by E. S. Maya
Having observed the whole ordeal, Goggles forked his entire sausage into his mouth. He chewed slowly.
“You’re looking full over there too,” said an even larger boy, stepping up behind Wulf. He reached over the first-year’s shoulder, and then sprang for his sausage. In an instant, Wulf jerked his plate towards his chest. The large boy’s fork struck the wood of the table. He looked surprised for a moment, then drew back his hand and chuckled. “Nice reflexes.”
Wulf steadied his gaze on his meal, not acknowledging the large boy in the slightest. He forked his sausage in half and passed a piece across the table, setting it down on Safi’s plate. “Eat up,” he said, “we’ve got a long day.”
Safi scarfed down the sausage with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. If the older boys noticed, they didn’t show it. Just in case, she slid her tray close to her mouth and began stuffing herself full of eggs and porridge. Then she relaxed and sipped her milk, peering down the long table. Watching as the other first-years lost their precious sausages.
It wasn’t long before the recruit foreman rose from his seat at the head of the fifth-year table. He slipped on his work gloves and raised his right hand. The boys set down their spoons and forks. They tipped back their wooden bowls, slurping down porridge in large gulps. Hating to waste food, Safi reached for her porridge and joined them.
Out the corner of her eye, she watched as Noth lowered his arm. The chow hall rattled with the sound of empty bowls striking tabletops. She hers down gently, hands trembling.
It was time for work to begin.
21
A Helping Hand
The bench trembled beneath Safi’s bottom as the older boys began their heavy-heeled march towards the exit. The first-years stayed in their seats, and when the noise finally settled, three recruits remained standing in the chow hall.
Fifth-years, she could tell from their height. The strongest and most experienced of the Fivers’ Camp. Largest of the trio was the recruit foreman himself. Noth, the boy she had seen at Hannah’s side one morning ago. The boy with the yellow eyes.
He paced the length of the first-year’s table, shouting them out of their seats and slapping the backs of their freshly shaved heads. “Get your asses off that bench and those pickaxes over your shoulders!”
Safi fumbled to put on her miner’s helmet. She recalled a time in Ashcroft when she had found herself alone with a wild dog. It wasn’t its bite that frightened her, but its unpredictability. Though Noth’s uniform hid much of his bulk, the precision of his movements suggested a restrained power—the swing of his arm, the step of his boot. To Safi, these weren’t just gestures; they were threats.
Worse than that, he was Hannah’s boyfriend! That told her more than enough. Noth was bad business.
After the recruit foreman passed behind her, and her head was most assuredly safe, Safi took to her feet. She went to fetch her pickaxe, which she’d left propped against the wall at the opposite side of the chow hall. When she looked back, the fifth-year recruits were already out the door, first-years scurrying behind them. She pulled a breath, heaved her pickaxe over her shoulder, and chased after with tiny, teetering footsteps.
Outside, the fifth-years led them east, through a sprawling orange field that began behind the Fivers’ Camp. Littering the expanse were countless gray stones, some as small as a silver Anderan sovereign, others as large as any building she had seen in camp. Their shadows stretched across the dust, pointing at the recruits. Like a warning, she thought. Go back! Go back!
They called it Lazar’s Crossing. Her pickaxe bit at her shoulder as she shambled beside her fellow recruits, trying her best to hear Recruit Foreman Noth’s explanation of the name.
“Lazar was a twenty-fiver back in the day,” Noth began. “And a Serk like myself, so it was to no one’s surprise that he was one tough bastard. You’ve got to be, to do what Lazar’s done. Some of the old-timers say he worked day and night. Others that he was the tallest recruit they’d laid eyes on, that he had a pint of giant’s blood inside him. Titan tales aside, ten years into his sentence, he became the first recruit to discover a Siegestone inside the Siege Titan Cronus, and that’s a stone-cold fact.” The recruit foreman spread his arms wide. “And he crossed this very field.”
Noth paused his story when he noticed several recruits gazing into the distance, towards the other end of Lazar’s Crossing. “Over there’s the Main Camp,” he explained, “where you go when your first five years are served.”
Safi shielded her eyes from the sun. Beyond the rubble, a line of square-roofed buildings sat opposite the Fivers’ Camp. At the edge of the cluster stood a solitary gray building with a tall steeple tower. A church, she realized. In Andolas, prayer was an activity reserved for evenings of solemn introspection. Ashcroft had had a church, but she was far too young to remember attending service. The sight of this building made her uncomfortable. She lowered her arm and averted her eyes, hoping she’d never have to see it up close.
Noth raised a fist, and the first-years halted their march. He gestured north, where Cronus’ great stone body lay in eternal sleep. Then he pointed to Siege Titan’s left foot, that five-toed mountain peak that towered against the sky. “That there’s the Foot, where you’ll spend your first five years as a miner.”
Safi stared, mouth agape. If that was the foot, then these scattered stones, these countless stones, could only be the remains of the Siege Titan’s arm! Yet when it came to the body, it was difficult to imagine all that stone as a once-living thing. She supposed Cronus’ left foot, which seemed a step away from flattening the warden’s manor, most strongly resembled the real thing. Starting at the ankle, she traced the crease of stone against sky—the straight line of its shin, the round bump of its knee, the gradual bulk of its thigh—until the impression of a Titan began to form. Then the stone climbed upwards, becoming Cronus’ hill of a stomach. Where the Titan’s chest ought to be, the stones resembled an uneven line, and from this angle, she couldn’t see its head. All that remained of the Titan’s left arm was a massive gray stump.
A bit of dust got in her eye, and she blinked a few times. Then the Titan was gone. Rather, its impression had been lost. Only stone remained, from the warden’s manor to the west, to the Main Camp to the east. A range of steep gray mountains that reminded her much of home.
“These stones in Lazar’s Crossing,” Noth said, “are Titan stones, but we don’t ever mine them. Waste of time, ‘cause they don’t ever yield Siegestones.” The recruit foreman marched on, stepping around the scattered stones and towards the Titan’s body.
Safi craned her neck as they approached an immense, spherical boulderstone, slightly buried in the ground. It stuck out from Lazar’s Crossing like a cherry on top of a cake. The thing was enormous. She reckoned it stood taller than even the warden’s manor.
“When a Titan dies,” Noth continued, “the last part of it to hit the ground are its arms and hands. Breaks into a hell of a lot of pieces. This here—” he slapped a hand against the boulderstone’s scarred surface “—is Cronus’s only surviving fingertip.”
The first-years boys murmured their surprise and disbelief. Safi lowered her pickaxe and stared. The fingertip was big all right, but she found it hard to believe it had claimed the lives of countless climbers throughout the centuries. Here it was, old and gray and dead.
She frowned. She had expected more from a chunk of rock once belonging to the hand of an ancient god. It wasn’t at all like the Titan tales.
“Bored, Abed?” Noth approached her briskly. Like the boulderstone, he looked larger up close. “Being a brown-skin, you must know much about Titans. Have I missed anything?”
“No, sir,” answered Safi, lowering her chin, but keeping her eyes on the boy.
“Do we have any volunteers?” shouted Noth over Safi’s head, “to step up and learn a thing or two about mining?”
A few hesitant palms raised into the air. Frowning, Safi stuffed her hands into the pockets of
her overalls. Better to lay low and mind her own business. Easier to stay of trouble that way. Besides, she could hardly carry her pickaxe, let alone swing it.
“Speak up!” ordered one of Noth’s fifth-years. “And come stand at the front!”
“Yes, sir!” replied the volunteers. The seven of them approached the boulderstone, pickaxes over tense shoulders. Safi was surprised, for among the volunteers was Wulf.
“Give that here,” Noth said, snatching the pickaxe off Stiv’s shoulder. Digging tool at his side, the recruit foreman strode to meet the volunteers.
Safi flinched, fearing that Stiv might do something dangerous and stupid. She watched how the boy lowered his head. How his shoulders and back slumped until his entire body appeared to frown. When Stiv closed his hands into fists, she prepared herself to reach out and hold them. To help him calm the anger inside.
Before she could make her move, Stiv stood up straight and folded his arms, breathing deeply. She wiped her sweaty palm on her overalls, relieved that the Berridian had regained control. She’d never held a boy’s hand before.
The fifth-years ordered the volunteers to spread out before the boulderstone, and to leave some room at the center of the lineup. There Noth joined them, raising Stiv’s pickaxe, showing the new recruits the many ways to strike Titan stone.
“Swing it like this, and use little strikes with both your hands at the top of the handle. Never swing overhead—no room for that in the Titan mines. End up hurting yourself, or one of your teammates. Titans forbid you cause a cave in.
“And if you swing too hard…” To demonstrate, Noth lifted the pickaxe over his head and brought it down with force. The resulting crack slithered up and down the weathered stone surface. “Imagine if a Siegestone was in there! There go your twenty-five years. Steady, small strikes. Take your time. It’s slow work.”
Twenty-five years, of course, Safi thought. So that’s what a Siegestone is worth.
“Now picture yourself doing that for ten long hours.” With a single arm, Noth pointed Stiv’s pickaxe at the watching recruits. “That’s a day in the Titan mines.” He snorted at his volunteers, then spat on the ground. “Back in line, boys.”
Noth placed a hand against his stomach and squeezed it into a fist. “To survive as a miner you’ve got to be in proper shape.” Grinning, he tugged at the hem of his work shirt to reveal a set of chiseled abs. The first-year boys looked down at their bodies in shame. Safi slipped a finger inside her collar. She had never seen a boy with a body like that.
Wearing a face of smug satisfaction, Noth tucked his work shirt back into his trousers. “Today we’re going to start with an exercise as old as the Titans themselves. The push-up.”
Pickaxes dropped to the ground as the first-years lined up in rows. Somehow, Safi found herself in the front. She cradled her tummy, pained from nervousness. The warden never mentioned she would have to exercise…
“On your bellies, lads!” ordered Noth, pacing the first-years’ ranks. When Safi hesitated, he grabbed her by the collar and lifted her on her toes. “That means you too, Southerling.”
Cringing, Safi sank to her hands and knees. The dust of the camp was missing around Cronus’s old fingertip. Here was good old-fashioned dirt.
“Titans. Flat on the ground, girl!” Noth raised his boot and stepped on Safi’s back. She tried to hold herself up, but the boy felt heavier than Ashwalker himself. She sank to the ground until her hot cheeks pressed into the cool soil. Struggling to breathe, she muttered a desperate prayer. For the strength to rise and pummel the recruit foreman. To teach the Serk a lesson he’d never forget.
Instead she wriggled helplessly beneath him.
Noth and his fifth-years laughed. “Where a Southerling ought to be.”
“That’s too far!” cried Stiv, pushing himself to his feet.
Noth stepped off Safi’s back and swung his boot into Stiv’s rib cage. The Berrid boy went tumbling, crashing into Wulf beside him. “Back in position, recruit. And don’t question my authority again.”
With a groan, Stiv clutched his wounded side and crawled limping back into place. When he attempted to stand up again, Wulf pinned him by the neck and whispered, “Stay down!”
Safi glowered. She knew this was the proper order of things, but she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Was Wulf afraid of the fifth-years?
“Begin count!” ordered Noth. His cronies began to chant. “One… two… three… four…”
Safi gripped dirt in her bare fingers and pushed with all her might. Much to her surprise, the ground moved away from her. One. She smiled. It was her first push-up. She lowered herself, elbows shaking, then pushed again. Two…
By five, the ground would move no more. Her arms slipped from beneath her, and her chest slammed into the earth. Painfully, she turned her head. Up and down, the boys were still pushing.
“Southerling!” Noth said. She felt the fifth-year’s boots thudding through the dirt. He grabbed her by the hair in his filthy gloved fingers. “Is this the warden’s idea of a joke?”
When Noth let go, Safi’s cheek landed hard in the soil. She braced her arms and pushed, elbows wobbling, and moved the ground once more. A patch of mud decorated the left side of her face. “I can do more, sir.”
“On your boots, boys!” roared Noth, not acknowledging her efforts in the slightest.
Watching him walk away, Safi gritted her teeth. The boys in Ashcroft had sometimes teased her, but never like this!
The recruit foreman showed the first-years every Blackpoint exercise in the book: push-ups, stone throws, stone pushes, squats, lunges, pick-swings, and eight-count Titan builders. Safi’s knees buckled and ached, her little thighs went numb, and her calves cramped in knots. And they weren’t finished. When Noth announced it was time for jogging, she tipped back her head and groaned.
“In the name of the warden!” Noth said. “Who just made that sound? Who dares make a mockery of this camp?” The boys began their laps around Cronus’s fingertip, leaving Safi behind with her half-raised hand. Her arm felt like wet bread.
“The Southerling!” Noth walked over, scowling. “It’s not too late to change your work, girl. Save yourself the pain and disappointment.” His lips stretched into a smile. “And the embarrassment.”
He lowered his face to hers. His breath smelled of eggs and breakfast sausage. “It was a good effort, but be realistic. Everyone knows you’re not cut out for this. No one will judge you if you turn around and head back to the barracks.”
She felt her lips quivering. Perhaps the recruit foreman was right. She looked down at her shoes, a blur of brown and orange through her watery eyes. No, not again. Why were they always doing that?
“I’ll run with her, sir,” Wulf said, panting, coming in from his first lap. His shirt was stained at the pits, and beneath the brim of his helmet, his forehead glistened with sweat.
“An Anderan standing up for a Southerling.” Noth laughed, and a bitter smile followed. “How typical. Fifteen laps each. If she falls down once, I’ll report personally to the foreman that she isn’t fit for mining.”
Safi opened her mouth to protest, but Wulf grabbed her by the wrist and began to run, dragging her stumbling after.
By some miracle, she found herself running beside him. Her mining boots pinched the tops of her toes and bit the backs of her ankles. Wulf’s grip held firm, pulling her along whether she liked it or not. She wondered what the boy would do if she fell down. How far he would drag her behind him.
After their first lap around the boulderstone, her knees were ready to give, and her thighs burned hot like kindling over a fire. Wulf’s legs kept moving, however, and, remarkably, so did Safi’s.
“What did he mean,” she asked between breaths, “by typical?”
“Ten years ago, Andera didn’t join the war in the south,” explained Wulf, pausing to cough and pant. The run was taking its toll on him, too. “Anderans let the Serks invade the Abedi Sultunates all by themselves. Didn’t
turn out pretty for them.”
By their fifth, sluggish lap around the boulderstone, the dirt had been stomped into mud. It sucked at Safi’s heels with every plodding step. The pain in her shins grew unbearable, she began to count her footsteps, wondering which of them would be her last. “Wulf,” she choked out, “I can’t… we can’t…”
“…go on a stroll without me?” said Stiv, charging up from behind them. He pulled Safi’s free arm across his shoulders, running close beside her. Wulf let loose a pained laugh, and the three of them moved as one.
To Safi, this was no longer a jog, nor could it be called walking. It was the pull of the boys at her arms, the pounding of earth beneath her feet. She closed her eyes and trudged it out, focused on putting one boot in front of the other. Moving forward, forward, forward.
For how much longer, she couldn’t be certain.
When she finally opened her eyes, Wulf and Stiv’s work shirts were dark with sweat, their faces pink with exhaustion. She managed to laugh through her wheezing breaths until she looked down at her overalls, stained to the knees in mud.
“That’s enough,” Noth called out to the first-years. “Bring it in, boys.”
The boys let Safi go. She bent over, put her hands on her knees, and hurled her breakfast into a pile at her feet.
The first-years seated themselves in a swath of grass a short distance from the boulderstone, bodies breathing and heavy. Safi sat beside Goggles, whose head teetered to the left, to the right, nearing the brink of unconsciousness. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Mouth ajar, Goggles squinted under his eyeglasses and nodded.
Noth and his fifth-years stood before them, not a drop of sweat on their crisp blue work shirts. They handed a sloshing bucket of water to a redheaded boy up front. He took several large swallows before passing it to the recruit beside him. By the time it reached Safi, about two dozen mouths had touched the thing. Cringing, she brought the bucket to her lips, working down the tepid water in slow, steady gulps.