Chapter 21: Greatbone Mine

Chapter 21: Greatbone Mine

When the wagons creaked to a halt that evening and the wooden door at the back rattled with the efforts of someone to remove a heavy lock, Victor sat up, painfully, to get a good look outside. His efforts were largely wasted, though, as a man, broad in girth, stood in the doorway. He set down a basket of hard rolls and a bucket of water with a ladle and said, “If ya don’t share, I’ll beat the snot out of three of you at random.” Then he collected the disgusting bucket full of piss, shit, and vomit the prisoners had been sharing and slammed the door shut. Victor had started to open his mouth to voice a complaint about his stomach wound, but only a croak had escaped his throat.

“That’s no way to get yourself seen to,” the old man said to him with a wink. Victor snorted and waited his turn for a hard roll. When it came his way, it was truly hard. He couldn’t eat it until the water bucket made its way back to him, and he drank a few ladles. After he’d lubricated his mouth a bit, he was able to suck on the roll until he could scrape it off by fractions with his teeth. When he’d finished his meager dinner, he looked at Pel and cleared his throat.

“Hey, how long have we been out of the city? Out of Persi Gables?”

“Oh, that’s a funny one. We were auctioned off in Gelica. We’ve been in the wagon two days since.” This threw Victor for a loop. How long had he been out since that fucking monster destroyed his Core?

“How far is Gelica from Persi Gables?”

“Oh, hmm. Maybe a week with a mount. You really got put through the grinder, eh, Victor?”

“You’re damn right, my man. You’re damn right.”

“Hey! Hey, big Vodkin! Can you knock on the door? This guy has a badly infected wound - we should tell the wagonmaster,” Pel called out to the big, furry guy near the wagon’s door. The Vodkin studied him for a minute. His impassive black eyes blinked twice, then he nodded and thumped on the door three times. After a minute, the lock clattered around, and then the wagon’s door opened.

“This better be good, you mongrels!” The large shadow of the wagonmaster said; Victor couldn’t make out his features in the dim light.

“Sir! Pel, here! Um, this guy you’ve had passed out back here? He has a badly infected wound, but he’s awake. You might want to put something on it if you don't want him to croak before you get paid.”

“Bah, which one is he? Send him out here.” Victor could see his head dipping down so he could peer into the dim interior of the wagon.

“He’s chained, sir,” Pel supplied.

“I am not crawling in there. Come here, old man. I’ll give you the salve.” He motioned, and Pel eagerly scrambled to the door, bowing and scraping obsequiously when he got close to the wagonmaster. “Wait a minute.” The shadow departed for a moment, and Pel crouched in the doorway, then sand crunched under boots, and the wagonmaster was back. Pel came scurrying back into the wagon as the door slammed, and he squatted in front of Victor.

“You want me to put it on?”

“Uh, no. I’ll do it; thank you, Pel.” Victor took the little clay pot in the palm of his hand. He unscrewed the lid, catching a whiff of something pungent, then lifted the hem of his shirt to expose his swollen, bloody, pus-filled wound. He took a generous dab of the cream and rubbed it along one corner of his injury. He’d expected it to sting but hadn’t quite been ready for the lance of fire that shot through to his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling through his nose, then took another dab and continued to spread it along the cut. He dabbed some around the puckered holes where the thick thread used to stitch him up stood out from his flesh. If he had a knife, he’d cut those stitches out - they looked disgusting and seemed too loose to be doing any good. By the time he was done, his eyes were red and bloodshot, and sweat was pouring off his brow.

The little clay pot was still half full, so he capped it and stuck it between him and the wagon wall. His stomach had stopped stinging, and the throbbing ache had subsided a lot, so he had a good feeling that the ointment was doing what it needed to. “Better?” Pel asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“Yes, Pel. Thanks again for speaking up.” Victor took a deep breath, and for the first time since waking up, he didn’t feel like he was in excruciating pain. When he lay back and closed his eyes, though, he found he couldn’t sleep, and as the night wore on, he grew more and more uncomfortable, alternating between sweating and shivering. At one point, Pel came over to him and felt his head.

“You’re feverish, Victor. Can I ask you a personal question?” Victor, sort of delirious, just nodded his head, staring glassy-eyed at Pel. “Do you have a Core? Have you cultivated and gained levels? I’m not familiar with your race, but someone with Energy and a few levels should be resistant to sickness.” Victor could only laugh at the statement or try, but it came out more like a croaking cough.

After that, the night became a blur of strange memories, dreams, and sweat-soaked reality. Victor was vaguely aware of the passage of time, with the wagon moving again and the sun shining between the boards in the ceiling and then stopping again. He’d never be sure exactly how many days passed that way, but sometime after the third or thirtieth day, he snapped out of his fever and ravenously drank from the water bucket that had been left beside him. Pel noticed his movement and scurried over. “Victor! You live! I spread that ointment on you twice more! Your wound looks a lot better,” he said and held a finger to his lips, showing Victor a tiny sliver of sharp metal in his other hand, “I cut them nasty stitches out too.” Victor lifted his shirt, noticing that his stomach was sunken and his ribs were protruding, but that the wound was just an angry red, raised scar now.

“What should I say?”

“Have you always been so weak with Energy?”

“Most of my life, I didn’t know what Energy was.” Victor wasn’t sure why he was being deceptive, but something told him that the less this guy knew about his Core or his abilities, the better.

“What’s your name?”

“Victor.”

“Can you dig, Victor? Let me see your hands.”

“Sure. I’ve dug plenty of holes.” Victor held up his hands, and the man turned them over to see the calluses on his palms.

“These aren’t digging calluses, Victor. Are you scared of the dark?”

“No.”

“You’re an odd looking man, Victor. Where are you from?”

“Tucson.” Victor shrugged.

“Huh, never heard of it. Do you have people that are looking for you?”

“Uh, probably, but they don’t have a clue where I am.”

“Well, welcome to Greatbone Mine, Victor.” He turned to the wagonmaster. “I’ll take them all.” Turning back to the group of prisoners, he raised his voice and announced, “This is the greatest amber-ore excavation site on this continent. You’re going to see great things in this mine and be part of something even greater. You’ll have to earn your freedom here, but if you work hard, I’ll be fair to you. Now, get into the wagon.”

Victor clambered up into the mine wagon behind Pel and sat on one of the side benches so he could look into the massive excavation while the wagon slowly trundled along behind the giant lizard. The mine truly was incredible in its scope. He was admiring the size of the long, stepped slopes leading down to the bottom, imagining how many trucks could drive down it side by side, when he caught sight of the giant bones sticking out of the side of the excavated hill. “What are those bones from?”

“Nobody knows, new employee. Nobody knows. We’ve dug up a lot of very “great” bones here. That’s where the name comes from!” Victor could hear the smug laughter in the man's voice; clearly, he was his own biggest fan.

“Is it true that there are ancient ruins in the depths?” Pel asked.

“Oh, yes, old one. Yes, indeed. We’ve run across quite a few ancient structures in the vast depths. I doubt you’ll all get that deep. Well, depending on how you perform and where your talents are. We’ll see. Now, I’m going to smoke a pipe before we get down there in the dust and heat, so sit back and enjoy the ride.” He pulled a white pipe that looked like it had been carved from a piece of ivory out of “somewhere” and then proceeded to tamp in some sort of leafy substance and light it up.

Victor inhaled the sweet smoke that wafted his way and looked out over the wagon's side at the huge excavation and the massive black tunnel at the bottom. He might be here to do slave labor, but he couldn’t help feeling a little excitement at the mystery of finding ancient ruins in the depths. He imagined finding an ancient dwarven hall or something like out of a fantasy VR, and a little spark ignited in his heart. He smiled; maybe things weren’t completely hopeless. Then it hit him: that spark had been more than excitement. It had burned and was warming him physically. He could still feel it, and it wasn’t his heart; it was further down, more toward his center. His Core.