Osbert nodded. He'd been warned before setting foot on the first ladder into the mine when he'd overheard two smiths grumbling about a shipment delay. Pockets of bad air, ancient miasmas, rose from rotting rock just as they rose from rotting plants, and caused suffocating disease, sometimes even fires like swamp miasmas did. The Scavenger controlled this world as Gember controlled the soil above and the plants that grew there. Osbert wanted to touch the glittering stone, but bowed instead, lest the Dark One take offense at familiarity. Jens lit a new torch, left the old one in a holder on the wall, and led Osbert down a tunnel. Ahead Osbert heard hammers on metal, a constant ringing that echoed as if coming from the mountain itself. After a score of steps forward, the sound stopped, or at least the closest noise ceased. A much fainter, "Ching-ring" continued, and Osbert heard water dripping and trickling, and a faint moan of wood, then pouring, and more wood sounds.
"The pump sweep," Jens's voice came from head of him. "The Dark One gave us the ore, and water for washing it. But not in the same place." Osbert nodded as he bent, almost crawling under chill, damp, rough rock. No one but a miner or Scavenger-born dared criticize the Dark One here, in His own lands.
The pounding grew louder, then stopped. Osbert's guide disappeared and dark more solid than a moonless night surrounded Osbert. He froze, the hand not on his basket groping up, then to the side, searching for the wall and ceiling. He touched cold, rough stone. Solid below, solid above, up and down remained. Osbert had to move, he heard scraping, but the sound came from all directions. His mouth—he forced spit into his mouth. The mountain closed around him! Osbert swallowed and stepped. The floor remained solid, the wall and roof did not stop. Another step, then another, moving slowly, stepping warily. The wall pulled away to the left and Osbert followed. Louder scraping and a grunt. A man's sounds, and a glimpse of light? A shadow in shadow moved. Was it a man?
Or was it zwurge? Everyone who did business near the mountains had heard stories of the zwurge. Osbert shivered despite himself. Did the hidden people, the Scavenger's hands, really exist? The priests never said, but he'd never sought them out to ask, either. "Heavy. Heavy's good," Jens's voice came from the left and Osbert sped his steps as much as he dared. He found the curve in the wall, saw more light half-dancing on the wet walls and floor and glitter on the wall. He turned the rest of the corner and removed the basket from his chest. One of the miners took the leather and withe basket and added it to the waiting row.
As the leather and wool clad miners loaded the baskets with crumbled rock and ore, Osbert looked at the rock face. The sides of the gallery bore grooves and char, and the rows of pits pocked the work face. Metal bars and large hammers leaned against the side of the tunnel. Jens nodded. "Most iron returns here," he said.
"Or stays here," one of the men hissed as he scraped broken rock into the basket using a wooden shovel.
Jens inclined his head toward the pitted stone. "We soften the rock with fire. Every eighth day the stone miners rest. The fire miners take the mountain for two days, and if the Dark One wills, break and soften the stone." If the Dark One willed? Fire mining? Osbert moved a few more steps out of the way and wondered.
A boy—or young apprentice—waiting for a basket pointed to the piles of broken stones. "They build fires against the stone, bring in wood, and pile it floor to ceiling. Then they light them, lower workings first, then upper. After two nights and a day if the Silent One sends water, the rocks rot. Some fall, others turn soft like wood."
"That is, if we don't find a layer of fire rock and set the inside of the mountain ablaze," a mis-formed man grunted. He had tiny legs and enormous arms and shoulders. "I've heard, not seen, mind." All the men, Osbert as well, made warding gestures and horns. No one spoke for a while after that as the face-miners finished loading the baskets. When all had been filled, Osbert and Jens took theirs. Jens selected a torch and led them into the tunnels once more. Instead of on his chest, Osbert now carried the basket on his back, as did the others. The ore smelled of earth and char, more bitter than the surrounding mine scent. He missed life scents and sounds. No wonder the Scavenger claimed this place as His own. The basket scraped the tunnel ceiling and Osbert ducked even lower.
Back through the long, dark gallery they walked, back past the salt pillar, to the first of the shafts and the ladders leading up to the world of light. Osbert waited until all but one man had stepped onto the ladder before taking a deep breath and setting foot on the wood.
The smooth-worn, round shape of the ladder felt wet and slippery as Osbert grasped the rungs. No, the sides, he remembered. Off-balance with the heavy basket on his back, he started up the long chain of ladders. Jens waited at the next level along with the other basket carriers. The darkness—the mountain—felt heavier than it had going down even though Osbert knew that they drew closer to the surface, one rung, one level at a time. His legs burned and the damp wood slipped under his hands. The mud on the rungs coated his palms even as he tried to hold the sides, hands for balance, legs doing the work. He heard creaking complaints from the wood, the sound of leather shoes on wood and stone, and breathing. The stones concealed all except at the head and foot of each unending climb from his sight.
As the group ascended the third set of ladders, Osbert heard—felt?—something. He hesitated on the rung for an instant. Creeeeeaaaak. Cracking wood? He couldn't tell in the blackness. Panic flared again. Was the ladder moving under him? Breaking? Or just wood sounds? He couldn't tell in the darkness and he scrambled up, hurrying, racing to join the others and rejoin the world of men. One foot rose to the next rung and touched wood, then air!
Back-heavy and off balance, slick-handed, Osbert teetered, one hand and foot flailing, desperate. Dark Lord, no! he pleaded silently, screaming in his mind Please, no! He struggled, other hand slipping on the wood, reaching for something, stone, wood, anything! He began falling back and down, pulled as the stone fought to return to the depths, only one foot still touching a rung, arms flailing. He opened his mouth, a scream tearing free—
A sharp blow to the back shoved him up, pushed him higher and forward. Wood! One hand touched wood, then the other found a grip on blessed wood from the world above. Osbert clung, pulled, heaved himself up to solid rungs and then the last few lengths to the next gallery's floor. "Only two more shafts," Jens called from the pool of torchlight ahead, "And the last is shorter."
Osbert nodded his agreement, saving breath for breathing, and followed the flicker of light ahead of him, bending low, so low. His legs and back ached, burned, his hands stung. Was this why miners acted so proud outside, under the sky? Because they worked bent in homage to the Dark One? Despite the wetness on the walls and floor, Osbert couldn't feel any moisture in his mouth. He shivered, chilled by more than just the cold air in the mine.
Two shafts later, Osbert caught a hint of a different scent, drier, more life-filled. He sped up as much as he dared without crowding the other ore carriers. They walked uphill, or so his thighs and back complained.
Without warning, Jens stopped and inclined his head and upper body as a dark figure loomed in the torch light. Osbert shrank back, then bowed, terror struck. The hooded figure carried no lamp or torch, only a tall staff. And he had no eyes. The Dark One Himself walked the gallery! The men pressed themselves against the side of the tunnel, allowing the black-clad shape to pass in silence. Osbert heard his own heart beating, a rustle from the man ahead of him, and a skittering whisper like rats' feet on stone.
Two turns of the tunnel after they began moving again, sunlight washed into the open mouth of the mine. Praise Gember and Korvall, and Rella of the Light! Osbert gave his basket to one of the men loading ore sacks to weigh before sending the ore down to the sorting and crushing mills. He stared up at the sky, feeling light and heat on his face. When he looked down again, he found Jens watching him, waiting. "The Scavenger is indeed generous," Osbert managed. Jens passed him a water skin and he drank. "Generous indeed."
"He is, blessed be He,
" Jens agreed. "And so His priests visit us."
The dark figure. Had he been a masked priest, not— Osbert's mind skittered away from the thought, instead telling him how good the warm sun and moving air felt. The mine and metals were truly the Scavenger's Gift, and Osbert thanked the Dark One for that. But he belonged to Gember and Donwah's world, and Maarsdam's people.
And yet... And yet, who had pushed him back onto the ladder? The apprentice had been too far below to reach, and not strong enough. Osbert savored the sunlight and the squawked protests of the great-haulers even as he wondered. How would he get the yellow and grey mud off his boots and sleeves? Better to worry about that then other, greater things.
From that day forward, Osbert Maans'hillda gave a twentieth of his profits to the Dark One. His trade prospered. But he never set foot in a mine or cellar ever again.
Afterword
This story was inspired by the Ramelsberg Mine near Goslar, Germany. It is open to the public with guided tours, and is not for those with a fear of small spaces.
About the Author
Alma T.C. Boykin lives and works far away from mountains and mines, unless you count oil and gas wells. She has written several science-fiction series as well as fantasy and urban fantasy.
For more about her and her upcoming releases, visit Cat Rotator’s Quarterly
www.almatcboykin.wordpress.com
Also by Alma T.C. Boykin
Merchant and Magic
Tyco Rhonarida dreads attracting too much attention. The gods beg to differ.
Familiar Tales
Nothing’s certain but death, taxes, and shed fur in this humorous urban fantasy short-story collection.
Language of the Land
Steampunk fantasy in a world where women rule and magic is anathema and forgotten. Or so they think.
The Scavenger's Gift (Merchant and Empire Book 2) Page 2