That morning, the axe had been brand new. Aside from smithing marks, there had been no sign of any damage to the metal. But even after one day on the ridge, the metal would show wearing. First, there were the scratches that ran the length of the blade from rappelling. Then, there were chips in the metal on colder days, where little pieces had broken off and joined the shale. Certainly, there would be discoloration from abrasions, and the pointed tip should be dulled almost imperceptibly, though it would be obvious to the experienced ridger. These were all markings that should have covered the axe head's surface; however, as Draysky squinted in the moon and starlight, only two or three were present, and those extremely shallow. If he wanted to, he could return the pickaxe to the store now, and aside from the rune, the Keeper would be none the wiser that it had seen a day on the ridge.
“Well then,” he whispered, running his fingers over the rune, the cold still sapping away at his body heat. “It looks like I don’t have to be so careful with you after all. In fact, I think I’ll just leave that rune on you—see just how long you last.”
Chapter 27: Draysky
The ritebald attack came without warning, and the Keepers were not prepared. Instead, many were too drunk to stand.
“I’ll take as many lighters as you can make me,” Aleman had said when he had visited Draysky two weeks before, “and I’ll pay you an extra chit each for every one you make me over twenty.”
“And why is that? Are you getting more ridgers hooked on vaporweed?” Draysky asked as he handed over his weekly basket.
“No, no, the ridgers can’t afford your lighters, and you know it, boy. I’ve been hearing from Burnsby that the crews are ahead of schedule: supposed to finish two days early this month. You’re up there in the ridge, what do you think?”
“It’s the truth. Crystal has been heavy this month, and there’s less snow, which makes it easier to find the crystal in the shale. Warmer now than usual, so we’re ahead of schedule.”
“Wonderful, wonderful,” Aleman licked his lips. “With that abundance, the Keepers will be getting a bonus and a day off. And there’s no better combination for business than that! You could make me lighters for the next six weeks straight and I still would sell them out, and we’ll likely tap my tavern dry as it is. You should come on down, Draysky. A little drink couldn’t hurt you, eh? First one is on the house.”
“Aleman, do you have any idea how much debt I’m in since the ritebald? Rebuilding the house hasn’t been easy, we don’t have the money to spare.”
‘And I still don’t understand how, considering how much I pay you each week.”
“There are other debts we have to pay,” said Draysky offhandedly, staring past Aleman. “Debts that were left behind.”
“Ah,” Aleman said, backing away. “It’s not on me to intrude. But those lighters, just make sure they are ready!”
It had been Aila’s idea to start spreading the story of their father’s addiction to more than just vaporweed. As much as defaming his memory brought a bitter taste to Draysky’s mouth, he agreed with the cleverness of the idea. There was no better way to explain the disappearance of their income than vague rumors about their father’s old habits. Aila would allude to them during her patient appointments, always stopping herself before saying too much. Hinting there was a drug that he purchased through the Keepers, that would have killed him sooner or later if the ritebald had not intervened. Or that he paid the tavern girls for more than just beer when the nights were especially cold, and returned to his home just before dawn. With their father’s reputation as the crew leader, and the recency of his death, these rumors spread like wildfire, and Aleman’s rapid departure indicated that he believed in at least one of them.
Draysky started producing the lighters for Aleman. The extra sales should restore the well to what it had held before his father died, and that thought kept him painting into the night. But five days before month end, disaster struck on the ridge, as a storm rode over the Kriskian Mountains and brought with it sleet that iced the paths. Even if they could travel through the winds, and even if they could see through the blizzard, no ridger would chance walking up those paths with a full pack. Even without a pack, it was more of a slow scrabble than a walk.
After three days the storm subsided, and the shifting shale broke apart the ice on its surface. As the ridgers gathered at dawn, Oliver’s voice matched the fury upon his face.
“Two and a half days worth of crystal, and two days to fill it! We’re behind due to this blasted storm brought from the hells themselves! Anyone caught slouching will feel the whip!”
Not a literal whip, of course; rather, that was Oliver’s name for the white glove he wore, the runes around the wrist flashing when he formed a fist. The lines of ridgers shuffled, and their jaws tightened, but none responded to the threat. Haste meant a greater chance at injury, but now, failing to make haste ensured injury.
“Aye men, you heard him!” shouted Burnsby. “Full quotas mean full bellies and full firewood racks. Let’s get moving, eh, and pick that ridge dry.”
It had been weeks since Draysky had started using the new pickaxe, and still the tool shined when it caught the sunlight, and frost seemed to perpetually gather on its blade. By this time he would expect the head to start wiggling as it came loose upon the shaft, but the tool held strong, a cord wrapping hiding the rune still painted on its surface. At this rate, he might not have to buy another axe for the full season, saving his family both cash and interest on the store credit payments.
In that time, he had grown stronger again—whether it was the contact with the ritebald, or the long nights, or the shock of his parent’s death, the weariness slowly receded until he could once more carry two water packs up the mountain unassisted. Now he took position near the front of the pack, the first time in weeks, and spurred them forward up the mountain. His crystal yield had remained low, but today that would change. They had to make that quota. He’d spent too many late nights preparing lighters to lose his opportunity.
“Up, up, let’s go!” he commanded Erki as the other boy sneered at him and the group waited for him to catch up.
“What do you care? Not like you’ve been working hard. Besides, no chance we’ll hit that quota with snow on the ridge.”
“Oh yes we will, even if that means I have to carry you up the mountain myself. And if I do that, I‘m taking half of your pay whether you like it or not. Let’s go!”
The next leg he spent walking behind Erki. Whenever the boy slowed, Draysky kicked at his ankles. To keep him from stopping, he swung his pickaxe in front of him, the other boy yelping once and jogging forward a few steps when it connected with his pack. When they reached the top, Draysky stepped around him, slinging down the water packs and adjusting his equipment where Burnsby was driving stakes into the ground.
“Let’s get moving! I’m not going to bed hungry this week!” Draysky shouted at the other ridgers, several of whom looked up in surprise. Draysky was still among the most junior among them, his voice not even drawing the attention of several older members, and others chuckling as they brushed off his comment.
“Looks like someone woke up with some shale up their ass!” called out one, as Draysky finished with his harness.
“And I could shit out more crystal than you pull from the ridge!” Draysky retorted. In front of him, Burnsby was ahead of most working the ropes, but the ridge was already light enough to mine. Draysky took the end of the rope at his belt, and tied a quick slipknot over the stake in the ground before Burnby finished, testing his weight against the stake.
“The hell do you think you’re doing, boy?” asked Burnsby as Draysky turned it about his waist, backing toward the edge. “What’s gotten into you? Get back here. By the hells!”
Draysky was already over the edge, the first ridger to rappel, his feet skittering on shale even before Oliver had a chance to shout at them to increase their pace. At the top, Burnsby frantically worked his own harness, then adjusted t
he rope, giving Draysky more protection than the slip knot. If that or the stake had come loose, he would have tumbled toward the Grinder, but it was rare for the stakes to come loose, and Draysky had only noticed it among the novice ridgers. Surely not from someone as experienced as Burnsby.
“You crazy?” Burnsby shouted down through his beard, though the Grinder already muffled his words. Draysky tugged at the rope to signal for the bucket, then shouted up at the ridgers who gawked at him for leaving before Oliver’s whistle.
“Get going! Rappel, hurry up! Light is wasting!”
Draysky’s line vibrated, the sign of the bucket on its way, and he struck into the shale before it had even arrived, raking up deep amounts of rock as his fingers flitted across the surface, storing crystal in his pockets. Before his father had died, he’d worked to earn his place among the ridgers, a shattered dream to be a solid member of the team—one they could respect, and one day a leader. But now, his only goal was crystal, to carry more than his own weight so they could reach the bounty.
Draysky burrowed and scraped, raining shale outward, the ridger to his right cursing and dancing away when some of the rock came too close to him. His breathing turned labored, but he was already used to it being strained from the last few weeks, and he pushed through it, battering at the mountain with his pickaxe as if the slope were the ritebald itself. No longer was he concerned that the head might fly off the handle, or the metal chip. After weeks of abuse, he knew the rune would hold.
Draysky had finished his first bucket and sent it back up the rope before the others were only half full, his frenzied chipping overlaying their methodical swings. He bounced away from the spot he had been ridging, the crystal already rooted out among the shale, the “vein bled” as the ridgers would say. He landed on both feet nearby, taking two swings with the pickaxe and bringing up nothing before bouncing away again, loosening his rope to slide down another ten feet. Then he began filling his pockets once more before the bucket descended, so that when it reached him, he already had a ten percent head start.
“Shale strike!” came the call from above, the booming voice of the ridgers reverberating through the Grinder. But instead of emptying his bucket and crouching within the bent side, Draysky curled up underneath it, preserving the vast majority of his crystal while exposing his toes and elbows to the elements. The chances of shale striking those were slim, he knew, and would likely be preceded by other pieces rattling the surface of his bucket.
He was out again before the shouted all clear, slowing slightly to catch his breath, yet his pace still accelerated. When the whistle blew, and he hauled himself upward, Burnsby’s wide-eyed and rage-filled face met him at the crest.
“Have you gone mad boy? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Draysky knew he couldn’t explain himself, knew he had to keep his reasons secret. Most ridgers would be furious if they knew the selfish motivations behind his acts.
“Haven’t had a full meal in weeks, Burnsby. About time I did, I’m not missing that quota.”
Burnsby began switching the ropes around on his harness, preparing to trade with Draysky. Even at his age, Burnsby was an above average ridger. In his prime, he was surely among the best. But now, Draysky needed every bit of crystal that the mountain could produce, and could afford no waste in daylight. He reached out, stopping Burnsby’s hand before checking over his own ropes. Then he drew a deep breath and charged down the mountain again.
He’d done it before, on his first day ridging, when Oliver had sent him to the Grinder over and over to mock him. Then, he’d managed to survive, his haul good for a novice. But now, Draysky had to produce more than Burnsby would in the same amount of time. At his previous pace, he was collecting at least twice as much crystal as normal.
The minutes passed quickly before it was time to switch again, the eyes at the top of the ridge fixed on Draysky as the other ridgers muttered. Even without being fresh, he still sent up the first bucket of shale, and when the whistle came, had liberated more from the mountain than even the most experienced. He nearly collapsed when he crested the ridge. Oliver walked over to him, clapping him on the back and bringing forth a glass of water, something Draysky had never seen a Keeper offer a ridger.
“Look at him, my little golden goose! With luck, we’ll still make quota, if any of you lazy bastards can match that determination!”
The perplexed looks of the other ridgers turned bitter at Oliver’s comment, their anger directed at Draysky as he changed ropes with Burnsby, his body spent.
“Don’t drop my line, you fool,” said Burnsby, testing the rope. Then he was down, and Draysky focused on controlling his breathing and restoring energy to his limbs. He looked over the pile of crystal he had collected, the chiselers still scrambling to cart it away, the pieces dwarfing the other mounds as they glittered in the sun. Then he turned his attention back to Burnsby, or rather, to where he was digging.
Wherever Burnsby traversed would be dried of crystal when Draysky descended next. He would need to avoid any of those areas, as well as the portions he had already scraped. In his mind, a checkerboard pattern formed as he scouted the position. Some areas were easy to determine, the snow roughed up by boots and axe, showing they were empty. But others, where more recent stone slides had occurred, were far more difficult to discern.
When Burnsby returned, Draysky switched his harness around, reviewing the empty spots in his mind. “Day’s dregs” were what the fourth switch was called, the majority of the ridge already picked clean. But now Draysky knew which areas were fresh, and targeted them while the others dug at random, his bucket filling just as quickly as before while their rates slowed with the dwindling concentration of crystal. When he was finished, panting at the top of the ridge, his arm muscles nearly gave out as he hefted a pack filled with crystal ore onto his shoulders, taking a position at the front of the pack as they descended.
“King of the crystal, right here! Whatever they are feeding you, we need to start getting the rest of you lot on it.”
Draysky ignored him, but Oliver strode past him, stooping low and picking up handfuls of snow as he walked backwards. He tossed the snow like flower petals in front of Draysky, paired with exaggerated bows.
“All hail the king of the crystal, may his silver pickaxe deliver for years to come! If the Grinder doesn’t get him first!”
You going to take them on? Burnsby’s rang in Draysky’s head, as his teeth gritted together.
He raised his pickaxe as Oliver continued to grovel, his own voice little more than a growl.
“Are you mocking me?”
The Keeper stopped mid toss, straightening up to glare at Draysky, sliding the white glove up his hand and flexing his fingers.
“Are you challenging me, ridger? Do you need to be reminded of your place?”
The runes on the glove shone with the movement, and Draysky recognized one of them. It was the same as the one he added to his original lighters, but the penwork was far more extravagant. Draysky met Oliver’s eyes, gripping the shaft of his pickaxe tight. As they faced off, the cold from the axe head solidified between them, neither backing away. Oliver’s pristine, runed robes, his spindly arms and legs, and his angled face against Draysky’s thick coat, broad shoulders, and square jaw.
A hand fell on Draysky’s shoulder before either could move, nearly startling him into swinging, as Burnsby’s voice sounded behind him.
“Friends, surely we do not want to dally here as night falls and the ritebalds stalk the peaks? Keeper Oliver, this man has mined for you today the crystal of two experienced ridgers. Never in my years have I seen someone ridge with such furor. Would you really risk a potential injury now, with only a day left for quota? Better to get another day out of him, I would say. And you, Draysky, you spend all that time breaking your back on the mountain and forsake the dinner it has earned you? Fools, the both of you.”
Oliver blinked, his attention stolen by Burnsby.
“Fools?�
�� he asked, flexing his fingers once more. Then he broke out into laughter that echoed off the peaks, forced and loud, clapping Burnsby on the back as he turned around and continued back down the mountain. “Fools indeed, when there is a fire to be had, and ale to be drunk, and crystal to be counted!”
Draysky grit his teeth, his pickaxe raising at the sight of the Keeper’s exposed back, before Burnsby hissed in his ear.
“You’ve already laughed in death’s face once today, Draysky. I shall not let you tempt it once more. Now I’m ready to get off this blasted mountain, and you’re coming with me. Either you’re walking, or I'm throwing you from the path myself.”
They continued their trudge, and behind him, Draysky heard the whispers from the other ridgers carried by the wind.
“Absolute maniac. Going to get us killed.”
“Who in their right mind would spend more time in the Grinder than they had to? Now the Keepers are going to try and make us all do that.”
“Like he had four arms, that one.”
“His father’s son if I’ve ever seen it. Who else would challenge a Keeper like that?”
Draysky slept heavy that night, then worked with the same furor the next day, collapsing into bed once more when he returned. He was exhausted but triumphant as the crystal was counted, and he was awakened by cheering. Barely, just barely, they had surpassed their quota by three pounds of crystal. Aleman would be selling more than he could count to the Keepers the next day. Stomachs would be full, and the firewood would be replenished. With a groan, Draysky pushed himself out of bed as night began, reviewing a list of tasks in his mind. While the Keepers were celebrating, when the ridgers took the day off, he could sleep. But now there was work to be done, and Aleman required the lighters by nightfall.
So Draysky toiled, then carried his box to the tavern, since Aleman was too busy to retrieve them on his own. He cracked the door open, a mixture of warm air and chattering besieging him as he slipped inside and made his way to the bar. The night was still early, the smells of roasted meat wafted from the kitchen, and the floor was already wet with spilled ale. The vast majority of those inside were Keepers, taking up tables and laughing amongst themselves, as serving maids weaved in and out of tables. A few ridgers occupied a more dimly lit bar in the back. There Draysky spotted Aleman as he rolled in a fresh keg from the back of the tavern, one of his sons helping him right it behind the counter.
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