and we’ll see how it behaves when it’s made into cloth.
Feeding them is easy, though. I roll out tendrils of power, scoop in a hundred or a thousand insects, drain their miniscule lives, and dump the bodies into a clay jar. I have people feed them at least once a day and then collect the day’s thread production on a spool. My spiders are well-fed and industrious. I suppose, if one can use the term to describe something with a brain that small, they’re happy.
Tort and I finally had a chance to get together and experiment with the spells on the crossbow bolts. Remember my assassins? I didn’t. I completely forgot about them until Tort asked me if I wanted to keep them. Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind; perhaps I can be excused. I also tend to regard people trying to kill me as, well,
normal
.
That’s not normal. But it is the way I am. I should get over that.
So, the crossbow bolts. I had Tort shoot me in the hand one night. It was an unpleasant sensation, to say the least. It nailed my hand to the wooden wall, no problem. The spell, however, locked up my hand and part of my forearm. It didn’t go numb at all, just solidified as the blood coagulated.
I tapped my little finger a few times, experimentally, but it didn’t shatter. Locked up solid but not, apparently, frozen; it was more of a crystallization, really. Important distinction. It loosened up again much more quickly than a piece of meat thawing, though, and didn’t seem to have any lasting aftereffects. Just the same, we decided not to test it on my torso.
We tried another one on a chicken. Well, I say a chicken; it’s a bird with short legs, small wings, and a rather chunky body. It doesn’t swim, it doesn’t really fly, and probably wouldn’t survive for long without human intervention. It tastes a lot like… well… chicken. Maybe it’s more like a dodo bird. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never seen a dodo.
Anyway, when I shot the bird, the blood tried to crystallize, but only managed to thicken, reaching the consistency of pancake batter. Watching the spell work, I could see the living metabolism resisting it. The chicken wasn’t solidified, but the spell didn’t do it any good. At least it didn’t bleed to death; the wound clotted off almost immediately.
As a weapon, it was actually moderately clever. Anywhere it hit me would cause inconvenience or immobility. If they were out to capture me, rather than kill me, this would work very well, indeed. Of course, if they immobilized me, killing me would also be easy… someone was thinking ahead, here. My ability to move quickly is one of my stronger supernatural traits.
As for the prisoners, Tort has been keeping them in the jail. Mochara’s city guards have a nice basement under their headquarters; it has several cells. And, for people they particularly dislike, there are several holes in the floor; these have heavy, metal lids, a trickle of water running down the inside, and no sanitation to speak of.
I don’t think they like assassins. That’s just a guess.
Jaret, however, is not in the cells. I said to treat him like a guest, and he’s been trying very hard to be a well-behaved guest. He’s also been trying very hard to avoid me. I think he suspects I don’t like him, and I’m utterly heartbroken at his attitude. On the plus side, he’s been good for confirmation of what Tort has… extracted… from the other prisoners.
She called it “extracted.” I haven’t pressed her for details. I can remember enough “extraction” techniques from Zirafel to be certain that I don’t want to learn any new ones.
There are two kings in the old kingdom of Rethven—well, two main contenders. The more militant and conquest-oriented is the Prince of Byrne; he’s got a weak claim to the throne by virtue (?) of being descended from a bastard son of the former king’s grandfather, which makes him… what? An illegitimate cousin? Second cousin? Something like that.
The other contender for the crown is the Duke of Carrillon. He has a slightly better claim on the ancestry end of things; he’s descended directly from the original Duke of Carrillon, who was rumored to be a bastard son of King Relven, the last king of Rethven. What makes his claim more practical is that he holds the capitol, the palace, and the royal regalia—throne, crown, and scepter. He seems more willing to enjoy ruling his much-diminished kingdom than he is to re-conquer the rest of it. His strategy, if I may call it that, is to use more peaceful methods, such as marriages, treaties, and trade to bring outside areas into closer alignment with his political viewpoint.
The one that wants me dead—at least, as far as the hired help knows—is the Prince of Byrne, doing business as the King of Rethven. The thugs are aware that they could have been deceived, but I have to ask myself why anyone would bother. If all went well, there would be no problem. If things didn’t go well, they were likely to be killed on the spot. Surviving to be interrogated—or “squeezed,” as Tort put it—was quite unlikely.
Still, another tally mark for the Prince of Byrne. I may have to see what he’s up to, just for my own peace of mind.
I’ve also relocated the Royal Forges and my cadet knights to Karvalen. They’ve packed up their families and moved into the mountain without a single qualm about it being haunted. When His Majesty the Demon-Slaying Hero and Lord of Night says he took care of the haunting, that seems to settle the matter. They’ve picked out their quarters and everyone seems more than a little pleased in almost every respect.
Almost, anyway. They seem a little put off by the large, steaming baths; very much a holdover from Zirafel, these bath-caverns. Not something they really go for in Mochara or Rethven. It’s taking some getting used to. So far, they’ve simply segregated two caverns, one for women, one for men. I’m not arguing; they’ll sort it out for themselves.
Kavel has also moved right in. The mountain has caverns apparently made to be forges. He’s quite pleased and has already set up shop, complete with new blower and everything. He likes the stone molds for swords, axes, and other flatware; it speeds up the process of forging the things, somehow.
And, having mentioned it, I recall how it helps. Lots of weaponsmiths in Zirafel. Their chief export was Civilization. It was pricey, but the barbarians paid in blood.
I also remember what those pagoda-like pillars on the top of the mountain are for. They’re chimneys, vents. Wind causes an updraft, sucking air up from inside the mountain. The heart of the mountain heats air, pushing it upward, but these are on the other end of that process, pulling air out. Very helpful, actually, once we got a forge lit. Smoke goes straight out.
Charcoal. We need charcoal. Lots of it. I’ve spent a lot of time and effort in making the forge as efficient as possible—heat reflection, thermal radiation adjustments, heat-transfer recycling, the works—but we have to burn something, and wood has so many impurities…
Fortunately, we have a guy who makes charcoal professionally. I picked his brains on how it’s made, had the mountain build him a charcoaling facility, and brought him a couple of tons of trees.
I mentioned that to Timon, in Mochara. He didn’t have that many seedling trees on hand. I’ve got him doing nothing else for the next little while, and I’ve planted all his current seedlings. As soon as we have more ready, I’ll plant those, too.
I’m an ecologically-minded “green” vampire. Said like that, it sounds silly, if not stupid. But I don’t feel silly for planning generations in advance. Immortality problems, remember?
The mountain, helpful soul that it is, has also provided an internal gymnasium with all sorts of fixtures—ladders, balance beams, a wall-climb, a swimming pool, and so on—and I’ve been thinking up new wrinkles. I’ve added a rope-climb, marked out a running track—my, but they do despise running; I can’t say I blame them—and other elements of an obstacle course. I’ve spent a while reviewing every war movie I could think of, looking for tortures… I mean, “training.”
One of their new exercises is a balance thing. Some large logs have been cut into two-foot sections. These are stripped and smoothed so they roll well. We put three or four in a row, so they can all roll, one after the other. A good kick to the nearest one sends them all rolling along the floor. The objective is to kick them, then run along the tops of the rolling logs until you get in front of them all.
They do it in armor. It helps avoid broken bones, but not twisted ankles. Win some, lose some.
Cadets also help with plowing. Farmers get to use horses with the multi-bladed plow; the cadets get to haul a regular plow as a team. The horses get hitched up for the duration; the cadets get to rotate, since they can’t all pull at once.
I put a guy named Paddew on the plow for steering. He’s probably the smallest man on the field. He wasn’t a knight when I woke up; he was a farmer. He wanted to be a knight, though, and joined in when trials started. He’s not the strongest, nor the fastest, and definitely not a swordsman; his best martial skills are with staff and spear.
What he really has going for him is enough heart for a herd of horses and the wolf pack chasing them. He ran with us, climbed with us, hauled with us… if he ever gets into a real fight, the enemy will have to do more than behead him; they’ll have to dismember him. Even then, the hands might crab their way forward to attack. He just doesn’t stop. He impresses me.
He makes me think of a guy I knew, back home. He was barely passed the initial physical because of his height and weight; he was awfully short and skinny. But he passed and came back from boot camp because he gave everything he had to anything they told him to do. Up a rope? He
attacked
the rope. Cross a river? He
parted
it. Fight someone with the padded staff? It was a fight to the death.
Yes, Paddew reminds me of him. What was his name? It’s in the pile of memories somewhere, I’m sure.
Paddew wasn’t happy about having to steer, but I pointed out two things: First, it was an order, and second, he was the only one who knew how. Anyone else—everyone else—might swing a sword better, but this was something he alone knew how to do. He seems ambivalent about it, but the chance to be the most skilled person on the field—and vital—really helps his morale.
Interesting note. They seemed less than enthusiastic when I announced this new team- and muscle-building exercise. Then I looped the leather straps over my own shoulders, took the lead position, and started dragging a plow through the dirt. There weren’t any fistfights about who got the second-man spot on the rope, but it was a close thing.
What was it Patton said about an army being something like spaghetti? You can’t push it, you have to pull it? I think he meant something about leading from the front. It seems to be working. This isn’t about getting any actual plowing done. It’s about working together as a team, which is something they need work on. Well, teamwork and cardio.
There was some laughter from spectators. I invited them to come try it. The laughter went away.
I spent that day pulling a plow with them while Bronze watched. Bronze is
amused
.
Bronze and I have also gone through the Eastrange, scouting out the route from Mochara to Baret. Most of it is something a man can walk along, albeit with some difficulty. A few places were so steep they required Bronze to kick a foothold into a mountainside with every step. In theory, an army could go that route, but only in single file, and at a crawling pace. At least, until it came to either of two nasty gorges. Then they’d have to climb down, avoid being smashed and drowned by waves on rocks, and then climb back up.
I think we could build stairs down one side and up the other for each gorge, but that would shoot down the idea of carts and wagons. It wouldn’t be a road, it would be a footpath. At least, I wouldn’t call it a road; Rethven roads barely deserve the name. We’ll just have to build bridges.
That might be easier than I thought.
I asked the mountain about the canals and their attendant roads. It’s started extending a new road from the end of the southern canal, heading westward. After two days of work, it’s managed to… how do I put this? The seaside wall of Mochara is made of stones, stacked and mortared together. Well, it was. Now, it’s all one solid piece of stone as the mountain has… incorporated? Subsumed? Merged with?
At any rate, it’s all one big rock, now, and a narrow strip of rock seems to be oozing westward, widening gradually as the leading edge progresses. It seems slower, now, as it moves along the ground instead of through the stone of the wall. Does it matter whether it’s moving through stone or soil?