Four more workers fell to the ground as one slipped and the others were dragged down by the chain that connected their neck bands. The black slab shifted dangerously sideways as those remaining on the ropes fought to keep it under control. One man screamed as his foot was crushed under the slab and he was pinned against the wall. Sebastian jumped forward and grabbed the edge of the block, which was slowly sliding toward the side of the tunnel. He flipped around and put his back against the wall, trying to push the stone away as the others pulled with all their might on the ropes. Sebastian looked into the terrified face of the man caught between the wall and the block.
“Come on! Grab my hand,” he screamed. He felt the block inch toward the wall and stretched out his arm.
The man grabbed his hand and pulled, but his foot was trapped.
Sebastian heard the grunts of those still hauling on the rope. Others ran forward, grabbing the stone, but there was not enough to hold onto. He dug his back into the cracks and dents in the wall. One arm pushed with all his might as he pulled with the other, his eyes tightly closed from the effort.
On the other side of the slab, shouts for new ropes sounded. But there was no time. Sebastian opened his eyes to see the man’s head pinned between the stone and the wall. Those who remained on the ropes were just not strong enough. A scream escaped the man’s mouth as the slab shifted another inch; the sound cut all the way to Sebastian’s bones.
Sebastian felt his sweaty hand slipping. The fear on the man’s face sucked him in as if he dove into an icy black lake.
“Help me,” shouted the man one last time, his words strangely deformed as the stone crushed his head and blood poured out of the corners of his eyes. A chill ran down Sebastian’s spine.
With no other choice left, Sebastian wrangled his hand free from the man’s grip and pulled it back just in time. He let out a yell of frustration.
New ropes arrived and were immediately run behind the block. But it was too late. As the guard thundered his orders in the tunnel, nearly foaming at the mouth with anger, the slab was pulled from the wall. The crushed remains of the slave slumped to the ground. Blood ran from the wall. It collected in tiny streams and trickled across the floor.
Sebastian let out a sob. He wiped snot from his nose and blinked to clear the tears from his eyes. His entire body complained from the effort it had made.
This is madness.
The guard’s whip cracked in the air.
“Pull, you walking corpses. Pull!” he bellowed. “You there! Grab a beam.”
Sebastian looked up at the man with blurry eyes.
“Yeah, you.”
The whip cracked across his feet, stinging his flesh.
“But I’ve finished my shift,” he protested.
The guard’s eyes shot fire. With two steps the man was in front of him and knocked a backhand across Sebastian’s face. He hit the floor, his hands landing in the puddle of blood.
“Don’t you dare talk back to me again, you filth. Now get up and grab a beam.”
Shaking, Sebastian looked down at the blood dripping from his fingers. Not wanting to anger the guard further, he forced himself back to his feet, grabbed the next beam with another man and moved it to the front.
I’m never getting out of here.
It was not the first time he had thought it, but there had been too many close calls lately. Ever since the collapse, his body was starting to feel it. His mind was at the end of the line; maybe because he hit his head. He was going to die in this dark hole under the ground, far away from his family—and home.
His heart stung as he remembered his father. He shook his head to get rid of the image of him engulfed in flames. He had not been the best father, but Sebastian missed him—missed all of them, there on the outside. His mother and his annoying sister, both far across the ocean. He even missed his father’s ship. That miserable vessel that had brought them to this blasted continent in search of new opportunities. He remembered he had not found it all that fun, serving on his father’s merchant ship. It had been hard work.
He scoffed at his own foolishness.
Hard work. What a fool I was.
It felt like forever before they reached the main hall. They were greeted by the sound of dozens of chisels chipping away at the blocks already there. Sebastian’s group carefully placed the stone slab in one of the rows and they turned it on its side. It was a labor-intensive job which involved many ropes and men, with pulleys attached to wooden cranes. At the end of it, he was thankful to finally slip away and find some much needed rest. He felt drained, a hollow shell going through the motions. He shook his head to banish the man’s squished face—screaming for help—from his mind.
Sebastian moved between the rows of stones that occupied half the main hall. Each block was in a different state of progress toward the intended result: a ghol’m.
He shivered, uncertain if it was from exhaustion or caused by the black statues. They always gave him the creeps. They were probably supposed to resemble men, but were doing a poor job of it. They were much larger than a normal human being, the black stone only roughly formed into arms and legs, with an almost square block for a head.
He wondered again if the stories could really be true. He had never seen any of the ghol’ms move, but there were those in the mine who swore they could. Stories of nightmare fights, as slaves were forced to go against men of stone. “Carnage” was the word they used to describe it.
Still, this all happened before Sebastian’s arrival, and he would not be surprised if people were just messing with him. Regardless of whether it was true or not, the statues had an eerie, foreboding appearance. He always felt tiny next to one of them, and he was not a small man to begin with.
He increased his pace to put some distance between him and the statues, ready to leave what happened in the tunnel behind him. His stomach growled when the smell of the kitchen corner reached his nose. Sebastian grabbed his wooden bowl and spoon from inside his filthy shirt. Besides his clothes, they were his only possessions in the mine, and he would defend them with great ferocity should the need call for it. Even in their hopeless situation, there were still those who did not shy away from terrorizing others and taking advantage of those who suffered with them. Occasionally, fights would break out over as little as a cup of water, or a place to sleep.
Years ago, another slave had beaten Sebastian then stolen his belongings. When he spoke about this with Jarod afterward, Sebastian received wisdom he made certain never to forget: “If you take nearly everything from a man, what is left grows to be the most important thing in the world. The danger is that some lose track of what matters most: their life.”
He had always taken it to heart and knew he could always try to get a new bowl somewhere—even if it was not easy.
He joined the end of the line for food. Stale bread and stew drawn from bone, which was much too watery and contained little to no meat. It was complemented with the leftovers from the palace above. Molded nuts and fruit were considered a treat.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen them change those pots on the fire,” Sebastian heard a man say in front of him. “They just throw in more water and lard, maybe add wisa root every so often and then just keep it cooking all day long.”
“At least it gives a bit of flavor,” remarked the man beside him. “And they have been putting in extra grain lately too. It used to be much worse.”
Sebastian looked past them to see who was serving the food.
It’s her, he thought with a small tingle inside.
She was about his age, with large brown eyes that sparkled as their gazes briefly met. A shy smile crept onto his face, which she instantly returned. He handed her his bowl. She still had the skin of someone who had not been in the mines long; not that sickly white color, and free of bruises and cuts; but he could already see the start of it. Her cheeks were starting to hollow and the rings around her eyes were darker every time he saw her. It would not be much longer before she
looked like the rest of them.
The woman checked left and right, saw that the guards were not paying attention to her, and put an extra scoop in his bowl. Sebastian thanked her with a smile, then picked a piece of bread with the least amount of mold and searched for a place to sit. There were no tables or chairs; those who ate sat on the floor. He spotted someone leaving near the wall and moved between the seated crowd to take his place.
Sebastian did not really know the woman in the kitchen. He had barely spoken ten words to her since she was brought in with a new group a few weeks earlier. But it was not the first time she had favored him. He was certainly grateful for it and felt as if there was a connection. A possibility to become more. He shook his head; it was strange to imagine such things under the circumstances, even if he was aware of other people sharing an intimate bond in the dark tunnels of this hellhole. He sighed. Perhaps one day he would get the nerve to talk to her beyond the one-word greeting. At least the extra food had helped him recover after the tunnel collapse.
Spurred on by his growling stomach, he wasted no more time and started his meal. The work had made him hungry—it always did—even if the bland taste was not much to be excited about.
Halfway through his bowl, a scream made him look up. A group of women were being forced down the stairs by guards. As they reached ground level, one of the women tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. The bolt of a crossbow swished through the air and hit the woman in her back with such force she toppled forward and landed painfully on her face. With a stomach-turning, sobbing groan, she drew her last breath as she bled out.
An example had been made. The other women screamed and wailed in fright, but none dared move. Those living in the mine turned their heads away in shame. Shame that they dared not do anything about it. Shame that they were forced to live like this. Like animals. Like slaves.
Sebastian watched as one of the women was dragged toward the smithy area in the corner of the hall. A great furnace was built there, with several smiths working to replace the chisels, pickaxes and shovels that were no match for the mountain’s hard stone. The guard pinned her shoulder to the ground, locking her arm under his armpit and putting his other hand strongly on her neck. The woman let out a cry as a second guard retrieved a red-hot steel rod. The glowing emblem of a closed fist was jammed against her cheek, which immediately began to sizzle from the heat. Her scream echoed through the hall and into the tunnels. Even the most distant workers now knew a new group had arrived.
Staring at his food, Sebastian tried to eat as the other women underwent the same fate. Involuntarily, his hand moved to the burn mark on his own cheek. He remembered the smell of his own flesh burning well. He had lost his appetite, but knew better than to let the offered generosity go to waste. So he forced himself to finish, cleaning out every last scoop with his final piece of hard bread.
Before he got up, he scanned the room to see if Jarod was there, but could not spot him. He quickly made his way to the washing area, pursued by the screams of another woman being marked a slave. He pressed his hands against his ears and tried to block the sound. Today had not been a good day. It was best to wash up and try to forget all about it by going to sleep.
He sighed. He knew tomorrow would be no different, no matter how much he wanted it so. Staring back toward the main hall, he wondered—wished—there was something he could do about it all.
Not much later, Sebastian was busily scrubbing his shirt in the underground stream in one of the side caverns. Not in the mood to talk to anyone, he had chosen a spot near the entry point of the stream—just out of sight of the normal washing area. He zealously washed the dirt off his shirt, as if it helped cleanse his surroundings, washing away the bad taste of oppression and the wrongfulness of the entire situation. He pulled up his shirt and stared at the new hole made by his forceful treatment. He should have known better. The chore required precise concentration; scrub too hard and his shirt would fall apart to the point of being a mere rag, but scrub too softly and it would be pointless if he wanted to have some degree of success at appearing cleaner.
Sebastian looked at his hands. White, slender hands, full of calluses, cuts and scars from working in the mine. Gloomily, he traced a few of the scars on his chest, where a whip had cut into his flesh long ago. He knew his back was probably not much better. Annoyed by the memories of the painful experience, he was pulling his wet shirt over his head when he heard voices carry around the corner. Struggling to get his head and the ring around his neck through the wet fabric, it took a moment before he recognized one of the speakers’ voices.
Jarod?
The whispering voices sounded like they were in a heated argument.
“We’re not ready yet,” Sebastian heard Jarod say.
“When?” asked another voice—a woman—urgently.
“He’s not sure. Maybe as much as two moon cycles.”
“What? No,” said a second unfamiliar voice, this one male. “That will be too late. We must get her out of here soon. There’s no hiding it any longer.”
“I agree,” said the woman. “The supplies won’t last that long with the increased usage.”
“Look, you will have to find a way. If we go too fast, the guards will catch on and all will be for nothing,” whispered Jarod. “Come on, Shaun. Think. How did she stay unnoticed for so long? Is there nothing else that can be done?”
“No. She cut her hair, acted like one of the guys. But she started to show some time ago and there’s no denying it anymore,” said the other man—Shaun, Sebastian now realized. “Come on, Jarod. It’s my fault my sister and I ended up here. I should never have taken her from the village. If they find her, they’ll take her away. There must be something we can do to get her out—to get everyone out.”
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it. They tried to find a way into the room, but it is constantly guarded. And Old Tom is still mapping the city and its surrounding area. He’s the only one able to move somewhat freely between the different workshops and all, but I haven’t seen him in weeks. We need to know where to go out there, and for all we know he might be dead.”
“Don’t say that,” spoke the woman. “We have to believe he’ll follow through. He’ll send word soon. He won’t let us down.”
“And you’re certain those scrolls will work?” asked Shaun. “I—It seems hard to believe.”
The woman’s voice turned cold.
“Trust me, once you’ve seen it, you will not quickly forget,” she said. “We have to get into that room. It’s the only way we’ll have a chance. The only way we can make them hurt.”
Sebastian listened to the conversation with mixed emotions. Were they planning something? Did they not know any attempt to go against the regime would be brutally beaten down? He had to stop them—but what if they were actually on to something? He had known Jarod for as long as he had been underground. He was not a man who would take something like this lightly. But why had Jarod not said anything about this before? Surely he knew how dangerous it was to try anything against the Stone King’s wishes.
The thoughts in Sebastian’s mind were going around in circles; fear, stubbornness and anger all fighting to shout the loudest about what he should do. But while his thoughts were preoccupied, somehow his legs decided it was time for action. He stepped around the corner.
The trio startled. Sebastian immediately recognized the older woman whose voice he had trouble placing: Svetka. She led the kitchen and tried to keep a healer’s post in working order by gathering and begging for supplies whichever way she could. Unfortunately, most of the guards were not concerned with the wellbeing of the Stone King’s slaves. It put Svetka in an emotionally difficult position, wherein many of the battles—to save the people that came to her—were lost.
“Sebastian? How did you get back here?” Jarod asked, then looked at Shaun. “I thought you said you checked.”
“I did. There was no one there. Un—unless he was all the way in the cor
ner,” stammered Shaun, realizing his mistake.
“You fool,” said Svetka. “What if he had been a guard?”
“Sorry…”
“How much have you heard?” demanded Svetka from Sebastian.
“It’s okay. This is Sebastian. You know him. I know him,” said Jarod. “He won’t do anything to put us in danger. Right, Sebastian?”
Sebastian’s mind was still debating that very point when four words came out of his mouth. Words he had not expected to hear himself say. Inside, he felt something he had not felt for a very long time. Something that had been pushed away by all the awful things that had happened, but reignited by all this talk of possibilities. A burning need to act. He wanted take control over his life again. To fight those who had made fear part of who he was. Those four words slipped out through his lips as his heart raced with anticipation.
“I want to help.”
Chapter 3
Surprise
“Why didn’t you say anything?” asked Sebastian.
They sat eating in a quiet corner of the main hall. Jarod looked at him.
“Because what we’re doing is dangerous,” spoke Jarod in a hushed voice. “I was going to, eventually. But the less people know about it right now, the better. You know there’s talk of spies among us. Those who don’t mind selling others out for a bit of extra food, or an easier job to do. We can’t blame them, really, but it means we have to be careful.”
Their little group conversation at the washing area had been interrupted shortly after Sebastian offered to help. Another three days Sebastian had waited, until finally an opportunity arose to gather more information from Jarod. He had tried to talk to Svetka the day before, but all she had given him was the cold shoulder as she busily ran the food preparations for a shift that was about to end.
I don't think she likes me much.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked eagerly, looking around to make sure nobody overheard them.
“Not yet,” said Jarod.
Revolt of Blood and Stone Page 2