Mine
The sun was low and heavy in the sky, its rays filtered through a swirling haze of dust that never seemed to settle. The mine sat like a wound on the landscape, its jagged mouth yawning wide, begrudgingly releasing those stepping outside. Workers shuffled out of the tunnels in twos and threes, their faces gray with exhaustion and the thin layer of grit that clung to everything.
There was little talking. Just the occasional scrape of boots against stone or the heavy thud of a loaded cart being dragged toward the storage yard. Behind it up on a high hill was the Paragon's house. In the open area near the foreman’s hut, the men and women began to gather, forming a loose semicircle. Some stood straight, arms crossed, watching the foreman’s hut intently. Others slumped against their tools, staring at the dirt like it might suddenly yield more of the ore they’d spent the last month clawing out of the earth.
A few voices rose in quiet conversation. “You think Paragon Trost will pay today?”
“As a matter of course, a good man pays for proper work.” someone replied. A faithful phrase, though his tone lacked conviction. “The Paragon will be making up for last week.”
“He’ll pay,” said another, an older man with a face carved from stone. “Paragon’s fair. Just has his reasons for being late, that’s all. In fact I've heard that this haul we've been working on has been mighty fine.”
No one argued with him.
The foreman emerged after what felt like an eternity, his broad figure a silhouette in the doorway. He carried a satchel under one arm, but it looked too small, even from a distance. The lack of hard money was obvious. He stepped into the center of the waiting crowd and began calling names.
One by one, the workers stepped forward, received their payment, and moved away. The notes the foreman pulled out in thin stacks were a welcome sight for many. Those left without a word. A few muttered thanks. But when Soban’s name was called, the quiet routine cracked, just a little.
Soban stepped forward, wiping his hands on his trousers. The foreman reached into the satchel and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
“What’s this?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.
“Voucher,” the foreman said, not meeting his eyes. “Good for supplies or entertainment in town. Same as notes.”
Soban stared at the paper like it was a dead rat. “Same as notes? You think the baker in town’s gonna take this? Full value? Surely the good Paragon has hard money.”
The foreman responded with silence, looking at the next man pointedly, his jaw tightened. Soban’s fist flexed tightly closed as he snatched the voucher and shoved it into his pocket.
“By Rath, this isn't enough.” he said, louder this time. A few heads turned.
“Keep your voice down,” someone murmured.
“It's not.” Soban hissed. “We’re breaking our backs in those tunnels, and he can’t even—”
“Enough.” It was the older man, his voice cutting through the dust-laden air. “You will get your due soon enough young man. Now leave it be.”
Soban looked like he wanted to argue, but he bit his tongue. He turned and stalked back toward the mine, his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched at his sides.
Inside the tunnel, the air was cool but stifling, thick with the smell of damp earth and sweat. Soban trudged down the main shaft, his boots crunching on loose gravel. He passed a pair of men reinforcing a beam, their conversation low and steady, completely at peace, maybe even enjoying the work together. There was a fire, a storm inside of him.
Near a bend in the shaft, Soban stopped and leaned against the wall. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight. The right words would not come, maybe they were not even in his head. He needed to calm himself. He knew it was wrong to feel like this, he felt so angry and out of control.
Childish.
The self-admonishment did not help. The heat on his face did not recede.
He pulled the voucher out of his pocket and stared at it again, his vision blurring at the edges.
With a sudden, wordless cry, he slammed his fist into the rocky wall. The pain shot up his arm, sharp and immediate, but it was not enough to dull the fury roiling in his gut.
He stayed there for a moment, his forehead pressed against the cool stone, his knuckles bloody and raw. He cursed his impulsiveness. He was not a child. This was not the end of the world. He would do the work, and he would use the Paragon's voucher. Now he would just have to do it hand slick with blood. He crumpled the voucher in his hand, not caring it was now soiled as he shoved it back into his pocket, and walked deeper into the tunnel.
Outside the last few workers received their pay, such as it was. Raising their eyebrows at each other when they heard the emotional voice from the tunnel. One or two women turned up their mouths in a sort of crooked awkward smile and more than a few men looked back and shook their heads.
A few other workers, especially at the end, had got vouchers instead of notes. There had been few grimaces, but the remaining workers were all stolid. It was honest work and folk everywhere would enjoy the fruit of it. Most of the men and women had families and took pride in providing for them.
"That weren't right what Soban said. All the greens got vouchers." Said one of them.
"We're almost through with this work, and there's the bonus promised after we make it back to Trost. That's always hard money." Many nodded their agreement at this.
"He is young. Maturity comes after strength. No one would disdain the lad's effort, but the legacy takes time to take hold."
"Aye that's true. He'll shape up quick-like. But, hey Harel, was that a Founders quote?" The others laughed at the embarrassed look on Harel's face, and her cheeks went a bit red.
The late afternoon light was fading, and the dust in the air turned golden, almost beautiful if you didn’t think too much about where it came from. A group of workers stood near the entrance, relishing the camaraderie and hard earned rest. A particular group was centered around a small fire. Someone was boiling a thick mixture of roots and molasses for a hot drink. The men and women laughed and boasted about their lives back home. One of them lit a pipe, the orange glow bright against the growing shadows.
The excursion was almost over. They'd come quite far this time, presumably the other spots identified by Trostian surveyors had been too poor in minerals and other riches to justify calling for labor. It wasn't so bad.
"What I wouldn't give for a day spent wandering the central hall. You get so bored of looking at the wonders there, until you leave."
"Aye, and proper food. No mistake Harel your stew tonight is tasty indeed, but fresh baked cinnamon loaf or a black pepper roast hill-boar..."
The voices trailed off, all eyes going distant. It had been the better part of the summer and homesickness was bittersweet. It felt harmless to indulge in, all the better to enjoy the coming celebration when they returned with much needed and profitable materials. It was one of the reasons the seasoned among them had no worry about pay. You could spend your pay now of course, there was a pop up shanty town next to almost every remote work site. Working folk wanted entertainment, needed healing and food, and often had hard money. Some of the more stuffy nobility might try to chase away the merchants or families that followed the workers, thinking them a distraction that might hamper productivity. But the Paragon of Trost was himself quite fond of certain diversions and commodities provided by the shanty town and so let them stay.
His patronage attracted high quality purveyors as he had a famed appetite with genuine wealth to back it up. He knew it and was clearly confident enough to issue markers or vouchers of his good name and credit. The more formal promissory note was backed by the guilds and houses of fine arts. But what you really wanted was hard money. Anyone would accept certain hard goods as readily, or more than, other money. Out here spices were worth more than precious metal or stone. What good was wealth that you couldn't enjoy? And little brought more joy to a working man than fine spices. Saffron, cinnamon, cardamom, or fennel to name just a few. They could be dried, ground, and packed tightly into small coin-like tins. Prized for flavoring food, medicine, or Arts this was true hard money. Harel had asked around and traded her voucher for a small amount of fennel, on the condition that the resulting food be shared with their common friends. It wasn't quite the same as food from Trost, but it was a potent reminder of why they labored.
The first tremor was subtle, just a faint vibration underfoot. One of the workers frowned and glanced toward the tunnel.
“Did you feel that?”
Before anyone could answer, the ground heaved. The group laughing around the fire and their food were toppled to the ground, daydreams abruptly interrupted by panic. An inhuman roar erupted bouncing off the stone of the crater, deafening and guttural, like the earth itself was screaming.
"There's something coming for us!"
There were scattered cries of disbelief. They all remembered ghost stories told by firelight. But those were stories! Tall tales. There were rumors of these phantasms come to life in remote places, but not here. Not now. There was fear and confusion as some thought to seek shelter in the mine, only to be surprised by a terrified mass of people spewing out like they were spat up by its depths. Men and women tumbled together and then scrambled back on their feet to run in all directions.
Someone yelled "From inside the mine? How did no one see anything before now?"
One of the men still on the ground and closest to the opening of the mine screamed as he was crushed by large sheets of falling rock. The workers scrambled back mouths agape in shock at the sudden violence as a massive figure burst from the tunnel, its form jagged and shifting, like a living avalanche. Rocks and debris tumbled from its body as it lumbered forward, each step shaking the ground.
For a moment, the workers stood frozen, staring at the thing with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Then the man trapped beneath the rock whimpered, and the spell broke. They ran.
The monster didn’t chase them. It turned its head, its glowing eyes fixing on something in the distance. Illuminated faintly by distant lights. The house on the hill.
With slow, deliberate steps, it began its march upward, leaving the shattered mine and the scattered remnants of the workers behind.
