Grasping the edge of the dais, Draysky hefted, pushing aside the growing weakness overcoming him. He lifted, straining his legs and back to launch the rock table into the air. Above, there was nothing by the night sky, the stars beaming down at them through the cleared away shale, with clouds of dust that billowed around the edges.
The dais slowed as gravity fought against it, before hovering as the force caught it, then accelerating upward, barely catching where the layer of shale had once been. Draysky gripped the rope tight, wrapping a loop around himself as, with a lurch, he sped upward, pulled behind the stone table that now fled the room into the night sky. It tumbled through the air, arcing outside of the pit, dragging him against the mortar wall until he was out and over the edge, then continuing to pull him up the mountainside. As Balean had said, the rock here was plastered in place to form a smooth slope without the top layer of shale, and the man’s voice rang in Draysky’s ear.
“Quick! Cut the rope, then move east. Run for our lives! We only have moments before the stone will begin to fall back. Hurry!”
Draysky sawed himself free, righted himself using the stars, and sprinted. Without the stone it was as Balean had said—a mighty funnel of carved rock, extending a third of the way up the mountain before shale took over once more. Shale that was now rumbling back downward from all directions.
Draysky found the stairs, lit by tiny luminescent stones, almost falling over them as he leapt upward two steps at a time. The staircase stood above the rest of the funnel, high enough up that only a thin layer of shale would have hidden it from his view before, though Draysky was the only ridger he knew that had traveled far enough into the Grinder to see it. Each step shuddered as he raced falling shale, and in his ear Balean shouted.
“Almost there, almost there! See that ring near the top? Tie yourself there! The stairs are high enough up that you’ll escape most of the slide, but if it claims you, we’re falling back into the room at the bottom. Except now, it’s just a pit to be filled with rocks!”
The frontrunner shale pieces bounced around Draysky as he started to tie the knot. Then more came, enough that his fingers could no longer work the rope, the knot incomplete as the first wave of shale arrived. He looped it inside the metal hook, then held tight with both hands as a deeper rumbling approached.
With the height difference, it was as if Draysky stood atop a crag jutting out over the ocean, while waves pummeled him from every side. The vast majority of the shale rushed underneath, but rogue stones broke free from the herd, pummeling him in the torso and face. He held tight, though with his coat in tatters and left behind in the Grinder, only his undershirt protected him from the sharp edges. Then the full force of the shale came, like a wave, streaking past on his left and right as the dust clogged his nostrils. He closed his eyes and was swept off his feet as a layer crested the stairs, his forearms taking the brunt of the force as he lay face first in the moving rock, the shale swelling around him, his knuckles burning with the force of holding the rope.
Then it was over, the rocks still as they finally settled, only a thin layer above him as he groaned and stood. He had to force his fingers to let go of the rope, so locked in place were they from their desperate hold, and another wave of nausea caught him so suddenly that he retched into the shale. Then he looked up, half laughing and half crying as he saw the stars twinkling far above, and a breeze of frigid air drifted across his face.
Outside. They had escaped.
But something seemed wrong. Something that took him a full moment to realize as he looked back to the Grinder, which now was also still. It was the silence. No longer was there the incessant churning, the gnashing: now the only sound was that of his own ragged breath. Until there was a low rumbling, and the stone shifted near the bottom.
“I thought you said it would be finished?” Draysky said, looking around to where Balean stood beside him.
“That right there is the very sound of its death throes. The core of the mountain is sinking back into its depths. Which means your friends, the Keepers, will be unable to dig it up. Not as easily as before, that is.”
Balean moved upward, gliding more than walking, his feet barely touching stone before leaping up again. Draysky frowned. The shale didn’t rustle under his feet, nor did it dislodge when Balean landed. If that were Draysky, he’d be kicking up a dust storm, the grinding audible from all around.
“Just how did you get up here?” asked Draysky, still woozy, as he slowly crunched after him. Without a rope, climbing the side of the Grinder would be treacherous, but not impossible. Here it was far less steep than below—enough so that he could drop to all fours to scale the more difficult sections. “I didn’t make you a rope, and you didn’t hold onto the dais when it came flying out.”
“Ah, I’m not bound in the same way as you are. You could say the earth has less of a hold on me.” Balean bounced, and Draysky watched as the man bounded ten feet in a single leap.
“Why didn’t you just pull me out then? And speaking of the dais, if that stopped the entire contraption from working, why did I need this?” He flashed the sliver of red that was still in his pocket, the coal barely glowing now that it was disconnected.
“I’m not bound, but neither is the earth to me. Just as she cannot hold me down, I cannot pull you up. And as for the aurel… Well, like I said, I couldn’t have you leaving something so valuable behind. You said that you wanted to rise up against the Keepers? To do that, you need magic. And that’s a wonderful, wonderful tool for magic.”
“I never said that!”
“Your eyes did, boy. They speak of revolution. Now, let’s get out of here before we’re both stuck. I’d hate to escape the Grinder just to be buried in snow, eh?”
Draysky nodded, then watched Balean again as he moved. There was a grace to the man, a skill to it. They speak of revolution, Balean had said, and the man had hated the Keepers. Maybe enough that he would show Draysky their runes.
“So you’ll teach me then? So we can overthrow the Keepers soon?” huffed Draysky as they reached the top of the mountain. The wind whistled past them, cutting Draysky to the bone. With the fever he couldn’t tell if he was hot, cold, or both, and sweat accompanied the shivers that racked his body. His bare feet ached, sliced by the stone, with nothing but the rags of his makeshift rope wound around them since he had lost his boots.
“Soon?” Balean’s voice was incredulous as they paused for a break. “Turn around, Draysky. I need to explain something to you. You see all that effort? That difficulty in climbing to this crest, expended just to escape the Grinder? Where you are now in your skill is in that little room in the center, with a false ceiling that threatens to contain you. That keeps you from seeing the stars.
“If you want me to teach you, you will have to climb up the inside of the mountain. To its top, to overcome that first hill, before the world opens itself up to you. That will be the most dangerous part. It will be slow, and it will be treacherous.
“You’ll need dedication. Drive. A willingness to accept death. Only a backcountry dimwit would accept that.”
Draysky frowned, looking out over the mountain range to the lights of his outpost below, then to the world beyond. Death was better than returning to the Keepers. Death was better than failing to keep his promises on his parents' graves.
“You owe me for rescuing you. You can’t give up on me before I try.”
“Give up? By the contrary, boy. Only a backcountry dimwit would accept, and a backcountry dimwit you are!”
They continued walking as the mountain turned downward, Draysky carefully choosing his footing in the darkness. Twice he nearly slid down the ridge, catching himself at the last moment and hauling himself back to his feet. His wet hair froze to his scalp, his fingers turned numb, and he could no longer feel the cuts on his bare feet. After they reached the path, Balean spoke again, almost to the air rather than Draysky’s ears.
“After all, we have the same goal. There are doors to unl
ock, and the Keepers were always fond of keys.”
“The shale claims. The shale claims. The shale claims.”
The voices rang hollow that morning, and cold as the crisp air. Only a scattered handful attended this funeral; too many were struck down with the fever, rooted to their beds. Many were unaware of the events of the previous day.
Few Keepers arrived, and few family members.
But if a ridger could stand, despite the sickness, he was there. Burnsby was among them, the fever still hot on his forehead, his legs still shaking. His pickaxe in front of him, with his back to the mountain. He faced the empty coffin standing up in the shale, and prepared to speak, his face betraying no emotion. But before he could start, another figure walked in front of him, a man that made Aila’s hand clench from where she stood at the center of the crowd. She knew of this man, from the marks on Draysky’s face that matched his velvet white glove, along with the wide berth the other ridgers gave him.
“A fine ridger,” said Oliver in front of the coffin. “Worked until the very end. Stronger than any of the rest of you, it saddens me that he had such a short time in the Grinder. We made the quota because of him.”
The ridgers stared up at Oliver, their faces hard. Not one moved, but all their hands tightened on their pickaxes.
“Didn’t you hear that? We made quota, in a month it should have been impossible,” Oliver repeated.
Still no emotion traced across the ridgers' faces, though quite a few looked to the velvet glove in Oliver’s hand. One glove against over twenty of them armed with pickaxes.
“He gave his life for a good cause, doing that. The Keepers will be–”
Abruptly, Oliver was interrupted by Burnsby, who spoke as if he couldn’t hear the younger man, his voice too dense to be challenged.
“When a weight was placed upon Draysky’s back, he did not break. He did not falter. He grew stronger. He shall be remembered.”
“He shall be remembered!” the other ridgers bellowed, the wall of noise striking Oliver just as his glove had struck them. He took two steps backward, shock on his face as none of the ridgers even looked toward him, his presence entirely forgotten.
“When others saw the weight atop him, they added more. And yet, he did not break. He shall be remembered.”
“He shall be remembered!”
“When he still stood strong, the Keepers tested him. No gratitude was seen for what he carried, only an interest in how much more could be loaded upon him. Only to see when his spine would snap. He shall be remembered.”
The crowd shifted at that, and this time, only half the ridgers answered. Draysky’s sister looked at them, noticing how a few were murmuring amongst themselves, fidgeting as they looked at Burnsby. Then she took a step forward, her eyes set upon Oliver, as she too bellowed, her voice alone, yet strong.
“He shall be remembered!”
“Even steel bends. The strongest of pickaxes break! Shale can be crushed! And so too, the weight became too much, and Draysky was broken. For crystal, he was broken!”
No voices responded that time, as a tremor pulsed through the crowd. Rage built inside Aila as she looked upon them—the cowards, balking before Oliver. And as Burnsby waited, she shouted where no one else would.
“He shall be remembered!”
For a moment there was silence, until the echo of her voice came back from the mountain. None of the other ridgers spoke, their eyes still fixed on Burnsby, as Aila prepared to fling herself at them, tears in her eyes, then smash the empty coffin with her bare fists. But something made her pause, and as she looked closer, she realized that their eyes were not on Burnsby. Rather, they looked past him, and their pickaxes dropped to clink on the ground, to a lone figure who struggled forward with the breaking dawn.
He staggered, like a runner at the end of a marathon, unable to keep a straight line as he weaved through the snow. His feet were bloodied and shoeless, leaving marks of red in the white. He wore no coat, the shirt upon his chest looking as if it had been slashed by a thousand knives. Ice covered him, from the edges of his clothing to the tips of his hair, and dangling from the fabric of his pants. Yet he still walked, his eyes burning bright, determination driving each step.
Draysky.
“He lives,” she whispered, disbelief coating her voice. And a single ridger murmured, his voice thin in the morning air, as Bursby squinted at them.
“There is more to be remembered.” The chant began in a bare whisper, but gaining strength every time it was repeated. Burnsby whipped around, and Draysky broke into a jog, the words fueling him as they rebounded off the mountain, as if the mountain itself were shouting with them. The chant filled the outpost, master over snow and shale, and Draysky entered the circle of ridgers, seizing one of their pickaxes with both hands. Then he turned, swinging with every ounce of strength he had left, shattering the coffin where it stood in the shale, the wood splintering before the blow so strong that it left nothing remaining of the upper half. Then he shouted, the crowd silencing to hear him, though his voice would have carried above all.
“The coffin is empty!” Draysky roared. “I have fallen into the Grinder, and I have returned. The shale cannot claim me!”
Then he turned, brandishing the pickaxe at Oliver, whose face had turned white. No man, neither Keeper nor ridger, had ever returned from the Grinder.
“Get the hell out of my funeral,” Draysky growled, and the Keeper fled.
Chapter 42: Draysky
Draysky collapsed before he could return home.
The ridgers carried him on a stretcher made of two coats, every one of them holding a wad of the fabric. When his head touched his pillow, he slept—not for a single day, or two, but straight through three before his eyes even cracked. During that time, his grandmother knelt over him, along with his sister, tending to him as his condition worsened.
“The fever has struck,” his grandmother said, “and his body is damaged, but not as bad as it should be.”
“So he’ll be alright?” asked Aila, but she chided herself on the inside. While her grandmother was the more experienced healer, by now Aila had absorbed enough knowledge to realize the severity of the situation, and she predicted her grandmother’s words before she said them.
“If it was only the fever, undoubtedly. If it was only the injuries, I would assure you. But both? I can't say for sure. The chance for infection is high, too high. Our watch begins, for we fight for his life as surely as does he.”
Draysky’s breath came unevenly, and Aila shifted uncomfortably as she remembered the energizing concoction she had provided him. That had been before she knew he would be injured. But now, that meant the fever would get worse. Far worse.
Draysky muttered in his sleep as she prepared the herbs, grinding them up for poultices or teas that they forced down his throat; bitter, vile mixes that would have been even harder to administer had he been awake. Two of the lacerations on his chest were deep, cutting into muscle, and those they bandaged and packed with healing herbs. Three of his fingers were fractured, and Aila splinted them. Fortunately the bone had not broken the skin, but she’d had to set them. Again, she gave small thanks that he was unconscious as she felt around the skin of the intact fingers to check her work before removing the covers to examine his toes.
She could accept that his fingers had escaped the brunt of the damage from the cold. There were places to protect fingers without gloves—under the armpits, in pockets, even warm breath could sustain them for the amount of time that it took to come down the mountain. Draysky had been stranded for an entire night, and maybe he hadn’t lost his gloves until the very end.
But toes? His toes had absolutely no right to still be healthy, as far as Aila was concerned. They should be purple and blistered, the frostbite claiming the flesh. There was no way they could they have survived a trek down the mountain without covering, especially at night. And that was the bare minimum. She had no idea when Draysky had actually lost his boots, it could ha
ve been hours before. She’d amputated toes before, with cold being the leading cause, and many that she had removed were exposed to far less of the elements.
But these, aside from ice cuts and debris, were pink and healthy. Soft to the touch. These would heal without aid, while they should have already been severed to protect the rest of his foot from dying.
She frowned, holding them in her hands. Perhaps the heat from the fever was enough to push the cold away? But just then, Draysky entered into a coughing fit, drawing her attention, and the fever worsened once more.
The room turned stifling as his teeth chattered and the furnace raged. Sweat soaked through his sheets, and more than once her grandmother chided Aila, her voice on edge.
“Too hot! Stop adding to the flames, some heat is good to sweat out the sickness. This is too much, you should know better! This will do more harm than good.”
But Aila had not added any wood to the fire, and she looked with concern at her grandmother’s back as the crone tended to him. Had her memory started to leave her, or was she simply too overworked to remember stoking the flames behind Aila’s back? But she bit her lip and adjusted the grating on the furnace to reduce the temperature before returning to her grandmother’s side.
When Draysky finally did wake, it was with a long groan, and his attempt to sit up was immediately thwarted by his grandmother.
“Do you think I spent these last few days patching you up so you could simply tear yourself back apart? Show some respect, boy, you shouldn’t be breathing.”
“The Silver Keeper—is he here?” was all that Draysky managed, his eyelids already fluttering as he fought to keep consciousness.
“Not yet,” assured his sister, as he fell backward. “We still have a few days left.”
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