I sat up, supporting my right arm with my left, and my spine responded with a dry, sharp crunch.
[STATUS: 19%]
Warning: Axial load displacement detected.
Forecast: Skeletal deformation — 4% per week.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered to the system notification. "I know I'm lopsided."
I stood up, swaying. My center of gravity had shifted to the right. To keep from falling over while walking, I had to lean to the left, which made me move like a drunk crab.
Zeno stood in the corner by the main shaft.
"Power?" I asked.
"One percent overnight for background processes and sensors," Zeno said. "There is a three-millimeter play in the left knee support. Dust has entered the joint. If not cleaned, the servo could jam under the next load."
"Don't move," I wiped my forehead with my sleeve. "Save your charge. There's dirty work today."
Ephraim was already in the yard. The old man looked... like shit—eyes red, hands up to the elbows in something yellowish.
God forbid that's piss, I said mentally.
Three vats stood at the entrance to the mill. The stench pierced the morning frost: ammonia, rot, and something sharp that stung the nose.
"Kid," Ephraim wiped his hands on what used to be a burlap sack. "The villagers brought what you asked for. But Hans and the others say you're going to poison the wells. They herd their children indoors when passing by the mill."
"Let them say what they want."
Making gunpowder in a world of magic is quite a task. We scraped lime efflorescence from the basement walls, mixed it with manure and livestock urine, layered it with straw, and waited for chemistry to do its job.
I tasked Ephraim with filtering the sludge through layers of wood ash. My job was worse—I had to evaporate the solution to extract the crystals from it.
Doing this with one hand was hell. I tried using the prosthesis to hold the pot over the fire, but the claw either slipped or squeezed too hard, crushing the copper edge.
"Damn it!" I dropped the ladle again.
It fell into the mud, splattering my pants with the sludge.
"You must use inertia," Zeno boomed from the doorway. "Use the mass."
I tried again. I swung my whole body, letting the prosthesis follow an arc toward the pot handle.
Clack.
The grip engaged. I pulled my shoulder back, locking the hold. This time it held. My spine responded with a spasm.
By noon, we managed to get our first handful of grayish crystals.
Then came the turn of the sulfur. The highlanders had found it near the hot springs further up the slope. It was in chunks, fused with stone. I had to grind it in a stone mortar. My left hand quickly went numb; my right could only press down on the mortar, leaning my entire weight onto it.
By evening, we had mixed the components. Saltpeter, sulfur, and the charcoal Ephraim had burned from alder.
Fortunately, I knew the proportions from the chemistry textbooks I had read back in my old world. But theory is one thing. A gray, crappy powder in an abandoned mill is completely different.
"Shall we test it?" Ephraim glanced apprehensively at the narrow trail of gunpowder scattered on a flat stone.
I took out the flint. The flint struck the steel. Sparks showered onto the mixture.
Nothing. Again. And again.
One spark hit dead center. The gunpowder hissed, spat out a thin stream of acrid smoke... and went out, leaving a dirty stain and the smell of rotten eggs.
"And that's it?" Ephraim sniffled in disappointment. "We did all this—for that?"
"It's damp," I said. "Poorly mixed. The charcoal is too coarse. It needs to be ground into dust."
"Your gunpowder is hygroscopic," Zeno added, scanning the remains. "The humidity in this room is seventy-eight percent. The saltpeter absorbs water faster than you can ignite it. At this burning rate, the gas expansion will not exceed one hundred meters per second."
"Please shut up, that's too many smart words," I said, sliding down the wall and sitting in the dirt. Soot was ingrained into the skin of my hands. And the prosthesis dragged my shoulder down.
"We need granules," I said to the void. "We wet it with alcohol, rub it through a sieve, and dry it. Every single grain will flare up instantly."
"We don't have time," Ephraim pointed at the window.
Far below in the valley, among the dark spruces, a pale blue light was blinking.
"They are close," Zeno froze. His sensors switched to active mode. "Twelve units. Speed—three kilometers per hour."
"That's all we needed," I said.
"Ephraim, drag over everything we've brewed. We're going to make explosive charges."
"Make what?"
"Bombs. Big, heavy bombs."
For the rest of the evening, we packed empty copper tubes and fragments of Richter's armor with our mixture. I rammed it down tight, using the steel claw as a press.
One spark from metal rubbing against metal, and I'm a corpse.
"Zeno," I called out. "I need trenches along the trail. Narrow and deep."
"Do you intend to use a directed explosion? At such a low detonation velocity, the efficiency is limited."
"I just need to break their legs," I replied.
I stepped out onto the porch. Hans and two other men stood a short distance away, gripping axes.
"Hey, Kid!" Hans yelled. "You promised you'd protect us. If the mages burn our homes, I'll strangle you myself, I swear to God!"
"Go inside, Hans. Board up the windows. If you hear thunder—don't come out."
He spat and walked away, muttering something.
I took the last gunpowder-packed tube out of my pocket and plugged it with a grease-soaked rag.
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