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  PICKAXE

  JAIME CASTLE

  PICKAXE

  ©2017 JAIME CASTLE

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC.

  Print and eBook formatting, cartography, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu.

  All characters in this book are ficticious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Pantego/The Buried Goddess Saga characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books.

  All rights reserved.

  Contact us at www.jaimecastle.com

  Contact us at www.jaimecastle.com

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  More books in the series:

  Web of Eyes

  Winds of War (coming March 2018)

  Queen of Glass (coming April 2018)

  PICKAXE

  LEGENDS OF PANTEGO

  METAL CLANKING AGAINST COLD, hard stone was the one sound Brike Sledgeborne could never forget. Months spent deep in the heart of the Dragon’s Tail Mountains would do that to anyone. At least he was well-shielded from the bitter Brotlebir winter. Dwarves usually didn’t mind the biting cold, but this was the worst winter he could remember.

  Brike took his time, each swing of his pickaxe methodical and ponderous. His grunts were followed by high-pitched pings, over and over again, and he wasn’t alone. The sound was multiplied by dozens of his dwarven brethren, all working together to carve the intricate tunnel system for their new home.

  Sweat poured from his red and brown speckled brow, streaming down his face and settling in his long, coarse beard. The pickaxe was beginning to show its age, deckled edges dulling by the day. The grip was worn and old as well, but its splintering wood was no threat to hands calloused by decades of war and digging.

  Hair clung to his forehead. He blew out of the corner of his mouth, hoping to send the wild strands away from his eyes. All he did was stir up rock dust. Brike snorted as the fragments of the mountain entered through his nostrils, tickling at the long hairs in his nose. He was used to it; the whole of the tunnel was filled with clouds of dust, swirling from the warm breath of dwarves singing in rhythm.

  It amazed Brike how many collective years had been spent carving these tunnels. Decades more would pass before the throne room was complete, and then what? Would they live there peaceably until the next king took his place upon the throne, desiring to carve out his own legacy in some far away world?

  Brike shook the thought away. He would live a long time, but not likely long enough to see the reign of yet another king. Unlike King Andur Cragrock, Brike and the others spent their days amidst dangerous work, each day threatening to come to a crushing halt by the caving in of the very walls they would eventually call home. His day would come, it was only a matter of when.

  He tapped the end of his pickaxe to the silvery stone, folded his hands upon its hilt, and lowered his forehead against his hands. All he could think of was sleep and the day had scarcely begun. His thick muscles burned with soreness.

  For more than a year all Brike had seen was rock. The tight confines of the tunnel system threaded through the mountain like serpents slithering through grass. Others dug behind him, carving additional routes and rooms within the rock walls, but all he knew was that wall before him, always looking the same no matter how far he dug.

  The stone.

  The dust.

  He lifted his pickaxe over his head, then let the weight of it drop to the stone below. Another pebble and a fraction of a centimeter at the expense of every ounce of energy he had. The pickaxe rose and fell, rose and fell. Brike heaved back and slammed the tip, but the normal ping didn’t come. The sharp end hit, same as any other time, but it was met with no sound at all. He pulled the pick axe away and a small, dark orb fell silently to the ground.

  He bent down and picked it up. It was unlike anything he’d seen in the long decades underground. The surface was smooth as glass and dark as a night without torchlight. Deep within, a smudge swirled about like the clouds above the mountain.

  “Brike!” The voice startled him, but he knew it well. Jhaevin Orchunter was the commander of the dig and the whole of the dwarven army. Brike couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t served under the dwarf. An old arrow-wound left him using a cane. The click-clack of his approach, ever-present to make the anticipation of a scolding even worse.

  Terror flooded Brike. Instinctually, he shoved the orb into his pocket and glanced back over his shoulder. The Dragon’s Tail was filled with hidden riches and they all belonged to his king and kingdom. It wasn’t the first time he’d come across an intriguing treasure, but never before had he taken one as his own.

  “What’s wrong sir?” he said, voice trembling.

  “Didn’t you hear me earlier?” Jhaevin grumbled, as if it anybody missing a word he said was an impossible notion. “You look tired as one of them flower-picking humans in battle. Have a break.”

  Brike’s heart slowed its pace but the taste of fear on his tongue—that irony, metallic taste—lingered even as he turned to face the dwarf.

  “Yes, sir,” Brike said. He knew better than to offer any excuse or retort for his lackadaisical mining. He simply placed the pickaxe down and walked away.

  He kept his head low as he passed by Jhaevin and didn’t lift it again until he’d cleared his assigned tunnel. The problem with being so deep into the warren of rock was there weren’t many places to go in which to seek privacy. Where the clank of metal on stone didn’t echo through the tunnels, the voices of workers did.

  Brike came to a forking intersection. He fumbled with the orb in his pocket as he pondered where to go. He considered Heroes Hall, which wasn’t far down the left path, but instead chose the path to the right, which led to a newly dug entrance opening out to one of the many icy mountains making up the Dragon’s Tail.

  He’d never felt so weary, but as he looked upon the work of his people, he realized he’d had every right to be exhausted. He hadn’t yet seen the immaculate tunnel he now traversed, every bit of its surface adorned with intricately etched markings. A vein of gold ran down its center—the Mountain was full of gold and it was being mined elsewhere, but never such a perfect, glittering line. All that digging, his people sometimes had to stop to admire natural beauty.

  It stopped just short of a pair of massive doors. Looming before him was oak that easily tripled Brike’s height. The wood had been hauled hundreds of kilometers by the hands of his people. The dwarves were called many things by southerners, but lazy was never one of them. The crossbeams were fortified steel, forged at the Iron Pit by the finest smiths in the realm.

  He took a step toward it when someone called out to him from a small room to his right.

  “Aye, Brike!” Genreel Spinebreaker exclaimed. He sat by a barrel with a few others, a pint of ale in his hand and the rest dribbling down his long, red beard.

  Brike stopped and embraced him. Genreel was his olde
st friend in the world. They’d served side by side in the king’s army back in the war against the Cha’Veil orcs—the very conflict which ravaged their former home and forced them to dig a new one within the Dragon’s Tail, and subsequently earned Commander Jhaevin Orchunter his namesake. Ever since he watched his old home crushed by orcs—his own parents, pierced by orcish pikes—all he ever thought about was digging their new, safer one.

  “Drink with us brother,” Genreel said. “You look exhausted.”

  Brike eyed the fresh pint his friend presented to him. Watching the foam slosh over the edge was as tempting as a Porthaven brothel. He couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed a drink in the company of friends. As his hand extended to take the pint, he felt the pull of the orb in his pocket. He couldn’t explain why, but he had to see it in the light.

  “I was going to head outside for some fresh air,” he said, reeling his hand back.

  “Fresh air?” Genreel laughed. “Careful, you’re starting to sound human. Only air fit for a dwarf is deep underground.” The others sitting with him raised their pints and cheered.

  “Says a dwarf stationed at the back of the dig like a wench with no beard. Down there, all we breath is dust.”

  “Wench say ye?” Genreel pulled him into an armlock. Brike wrestled him while standing, taking care that the orb didn’t touch his friend. He snaked free and twisted his way around behind Genreel, arm around his neck.

  “One day you’ll get me,” Brike said then he let go.

  “Bah!” Genreel stumbled forward, hiccuped, then grabbed his pint. “I let you win, like always.”

  Brike grinned. “I forgot: How many Orcs did ye kill at the Battle of Four Wind Hall?”

  “It ain't the number, old friend. I fight with style.” He embellished the motion of raising the pint to his lips. Half of it missed his mouth, dripping through the long strands of his yellow beard.

  “Just like how ye drink. I’ll see ye later, brother.”

  “Enjoy your fresh air, flower picker.”

  Brike rolled his eyes and continued down the hall. Some dwarves found solace in working hard to preserve the kingdom after the war, others, like Genreel, did everything they could to forget it. Brike knew that behind every laugh from his friend’s mouth was a dwarf trying to forget the horrors of the things he’d seen and done. It was warriors like him, more than any other, who desperately needed a new home to make new memories in.

  He stopped before the doors—a veritable portal to the brisk Brotlebir air. He drew a deep breath to prep for the cold. He was grateful when the well-made pulley system responded with barely a touch. He was exhausted and felt he hadn’t much energy to spare.

  A deep rumble filled the tunnel as the doors began their slow, wide swing. A blast of freezing air forced its way through the crack, whipping across his face. Such cold would have usually rendered his nose and ears numb, but in that moment, he found it refreshing.

  Brike’s eyes adjusted to the harsh Pantego sun after days in the dark. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as the doors finally stopped moving. He grunted it away before it took hold completely. Unlike most of his brethren, he very much enjoyed being out in the open air.

  He sucked in a mouthful of air and let it out slowly as he took a few steps down the slope. The fullness of the elements hit him, a heavy wind and warm sun. He was well-dressed for the climate and Dwarves had naturally thick skin to combat the cold. He closed his eyes and listened to the still quiet and the gentle whistle of the wind as it whipped across the tundra far below.

  When he felt himself sinking into the snow-covered ground, he trudged toward an outcrop of rock and plopped down. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the orb. Now that he was in the light of day, he could see something he hadn’t before. Carved into it, in intricate detail, was the likeness of a dragon. He could have sworn the thing moved but he knew his eyes were still adjusting to the outdoors.

  Laying back, the cold stone pressing firmly against his back, he examined the stone further. It was beautiful. More beautiful even than the precious gold weaving its way throughout the dwarve’s new home.

  Brike sat up and stretched his stubby limbs as he yawned. When his eyes opened, he found himself squinting against the bright day at a strange speck of darkness zipping through the sky. The speed at which it moved told him it was no rain cloud and it was far too large to be a bird of any kind. He stood and used the flat of his hand to shade his eyes, hoping for a clearer view. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t done so.

  “Dragon…” he whispered. His eyes went wide.

  “Dragon!” he cried at the top of his lungs. He turned too quick, his worn boots slipping on the smooth, icy rock. “Dragon!” he yelled again as he scrambled to his feet. He arrived back at the gates so fast he wasn’t sure how he got there.

  The chain slipped through his suddenly sweaty palms. He wiped his hands on his thick, matted fur coat and tried again. This time he found a strong hold, but the chain wouldn’t budge. He looked over his shoulder. He could see the tremendous, flying beast drawing closer. Turning back to the chain, he fumbled again.

  Brike edged toward the room where his fellow diggers were drinking, but no one was there. He swore.

  “Dwarf,” a deep voice spoke, the word lingering in the air as if from the mouth of a snake.

  Brike turned slowly, hands quaking, only to find that there was nothing behind him. He searched the sky and still saw nothing.

  He released a nervous chuckle. “Get a hold of yourself, Brike,” he said out loud. “Too much time breathing dust. He took a deep breath, then grasped the chain again to close the gates. A sudden flash of light and a sound like thunder sent him stumbling. He tripped over his feet and landed hard on his back side. Bile rose in his throat as he saw the terrifying beast towering before him.

  It was the color of the fires in the Iron Pit, its scales a deep scarlet with gilded flecks. Horns curled from the crest of its head, wrapping beneath its chin, just below a mouth that housed dozens of teeth as long and sharp as a dwarven broadswords. As it rose up, its wings stretched out, translucent against the fog of black smoke that enveloped it as if a part of it’s very being.

  Dragons were as rare as fresh water in Shesaitju, but Brike had never seen or read about any that looked like this one.

  “Why have you summoned me?” The creature spoke with a guttural basso, deep and rumbling. It made Brike’s bones chatter.

  “Su…su…summoned?” Brike stuttered. He pushed himself backward like a crab, intent upon getting as far from the beast as he could manage.

  “Yes!” the creature bellowed. Brike felt as if the icy finger of winter stroked his spine. “For millennia I have slept. Now I am summoned by a puny dwarf.”

  Puny dwarf? There wasn’t a man in Pantego who had called Brike that and lived to talk about it. His blood began to boil but as he gazed into the fiery eyes of the creature, all his courage turned to ash in his mouth.

  “What do ye want from me?” he eked through trembling lips, clamoring to his feet.

  “No,” said the creature, “the question is: what do you want from me?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You called me forth from the Soul of this mountain to make a deal!” It took a step forward, flaring its nostrils, forcing out billows of smoke. “

  Brike’s brow furrowed, his confusion outweighed only by his terror. Every part of him knew he should run, but his feet felt as if they’d grown into the rock of the mountain.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I s…still don’t understand.”

  The beast threw its head back and roared, then leaned in toward Brike. The heat from its breath coalesced with the frigid breeze blowing in from the Brotlebir Tundra. A drop of molten lava dripped from the creature’s slightly open maw, sizzling as it hit the snow and stone below. It ate through the rock as if it was nothing more the ice touched by a newly forged blade.

  “For ages I. have slumbered within Balonhearth—this
mountain. It is by honor, not desire I am bound to the Soulbearer. You have one request, make it one worth the price.”

  Brike scratched his chin. “Ye some kind of… Djinn?

  “I am a Dreadfire, you fool! I am of both here and Elsewhere in the place of demons and spirits. Treader of worlds. Master of life and shadow.

  Brike felt his knees go weak. “Ye are a D…d….demon?”

  “Make your request of me before I reconsider.”

  “You can give me anything?”

  “I am Polcrym!” the demon bellowed. “Anything your puny mortal heart desires is within my power.”

  “What is the price?”

  This time it was the dreadfire’s turn to furrow its brow—if one could call it that. “They don’t usually ask this question.”

  “Every deal has a price?” Brike said, gaining a bit of confidence. “I’m a dwarf. Gold is my specialty.”

  The dreadfire lowered his long neck and spread his ashy wings. The creature’s face was mere centimeters away and Brike’s newfound confidence waned.

  “I have no use for gold. All I ask for in return is entrance.”

  “Entrance?”

  “Entrance,” it repeated.

  It stood tall once again, casting a long shadow over Brike, who suddenly wished he’d kept his rear end firmly planted on the cold stone. He could feel his knees knocking together with fear. Various bits of metal on his clothing clanged harmoniously with one another as he shook.

  “That’s all?” he asked. “Why would ye want to go in?”

  “Balonhearth is my home. She and I are one. I must enter before we can be reunited.”

  “Then why would ye need me? Surely I can’t stop ye.”

  The creature cocked its head slightly. “Balonhearth has new masters now—they who call themselves Clan Cragrock have carved their home within her heart and I must do what it takes to gain entrance. Only one of you may allow me to reunite with her.”