Gibkin, Cassoway, and Neadora sat in silence. Paul wasn't sure what to say. The Hushites had the tank, they had it for a while. Paul was angry, mostly with himself.

  They should have gone out and taken it back when the Hushites were routed. But no, they drank and rebuilt then drank some more. What a waste, and now the enemy had the keys to industry. The only steam engine in this world was in their hands

  Stupid, so stupid.

  No he had been drunk off of victory more than the ale and spirits they had imbibed.

  “What's the matter Paul? You've been pacing but haven't told us anything. Paul you need to use your words.” said Gibkin.

  “They have the tank. They have the god damn tank and they're going to reverse engineer it. I gave them a weapon, Gibkin. Our weapon. We made it and practically handed it over to them.”

  Paul had his notebook. The very one that the designs had been scrawled in.

  He threw it against the wall and grabbed at his head.

  Damn it all, I'm such an idiot!

  Paul stopped pacing and he felt a gentle hand caress his back. It was Neadora. She had stood up and tried to comfort him, but it wasn't enough. He shrugged her hand off. Then began pacing again.

  He wasn't in the mood to be consoled. He was in the mood to break something. He couldn't recall when the last time he felt like this was.

  Cassoway piped up. “What do you mean, reverse engineer? Can they remake it? Is that what you mean? Erowin carry me, I hope not Paul. I hope what you're saying is just paranoia.”

  “It’s not paranoia, Cassoway,” Paul said, his voice flat and devoid of any hope. “It’s a certainty. I have given them the flame of industry. It's only a matter of time.”

  This made Gibkin speak.

  “It will take them forever and a year. Elves don't adopt new things well. Hell it should be-” Cassoway cleared his throat.

  “Master Smith. I'm sure you may have noticed how quickly our own nation began to adopt this new technology. Even the magi were swift to see what this, well no offense Paul but, outsider, can make.”

  Neadora spoke next. Stepping up to Paul.

  “You have the whole of Barrus behind you. Use us Paul. Give us this flame, before they can obtain it themselves. Show us how you would fire and create in your world. If even a fraction of what you have said is true, we could be the marvel of the world. A power to match even Barbas.”

  Paul stopped.

  “I've heard that name before. What about it? That place? Could you tell me more?”

  Gibkin threw his arms about. “We don't have time for history boy! You just said-”

  Neadora raised a hand and the smith fell silent, more bemused than anything.

  “I can tell you. Henry was obsessed for a season. If this castle has a library, which I'm sure it does. We can find something on it. I'm sure. But first let us solve one problem at a time.”

  Paul nodded. She was right, he needed to focus. He sat down, hard, and put his elbows on his knees. He tried to rub the ache out of his eyes, but it didn’t help. His mind kept tripping over itself, racing through everything that could go wrong now.

  “So, what do we do next?” Cassoway asked. He sounded small, all the bluster gone out of him.

  Paul sucked in a breath. “We have to get ahead of them. We have to be faster. Everything we did before? It just bought us a little time. If they get the tank running, or even just figure out the engine, they’ll have more of them. Maybe hundreds. They’ll use it on every city between here and the sea.”

  Gibkin grunted. “Not likely. Even with the machine right in front of ‘em, it’d take weeks to fix the damn thing. Months to copy it. They don’t have you, Paul.”

  “That’s not the point.” Paul jabbed a finger at the wall, as if the tank were hiding behind it. “If they break down the pressure vessel, they’ll see how it’s put together. If they figure out the piston, the wheel, the gearing… even the little stuff, like the brake lining, they’ll get it. All they need is a lucky guess and a half-witted engineer, and the next time we see that tank, it’ll be coming up the main road with twenty more behind it.”

  There was a heavy silence.

  Neadora finally spoke, her voice even and calm. “Then we need to do what you said before. Make more. Make better. Make the next ones so much stronger that even if they copy you, Paul, they’ll never catch up.”

  He almost laughed, but it came out as a bitter noise. “Yeah. Sure. No pressure.”

  Gibkin snorted. “You’ve done it once. Do it again. But quicker this time, eh?”

  Paul smiled despite himself. He picked up the old notebook from where it had bounced off the wall. Some of the pages were bent, but none were missing. He flipped through them, hunting for the sketches that had seemed so impossible a few weeks ago. Now… well, now nothing seemed impossible, just horrifyingly urgent.

  “I can do it,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “I can make a better one. I have to.”

  “Good,” Neadora said. She put both hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “Because if you don’t, we all die. Isn’t that what you told Elric the first day you met?”

  He squinted up at her. For a moment, the way the lamp-light caught her eyes made him think of fireflies, trapped in amber. He looked away quickly.

  “Alright,” Paul said, and this time he raised his voice so all of them could hear. “Here’s what we’re doing. Cassoway, you and the remaining smiths will begin making the tools we need. I'll make a list and give you what sketches I can. Gibkin, you're in charge of the smiths and Cassoway. Put him to good use. Here. Everything we need is in my notebook. We will need a real factory. Assembly lines, power, damn. We need a power station.”

  They needed something to drive mechanical force. Energy, something. Another engine? Fed by the river? It would take too long to divert the water. No, they would build it on the river then. Then how do they transfer the power? The mechanical force necessary?

  If it were feasible he would want electricity. But they didn't have the means. Maybe the whole damn factory could be on the river. A constant supply of water. The problem would be heat. How do they get enough?

  What a wonderful job for a mage. Too bad they were probably bastards. Not all of them, Paul quickly thought, and looked to Nea and Cass.

  No, not all. If Wystan were awake. There's an idea. Make the poor boy be fuel after waking up. How heartless. But maybe, just maybe necessary.

  “Gibkin… how much fuel is left in the city?”

  The elf scratched his chin, “well. Considering most of the homes are in ruin. And most of the stores we had are still in tact. Those thriving nobles left that but took much of the gunpowder. We have no more of that. Why? What are you planning you mad e- er, mad human? “

  “Madman, the term we use is madman.” Paul grinned. This could work.

  ***

  Neadora had located the castle library shortly into the production of the factory. She had made herself busy with the history of the Barbas at the behest of Paul.

  During the wee hours when they would sit in the room with Wystan. And she would read to him. Paul would try to glean what he could of this world and its histories. There was much to learn. Far too much in fact. Often he fell asleep while she read.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  He would awake to fresh food, a glass of wine and the candles having been put out. He was very grateful for her for when he did not take care of himself she took it upon herself to do just that.

  They spent many nights this way.

  Soon he had learned many things. The Andlo elves and the Barbas. A great floating city on the ocean. It had been the pride of a continent spanning empire not even three thousand years prior.

  “Dallin said he came from there, but if it was that long ago… he would have to be three or so thousand himself. God, that’s old.” Said Paul.

  "Not so old, if you judge it by elven standards," Neadora said, her voice soft, almost smug in the candlelight. "The oldest records say there were elves who lived and died before Barbas was ever built. It was said to be… how did the book put it…? 'A colossus on mirrored seas. A city as a moon, gliding atop the world.'"

  Paul tried to picture it. Giant stone towers, bobbing on the water like a floating Las Vegas. The image didn't quite fit, but maybe that was just because he hadn't seen anything grander than the castle in Barrus.

  "So, wait, it… floats?" Paul said, blinking. "Not just… on the river, but on the sea? The whole city?"

  "Yes, on the ocean."

  "Why?" Paul asked. "Why build a floating city? Was it magic?"

  Neadora flipped through her notes, not bothering to hide her pride. "Not magic, not mostly. They built it to escape their enemies. See, the Andlo weren't like the other elves. They hated being ruled by anyone. So, they built a city so strange and so huge it was almost impossible to attack. No walls to breach. The sea itself was the moat."

  He whistled low. That was… actually brilliant.

  Wystan mumbled something from the cot. Paul glanced over, but the boy didn't wake.

  Neadora shook her head, "The Andlo made Barbas their fortress. But that didn't stop other kingdoms from trying to conquer it."

  "But it's still there?" Paul asked.

  "Oh, it's there," Neadora said, her amber eyes catching the candlelight. "And if the Hushites have your engine, they're going to use it there. It's the perfect place. There are forges under Barbas larger than this entire castle. And now they're going to copy you, Paul. They're going to make hundreds of those war-wagons."

  He felt sick. It was one thing to imagine a few tanks rolling across the land. But a whole floating fortress full of them? That was… movie villain stuff. No, worse. It was real.

  Wystan groaned again, this time louder.

  Paul moved to the bedside, careful not to trip over the heap of books or the wine jug that Neadora had stashed for their study. Wystan thrashed under the blanket, his face contorting with pain. For a moment Paul just stood there, not knowing what to do except watch the sweat bead along the elf’s brow, his ears twitching like the wings of some fragile moth.

  “Wystan?” Paul said.

  The boy’s eyes fluttered open, clouded and unfocused. He tried to speak, breath hitching, but only managed a ragged whisper.

  “…Erowin…? Is it morning? Has the wall fallen…?”

  Paul shot a look at Neadora. She had already set aside her notes and was kneeling by the cot, reaching for Wystan’s hand.

  “It’s all right, Wys,” Neadora said. Her tone was gentle, but her jaw was tight; Paul could see the tendons straining under her skin. “You’re safe in the keep. We held the walls. I told you we would, didn’t I?”

  Wystan blinked, confusion swimming on the surface of his eyes. “I thought… I thought the tower was burning. I heard the magi fighting. So much fire, I… is Master Henry here? Is he all right?”

  Paul felt his throat clench. He hesitated, not wanting to be the one to say it, but Wystan’s gaze fixed on him, desperate.

  “He stayed behind,” Paul said quietly. “He fought Ashwen. He… he saved us so we could get away.”

  Wystan squeezed Neadora’s hand, his thin fingers trembling. “He’s gone then,” Wystan whispered. “I’m sorry, Nea… I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to help.”

  Neadora shook her head. “You did what you could. You did more than most. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Let the dead worry about the dead.”

  It was silent for a moment, just the raspy sound of Wystan’s breathing. Paul tried to think of a way to lighten the mood, to say something clever or comforting, but all he could see was the flicker of candlelight on Neadora’s face, the haunted way her eyes followed every twitch of the boy’s hand.

  He looked away, mouth suddenly dry. “If you want water, or… food, I can get something,” he muttered, already halfway to the door.

  Wystan coughed, a ragged sound. “No… please, just… just stay?” His eyes were big as coins.

  Paul nodded, awkward, and sat back down in the rickety chair. Neadora resumed her seat as well, shoulders squared, her hand still on Wystan’s.

  Nobody said much after that. They just sat there, letting the quiet stretch between them, the only sound the faint tick of the cooling forges outside and the soft, nervous shuffle of pages as Neadora put the books away.

  Paul tried not to think about Barbas. About the tank. About much really.

  ***

  The next week was a blur. Cassoway chanted non stop for a few hours then slept, ate, and chanted again. This cycle was repeated endlessly as Paul and Gibkin coordinated the other elves.

  They had set up near a charcoal burner camp, a wide and deep bend in the river maybe two hours walk away from the city.

  A large outer shell of granite had been raised. In this time Paul drafted a system of measurement. He called it the P standard. One P is equal to one thousand kilo Ps, and so on. A P being the length of Paul's forearm. It was measured, then copied, then meticulously divided into smaller pieces.

  So the end of the span would come eventually. But for most minor tasks that did not require as much precision, the elves still used finger widths and spans. They understood the system easier, and it was a bitch and a half to convert a span into P standard.

  Paul had to scrap his brain for all that he could on early industry. He had never directly worked with steam systems before the tank. And this was a different beast altogether.

  Before long they had a running engine. It was massive. The intake from the river was great and allowed for them to completely remove the need to reclaim any water. Several water wheels powered pumps that drew in water until it would over flow. Then they would disengage via a buoy system inside the intake area. The whole thing fed a sealable boiler that was nearly one hundred Ps wide, twenty Ps tall, and fifty Ps deep. Now, what they needed was a constant source of heat.

  The charcoal made nearby could sustain the plant. But the forest was not close. It would become a logistical problem before long. They needed better transportation.

  A thought occured. The distance of a few miles by cart takes a day. But if they had rails and something to move along the rails perhaps the journey could be done in a few hours. All that was left was for the foresters to be able to keep up.

  That was simple, have more of them. None of the elves complained, well they did, but not to Paul. It took another two weeks to make a working model. Soon winter would be about and their factory would choke without it.

  The rails were the biggest consumer of time.

  The time it took to lay them, and the iron it consumed concerned Paul and Gibkin. But they had enough workers as now many of the refuges of Barrus had returned. A number of nearly five hundred wanihndrê to pull from.

  It took many hard days, weeks even of labor. It was the day of testing. A basic engine on wheels meant to go along only a mere hundred Ps of track.

  This engine was much better designed. It was more precisely made now they had a better system in place. The tools they used to make it had also been standardized and improved.

  They filled the fire box and this time every elf made sure they were more than a suitable distance away.

  Paul pulled a lever and checked that the pressure relief valve functioned. All was a go.

  He pulled the lever. The entire thing shook and sputtered. He considered bailing for a moment. Then he held on.

  It began to chuff. Slow at first. Then steadily gaining speed.

  It began to move.

  Paul let out a whoop. And it was soon followed by many more.

  ***

  With the problem of fuel solved they had only now the rest of the factory to make. Many different sections for different tasks. General machining areas for tasks inside and varied and then others for rapid production of specific parts or pieces. The days started to pass even faster after that. Paul found himself running between workstations, yelling measurements or arguing with elves over tolerances and tool jigs. The air in the new factory was a stew of steam, sweat, and woodsmoke. Every time he blinked, there was a new crisis: a misaligned drill, a cracked mold, someone trying to use a cart axle as a lever and nearly losing a toe in the process.

  Gibkin was a demon in the machine shop. He would chase the other smiths, bellowing at them for being slow, then turn around and fix the problem in a heartbeat. Cassoway had started wearing a permanent scowl, his lips always moving as he chanted tiny spells to fuse parts together or reinforce a weak seam. Most elves gave the two of them a wide berth. Paul, not so lucky.

  He tried not to think about the tank, or what the Hushites might be doing to it. It crept in anyway, usually when he was elbow-deep in greasy iron shavings, or trying to explain to three illiterate apprentices how to keep the damn gauge level from sticking. The idea gnawed at him. The enemy didn’t need to be smarter. Just lucky, and patient.

  So he worked harder. He scribbled out new diagrams, tore up old ones, and pinned dozens of battered pages to the wall in the main office. Each design was an improvement, or at least a desperate hack to get more out of less. The first assembly line was a mess, but Paul forced it into shape, even if it meant standing over the workers and barking at them for hours.

  The elves hated it. But they didn’t quit.

  After a few weeks, they had the first hull. It was a monster compared to the original, wider by half, with thicker bands of iron running stem to stern. The whole thing sat on a test track outside the factory. The engine was twice as big. Paul almost cried when he saw it, all gleaming bronze and black iron, every part fitted just so.

  Testing went about as well as you could expect. The first time they fired it up, the hull vibrated so hard it nearly threw the crew off the platform. The brakes were worse: the lever snapped and nearly brained an elf who was running the thing. They had to try again.

  They did. This time, the new brakes held. The tank shuddered, spat out steam. The elves whooped and hollered again. They had a vehicle. It had only taken a few measly months. Now the leaves were falling and winter would be upon them. They had to make more. And soon.