Page 2 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
Lucky, too, that he’d only begun working in the mines after Cerl mercenaries killed his own father. Before that, James Hale had been a baker’s son, breathing in nothing more dangerous than flour.
The boy’s muscles ached. Soon, the call to end the day would go round, and he could go home and pray his father was asleep. He wouldn’t have to tiptoe around anything that might set Pa off.
A few of the miners nearby laughed at a crude joke the boy barely understood. The chuckles turned into hacking coughs.
He swung his pickax again.
At the same moment the tip connected with the crystal, the floor shook under his feet. The gas lantern swung on its hook so violently that it fell and shattered.
The boy blinked in the false twilight. Softly glowing crystals and another lantern further up the corridor were the only illumination. Shouts echoed all around him.
Mine explosion.
The boy’s heart hammered as the other miners sprinted toward the entrance, but all he could do was stare down at the dim outline of his pickax. No one he liked was down in the mines. His mother and brother were safe in the cottage. He was the only one in real danger, and even at twelve, he found he didn’t care.
If he died down here, Ma and Michael would starve without the pittance he received every week. They’d get along for a bit with scraps handed to them by neighbors for a while, but after that…
He gritted his teeth.
Then again, he wasn’t in the deepest part of the mountain where the more dangerous tunnels were dug. The mine supervisor had taken pity on the boy. He’d known his father before the Fogs had worked its way to his brain. The supervisor wanted him to be a messenger runner. The boy insisted on mining. It paid more.
And it would pay nothing if he ran out empty-handed.
Rage flowing through his veins, he swung the pickax and nailed the stone next to the cluster.
He laughed as rock shards bit his cheeks and exposed skin. The little stings were nothing compared to the pain in his chest. He hit the rock again and again, loosening the crystal bit by bit. His fingers bled worse than before. Blood ran down his hand and wrists from the busted blisters, but it almost made him feel better.
Maybe the Fogs had emerged early for him. That’d be just his luck.
Another rumble shook the cavern, and he paused again. He didn’t care, it didn’t matter…but two in one day, after six months of nothing? That seemed odd.
“Brother!”
The boy stopped his mad swinging and turned. He breathed heavily, blood still leaking from his hands like water from a cracked pot.
“Brother!”
Michael?
What was Michael doing in the mines?
The boy gripped his pickax hard, pain lancing through his palm like lightning. He grimaced. The pain kept him focused. He trudged toward the tunnel entrance. The remaining gas lanterns hanging from the interspersed beams down the main corridor flickered. Only a third or so had survived the explosions.
The boy steadied himself on the wall.
He should’ve been terrified. He should’ve run to the entrance when the other miners had. He should’ve felt something other than rage. Any more explosions, and the entire thing would collapse with the boy inside.
But the only thing that frightened him right now was the sight of a small figure wobbling at the tunnel’s entrance.
“Brother!” Now that Michael was closer, fear and pain coated the syllables like sludge.
He probably ran to the mines soon as the village felt the first explosion. His brother had always cared more.
“It’s okay! I’m here!” The boy ran up the last slope. “What are you—"
Michael collapsed, his arms cradling his stomach.
Now the boy was afraid.
