Chapter Six
Pachat swung his hammer, knocking away a chunk of the tunnel wall. Sparks flew. Sweat dripped from his brow and ran down his shirtless back in cold rivulets. That was the problem working underground. He worked hard, but the air stayed cool, so he ended up sweating and shivering at the same time.
Around him, the other miners chipped away with hammers, picks, and chisels, the flickering light of their torches the only source of illumination. Their light threw grotesque shadows that danced like ghosts around the chamber, no two alike.
They’d moved deep into an abandoned shaft earlier that morning, the slavers pushing them to find veins of silver or gold in already explored tunnels. This mine had been stripped bare, but the Pushtani Masters were not ready to give up. Not until they found another vein.
So desperate were they to find more silver, to milk more of the soft metal from the teats of the foothills, that they sent a slender Nishi’iti boy named Vishi into an unexplored tunnel barely wide enough for his eight-year-old frame to squeeze through. The Pushtanis were adamant that more silver existed in this mine, and that it was down the narrow tunnel.
So Vishi had wriggled his way into the shaft fifteen minutes before and hadn’t been heard from since. The only way they knew he was alive was that the rope tied around his waist kept moving.
“You, Pachat!” One of the slave masters cracked their whip at him. “Back to work, dog, before I strip the skin from your back!”
Pachat swung the hammer again, smashing the wall with all his might, sending sparks and chunks of stone into the air around him.
Then, as if Pachat’s blow had been that of Nishi himself, the ground shuddered under their feet. Debris fell, and a dust cloud rose, making miners and slavers alike mask their faces with shirts or scarves. The tunnel shook for several seconds, then stopped as suddenly as it had started, the roar replaced by the slow hiss of settling sand and men breathing.
Slavers and miners gaped at one another for a long moment, before breathing sighs of relief that they still lived.
Then Pachat remembered Vishi.
He rushed to the hole, grabbed the rope, and gave it three sharp tugs. Nothing happened, no response. The other miners gathered in a semicircle around him, again holding their breath, everyone no doubt praying in silence for the boy’s safety.
Pachat gave the rope three more tugs and waited again. After a pause, Vishi tugged back.
“Vishi, are you all right?” Pachat called down.
“I’m fine.” The boy’s voice was muffled, as if he spoke into a pillow. “The tunnel didn’t collapse, but my torch went out.”
“Lie flat and we’ll pull you back,” Pachat yelled.
Someone cuffed him on the back of the head and he spun to find Slave Master Cargil, a broad shouldered man with an even broader belly, standing behind him. Cargil ran a filthy hand under his flat nose, wiping away a trail of snot.
“The boy can press on. Tunnel’s still open.”
Pachat stooped his shoulders and avoided eye contact. Angering Cargil wouldn’t help Vishi.
“Due respect, Master, but if he can’t see, he won’t get very far. And the earthquake probably weakened the shaft. It could collapse.”
The slaver laughed, spitting in Pachat’s face when he did.
“So we lose a slave urchin. We have plenty to replace him with. Get back to work.”
Pachat nodded, fighting the urge to punch the man in his broad, stupid nose. Years of work in the mines had made Pachat chiseled and lean, stronger than he’d ever been. He could’ve killed the man with one swing of his hammer, driven it clean into his temple, and dropped him on the spot. But he knew the result of that, had seen it when others resisted before. The slavers would punish them all for the actions of one.
He turned back to the tunnel and yelled to Vishi.
“Be careful, but try to find the end of the tunnel with your hands.”
As they went back to work, dragging their hammers and picks and shovels behind them, the rope moved slowly again into the shaft.
Pachat lifted his hammer to swing when the ground shuddered again, a great sideways lurch that threw men to the ground and made even the slave master brace himself on the wall.
Vishi’s rope shot into the tiny shaft, and Pachat dove to catch it. It slipped for several inches through his hands, tearing off skin and making him wince until two other miners grabbed it as well. Then a great rumble sounded, and a cloud of dust exploded from the tiny hole.
The rope went slack, but Pachat kept pulling. A moment later, the frayed end fell from the tunnel.
Pachat raced to the opening. “Vishi! Can you hear me?”
Only the deafening silence of sifting sand came from below.
He called again and again got no answer.
For an instant, silence enveloped the cavern.
Then the slave master laughed, shattering the silence into a thousand pieces. The sound was so offensive, so inhuman and insensitive, that Pachat at first could not believe it.
Then rage swept through him, coursing through his body like boiling water, creating steam pressure that threatened to blow him apart.
He vaulted to his feet, snatched up his hammer off the floor, and charged the slaver. The fat man never saw him coming, never had a chance to ready himself. Pachat’s hammer slammed its heavy head into the man’s bulbous gut, doubling him over with a whoosh as the air rushed from his lungs. Then Pachat’s shoulder took him in the ribs and drove him back against the tunnel wall. Something cracked and the slave master cried out.
But Pachat did not stop. He swung the hammer again, this time at the slave master’s head. The man moved just in time, and the hammer crashed into the tunnel wall sending sparks flying. The slaver’s fist swept up and caught Pachat under his chin. His head rocked back, his teeth smashing together as he dropped his hammer.
Pachat returned the blow, delivering a sweeping right fist to the slave master’s already broken ribs. A weak, wheezing cry left the slave master’s lungs, and Pachat pulled back his fist to strike again, but the other slavers fell on him.
They grabbed his arms and dragged him onto the ground, where one man held him so the others could kick him in the ribs and head. He tried to curl himself in a ball, but the slave drivers held on, keeping his body exposed and his head accessible.
Blow after blow cracked his ribs, broke his nose, and made lights dance before his eyes. Then, the men stopped as quickly as they started. They held his ankles and wrists, stretching him out on the ground.
Pachat opened his eyes just as the slave master’s black leather boot smashed down on his face and darkness claimed him.