I’ll tell ye, there’s a rhythm to the pickaxe that gets in your bones after a while—a dull, steady thud of steel meeting stone, over and over, till your arms hum like bowstrings. Down in the tunnels near Minoc, where the air’s thick with dust and the torchlight dances crooked on the walls, I swung that pick near a hundred and thirty times today. My hands are raw, blistered just behind the knuckles, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Each strike sent a jolt up my spine, and when the iron finally broke free—dull gray chunks scattered in the dirt—I felt it like a small victory. Ninety pounds of ore in my pack before I even thought about the forge.
But it was at the mine’s smelter where things turned sour. I’d hauled twelve stacks of ore, fed them into the flames, and on the seventh batch—just as the coals blazed orange and hungry—the tongs snapped. Cold iron met red-hot ore, and the crack was sharp as a whip. I cursed loud enough for the bats to stir in the ceiling. Had to finish the job with a warped pair I found in the slag pile, gripping them like a man holding his last coin. Every ingot I pulled free from the fire felt heavier than the last, and by the time I’d smelt twenty loads, my shoulders were screaming.
I walked into Minoc with nearly fifty ingots clinking in my pack, the weight pulling me low like old age. Dropped most in the bank near the Warriors Guild, then tried to buy fresh tools from Onida at the Miners Guild. But she wouldn’t even let me in—no “buy” option, the lass just turned her back like I was plague-ridden. Felt like a kick in the gut after all that sweat.
Still, tonight I’ll sit by the fire in my forge near the blacksmith’s row, hammer cold in my lap, and I’ll think on it. Maybe tomorrow I take the long walk to Trinsic. Or maybe I just need better tongs. A man can’t shape iron if he can’t hold it.
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