Chapter 10 - The Mucker

  The curtain snapped open.

  Firelight spilled into the tent, harsh and sudden as the guard leaned in.

  Elrin lunged.

  His body moved before his mind caught up. Fist clenched, teeth bared, he aimed for the wrist—

  Something slammed into his chest and he was driven backward, his feet leaving the ground. He hit the floor hard, the breath tearing out of him in a sharp gasp.

  A shadow filled the tent, large and wide.

  “Easy, lad,” Dravan said calmly.

  He stood between Elrin and the guard, one massive arm stretched out, palm pressed flat against Elrin’s chest, pinning him there without effort.

  When did he.…

  The guard recoiled half a step. “W-who are you—why are you in this tent? Get out, now!”

  Dravan glanced down at the guard. His eyes were sharp now, all humor gone.

  The guard hesitated, eyes flicking past Dravan, scanning the tent. The straw bed. The empty floor. The shadows in the corners. Then his gaze dropped.

  Dravan noticed a black tail twitching before disappearing behind a wooden chest. He shifted. It was subtle. Barely a step. But it blocked the guard’s line of sight completely.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” Dravan asked.

  The guard frowned. He didn’t like the way Dravan was looking at him now. He remembered how Dravan survived Aldwin’s deadly hammer fist. He put his trembling hand on the hilt of his sword. “Listen to me, prisoner. Go back to your tent or I’ll draw my sword.”

  Dravan put up his hands in surrender. “I apologize, I’m not supposed to be here. I will get out of your way—look!” He pointed at a dark tunnel outside the tent, just behind the guard.

  The guard snapped his head around.

  “I swear I saw a small fur-ball rush that way!” continued Dravan.

  The guard turned around and stared at Dravan for a long moment. “Everyone, it went through the tunnel,” barked the guard as he turned and went through the tunnel.

  Boots retreated and voices moved on. The tunnel swallowed the noise.

  Dravan and Elrin remained motionless, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Dravan crouched, bringing himself level with Elrin. “That was stupid,” he said mildly.

  Elrin’s hands were still shaking. “He was going to—”

  “Take the cat?” Dravan cut in. “Aye. And then you.”

  Elrin swallowed.

  Dravan leaned closer. “Next time,” he said, voice low, “you freeze. You don’t fight men who can kill you without thinking.”

  “You stopped him,” Elrin said.

  Dravan’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “No,” he said. “I reminded him he didn’t want trouble.”

  He stood and turned away. “Get some rest. Bell tolls soon.” He paused at the entrance, then added, without looking back—

  “Now we’re even.”

  The curtain fell closed.

  In the darkness, Lancelot crept out from hiding. “You’re pretty damn stupid for a cat that survived this long,” muttered the boy.

  Lancelot came closer and pressed against Elrin’s leg, purring.

  “Next time you do something reckless, I’ll hand you to Gunwald myself.”

  But the cat didn’t seem to care.

  Elrin laid down on the straw mattress, his muscles feeling the much needed rest, as he stared at the ceiling of the tent. He understood something clearly.

  Dravan wasn’t trapped there.

  The bell tolled.

  Once. Then again.

  The sound carried through the tunnels. Men stirred inside their tents, curses muttered, bodies shifting. Somewhere farther down, someone retched.

  Elrin couldn’t sleep. There was neither window nor light, he had no clue how much time had passed, but he knew he had to rise up and join the rest.

  He found Lancelot curled up right beside him. He slipped on a new pair of trousers and a tunic then walked out.

  Dravan was already there.

  Elrin pushed himself up, joints stiff, shoulder screaming as the brand pulled tight. He bit down on the pain and stepped out into the heat.

  The tunnels were awake now.

  Lines formed without orders. Men filed out in loose groups, grabbing tools from racks hammered into the walls. No one spoke above a murmur. Guards stood at intervals, watching with the idle patience of men counting hours, not lives.

  “Keep up,” said Dravan, and started walking.

  Making their way through the dimly-lit tunnels, the air growing thicker with each step, they passed several narrow crevices carved into the tunnel walls. The air here was cooler, damp with the smell of raw earth. The walls were jagged, veins of dark metal running through stone like scars.

  At one of the larger crevices, partially hidden behind a support beam, stood a man with gray-streaked beard and weathered face mapped with fine dust. Unlike the miners hunched over their claims, he simply watched, his keen eyes tracking the workers with the quiet authority of someone who'd spent decades underground.

  When he spotted them approaching he lifted one calloused hand and waved them over with a deliberate gesture.

  “I’m the Steiger here, call me Gren.”

  “Dravan—the kid’s Elrin,” said Dravan.

  Gren motioned them to a nearby wall. “See this vein?” It was a dark gray wall, with a void-black line running across it horizontally. Speckles populated the dark line. “This is the Black Metal Ore.” Gren grabbed a pickaxe and a shovel from his burrow. “Who’s the mucker?”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Dravan tipped his chin toward Elrin.

  The man grunted and pointed with his pick. “Quota’s twenty carts. Don’t block the passage. Don’t get in the way.”

  He handed Elrin the shovel and Dravan the pickaxe.

  “Also,” Gren continued. “Stay clear of the guard with the mustache, Erhart.”

  Dravan moved without hesitation, he raised the pick and brought it down. The stone exploded.

  Elrin flinched as debris rained around his feet.

  Dravan didn’t look back.

  "What's a mucker?" shouted Elrin, barely audible over the din of hammers on stone.

  “You.” Dravan swung at the wall. “Start shoveling,” he said.

  Dravan’s pick struck again. And again.

  Each blow split the rock with a sharp crack, shards flying loose. Elrin scrambled to shovel the broken stone into the cart, arms burning almost immediately. The shovel felt too large, the handle slick in his hands. The cart filled faster than he expected.

  Then Dravan moved on.

  Elrin dragged the cart forward, wheels grinding. He barely had time to straighten before another empty cart rolled into place behind him.

  Its pusher didn't speak, a slender tunnel boy with narrow shoulders beneath a dirt-streaked tunic, responsible for carrying their carts to the Bellows. His movements were economical, almost mechanical in their precision. He leaned into the cart and pushed, feet planted carefully on the uneven stone.

  Elrin glanced at him once.

  The boy didn’t look back.

  Elrin returned to shoveling.

  Time thinned into repetition. Sweat blurred Elrin’s vision. His hands blistered and split. The brand on his shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse. At some point, he realized the cart beside him was always ready.

  Never early. Never late.

  When Elrin struggled to wrestle a wheel over a stone lip, the other cart slowed just enough to avoid collision, then continued on without pause.

  The bell rang once, deeper in the tunnels.

  A short break.

  Men slumped where they stood. Some drank and some stared at nothing.

  Elrin collapsed against the wall, chest heaving. When he looked up, the other boy was already standing, hands resting on the cart handles, waiting.

  The bell rang a second time.

  He pushed off without a word.

  Elrin dragged himself upright, hands trembling as he reached for the shovel. His arms felt hollow, like they might float away if he let go.

  An empty cart rolled into place behind him—the same boy.

  Elrin hesitated, then swallowed. “You ever get used to this?”

  The boy paused, just long enough to acknowledge the question. He didn’t look over. “No,” he said. His voice wasn’t bitter or afraid, but quiet.

  They worked again. Rock split. Stone shoveled. Wheels ground forward. Elrin exhaled. “I’m Elrin.”

  Another pause. Slightly longer this time. “Tova,” the boy said.

  Elrin opened his mouth to ask Tova how he ended up in this place—

  “Hey!”

  Elrin flinched and turned.

  Two sections over, a man had dropped his pickaxe. He stood clutching his strained wrist, face pale, teeth bared in pain. The pick lay where it had fallen, half buried in dust.

  “I—I slipped—”

  A guard with a red line over his shoulder was already moving—thin mustache and hollow eyes. He crossed the stone in long strides and drove the round tip of his mace into the man’s stomach. The sound was wet and heavy. The prisoner folded with a choked gasp, knees hitting stone.

  “Quota is not optional,” the guard said evenly.

  The man retched. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the rock. “I can still work,” he wheezed. “Please—”

  The guard didn’t answer.

  He raised his mace and brought it down across the man’s back. Once. Twice. A third time. Each strike echoed through the tunnel, sharp and ringing.

  Elrin froze, shovel half raised.

  Around them, work continued, no one stopped and no one looked.

  The man screamed on the fourth blow.

  Elrin’s chest tightened. That familiar fury boiled inside him. His hand let go of the shovel and it clattered to the ground.

  Before he could think, a hand nudged it back toward him.

  “Pick it up,” Tova said quietly.

  Elrin stared at him.

  “Now,” Tova added.

  Elrin grabbed the handle just as the guard’s gaze flicked in their direction.

  The guard lingered for a heartbeat. Then turned away. The screams faded into whimpers. Then silence.

  “But that guard is also human…how could he—”

  “You won’t notice it after a while,” said Tova then continued working.

  Cart after cart. Shovel after shovel.

  The bell rang twice.

  Elrin’s arms shook as he shoved the last load of stone into the cart. His hands were blistered raw, skin split and bleeding where the shovel rubbed. Every breath burned.

  But the last cart was half full—not even close.

  All around him, carts rolled forward. Some overflowing. Some just enough.

  The mustached guard moved between the rows, checking marks, tapping cart rims with metal rods.

  Tap.

  Tap.

  Elrin swallowed.

  The guard stopped in front of him.

  He glanced into the cart, expression unreadable, then down at the mark on Elrin’s shoulder. His mouth twitched.

  “Quota,” he said.

  “I—” Elrin’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I tried. I did.”

  The guard gestured to the cart beside him. It was full, stones piled high.

  “Not good.”

  Elrin’s vision swam. “I can keep working. I’ll make it up tomorrow. I just—”

  The guard raised his hand and silence fell around them. Intentional, the kind learned through repetition.

  “Rule three,” the guard said calmly. “Failure is refusal.”

  He signaled and two more guards stepped in behind Elrin.

  Tova stood a cart away, hands resting on his shovel. He didn’t move, he kept his gaze away.

  Elrin felt hands seize his arms and drag him forward. His feet slipped on loose stone, knees striking rock as he was forced down.

  “Wait,” Elrin gasped. “I can still—”

  A blow struck his back.

  White pain exploded behind his eyes. He screamed this time, the sound tearing out of him before he could stop it.

  Another strike.

  Then another.

  The guards didn’t rush—they counted.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  By the fifth, Elrin couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved uselessly, lungs refusing to obey. Tears streamed down his face, blurring the stone beneath him.

  “Let him work,” someone muttered nearby.

  A guard turned. “Who spoke?”

  No one answered.

  The mace came down again.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  On the ninth strike, Elrin tasted blood. “Enough,” said the mustached guard.

  Elrin collapsed forward, shaking, his body no longer capable of holding itself up. For the briefest moment, he caught Dravan’s gaze. The burly man stood straight, but his jaw was set too tight, his shoulders too rigid.

  “Leave him,” the guard ordered. “He’ll finish his quota today.”

  Feet shuffled, and carts were hauled away. Slowly, the quiet settled and the air cooled just enough to let pain settle in deeper. Elrin lay on his side, shaking.

  “You won’t last like this,” a voice said quietly.

  Elrin forced his eyes open.

  It was the boy from the carts, Tova.

  Close up, his face was unremarkable—smudged with dust, eyes dull with exhaustion, hair matted with soot.

  “Tomorrow,” the boy continued, as if discussing the weather, “you’ll fail again.”

  Elrin stared at Tova. “Why—”

  “Because you’re working wrong.”

  Elrin blinked. “What?”

  The boy stood.

  As he turned away, he added, almost as an afterthought: “And if you miss the quota three days in a row, they don’t beat you.”

  He disappeared into the dark.

  Elrin lay there, heart pounding, as the meaning settled in.