He led me around the corner. As we walked, our conversation was punctuated by the sounds of crumbling stone. “Have you mined before?” Before I could say a word, he added, “Don’t answer that. With that hammer of yours, you couldn’t even chip off a flake.”

I let out a small laugh while shaking my head. “As I told the Quartermaster, it isn’t for mining.”

“Ha! How am I not surprised that she took the opportunity to rib you. At least I know you ain’t the type to overcompensate to impress all the ladies.” He raised the pickaxe, sized for his frame, off his shoulder. It would have fit me fine, though an Ættar would have found it comically small. “Better to let my skill speak for itself.” He jutted his hips forward, and I suppressed a groan. Just how old was he? However, snickering, he continued, “though, you might want to at least try a bit because size does matter. Trust me. I should know.”

I couldn’t hold my groan back any longer. “What? Are you going to tell me that you might be short, but it is the width that matters?”

He cocked his head. “Heard that one, have you?”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his disappointment. He was worse than the jocks I avoided in high school. Maybe I had pissed off the Quartermaster if she had stuck me with him. “I had hoped never to hear it again…” I stopped short after the turn. “Are they all that big?”

“No. I am special among the Oresiani.” He laughed as I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. He clapped my back. “Don’t worry. You will grow to love me, but I assume you mean the Ættir?”

The small cavern was filled with Ættir.Some were sitting drinking from a water pouch. Others were chipping away at a wall with pickaxes. However, they were all huge.

I kept an eye on them as we walked. It was easier to hear him than I had expected. Even in the enclosed space, there were no pings of metal on stone—just a thump and quiet rumble of stone falling to the ground.

He pointed to one at least a head taller than I. “He is on the smaller side here, but in reality, he is about average Ættar.” He must have seen my surprise because he added, “They aren’t the norm. You are seeing a select population. These guys are the elite of their tribes—warriors in a warband. They have all fought and bled for the honor.”

“Does that earn them some special respect?”

“It is like you have never met an Ættar before.”He paused again waiting for a response I didn’t provide. “And yes, it does. Don’t impugn their honor.It means everything to Ættir, but especially to those chosen for battle. They are fearsome stock. Though,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “they have a weakness just like all their brethren.” He paused, eyes flitting between the groups of Ættir, making sure none were watching us. He let the moment stretch as if to honor the gravity of the secret he would soon tell. “Their humor. They have none.” He threw up his free arm in mock frustration.

My face just scrunched in confusion as I processed the ridiculousness of his statement. He just laughed at my reaction. I shook my head, but I couldn’t help but smile. He noticed, a warmth remaining in his face as his laughter ended.

“It really is terrible. I have tried so hard.” He sighed in mock resignation. “It’s not something I think I can fix. But...your lack of gear I can.”

He waved me forward, and we continued along a different wall until we approached a small tunnel tucked into the back corner of this room. On one side, the stone in the cavern wall flowed into the entrance. On the other, a smooth, straight line cut into the stone. It went back a few feet, enlarging the passage such that an Ættar could walk, maybe even run, through it without ducking.

I took one last look at the mining crew before we entered another tunnel with the same smooth walls as the last one. They carried simple hand tools that should be incapable of accomplishing tasks involving precision cutting. Yet somehow, they did.

Another question popped into my mind. “I see only Ættir. Where are the others?”

He snorted. “Like that would happen. You won’t find any Volki or Oresiani here,” except apparently him. “No, there is a reason you are here. They all owe a life debt just like you. I had thought they had no chance of paying it off—y’know not being [Miners] and all—but they could put some of the lesser Oresian mining companies to shame.”

He pointed to an Ættar with his hammer raised on the other side of the cavern. The Ættar grunted, and then his tunic—no something under that—glowed red. The color faded as quickly as it had appeared only to flow down his arms to his hands. At the end of the swing, the pickaxe glowed red. It struck the wall with a dull thud.

I froze at the result.The dust quickly settled, leaving a small crater where the pick had impacted the wall and a small pile of rubble at the Ættir feet.

Dorian just gave me a friendly clap on the shoulder like it was the most normal thing. And, to him it probably was. “See what I mean.Here is your first tip, one I didn’t appreciate until I saw it with my own eyes: don’t underestimate how effective skills like [Sunder] and [Piercing Strike] can be on stone when one has the right tool.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

We entered the tunnel, walking its short length until reaching a smaller room. He stepped out of the way to let me in. “Now, let’s get you geared up.” He gestured to a rack lined with pickaxes. His eyes twinkled as he continued, “take your pick, and yup, pun intended.”

Puns…

I let out a soft groan, and he just chuckled.

Yes. I must have pissed off the Quartermaster. Though, I would be lying to myself if I said I didn’t enjoy it. Sure, my sense of humor ran darker—hard not to have a penchant for gallows humor in my profession, but at the same, in a world so alien and cold, this, a friendly back and forth, I knew.

I took in the assortment of gear I stood before. While other tools besides pickaxes lined the shelves and racks, they were the most numerous. I ran my fingers on the pick. Cold, dark. Nothing like what I would expect steel to look. Iron?

“What should I be looking for?”

“You? Nothing more than if you can lift it. Those are all about the right size for you.”

I hefted one by its wooden handle and almost proceeded to drop it. Way too heavy, and definitely not steel. I moved past a few others, testing each one.

I stopped in front of one that differed from the rest. The material making up the head of the pickaxe had a tinge of brown, more ebony than dark black. The two bands of iron wrapped around the middle of halves of the head only accentuated the difference between the two materials. I lifted it up. It took some effort, but at least I could manage it. It had to weigh no more than half of the others. I ran my finger along the banded material. Smooth and not cold to the touch. It didn’t make sense, and to confirm my suspicion, I tilted it so a face caught the light. Squinting, I inspected the edge and found faint, wavy lines.

“Is that wood?”

“Yep, and you’re lucky one of its kind is available, though it is most likely wasted on you. Good eye though. Probably the best pickaxe left of the bunch.”

Best one? How? The tips weren’t even shod with metal. The wood would shatter or crack with any significant hit.

“What? You don’t believe me? You picked out that pickaxe, but somehow you also have bought into the garbage Human [Miners] likely to tell each other?” He picked up the pickaxe and pointed to the joint between the handle and blade. “The junction at the eye is damaged. Probably only get thirty percent efficiency.” He pointed a thumb back at the other pickaxes. “It is still better than those dead weights even if we weren’t in the Wilds.” Now it was his turn to roll his eyes in incredulity at my skepticism. “You still don’t believe me? Well, I can prove it to you pretty easily.”

He grabbed an iron pickaxe with the ease that I would my reflex hammer. With a pickaxe in each hand, he headed to a wall.He put down the iron-clad pickaxe, lifting the solid iron one. He gave it a practice swing.

“This reminds me of the days before my Awakening.” He hefted the pickaxe and put the point against the wall, signaling the target of his strike. “I am only going to drop half my strength into the strike, otherwise I am not sure if it will survive the blow.”

Before I could process the ludicrousness of his statement, the pickaxe blurred. I only knew the strike had occurred by the shower of rocks from the wall and loud clang that reverberated throughout the small cavern as the shards pinged of the metal tools and stone walls.

Dorian, unperturbed, dusted off his forearms. “Damn. Might have overdone it a bit.” He twirled the pickaxe to take a better look at it. The once sharp point was now flattened. “Well, nothing that a [Metalsmith] can’t fix.”

He picked up the other pickaxe and waved me back. He tapped the pick on a section of the wall. “Now,” he didn’t bother looking back, “same level of empowerment without any additional skills. Also, you might want to stand back.”

I hustled back a few steps and waited. I didn’t dare blink, at least not until a blur streaked with crimson unleashed plume of a dust that billowed outward to encompass the entire room. I coughed as I sucked it in.

“Sorry.” Dorian’s voice came from behind a wall of dust. ”I suppressed all the skills to prove a point. Let me reinstate [Suppress Dust].”

Instantly all the motes fell from the air like rain. I gasped as much at that feat as what the falling dust uncovered. He had blown a damn crater in the wall.

It shouldn’t have been possible. I rushed over to touch it. I had to confirm it with more than my eyes. I ran my fingers along the concave surface that extended inward by feet. The second crater dwarfed the size of the one made by the iron pickaxe. Everything was the same except the pickaxe…and the red arc that accompanied the strike. .

Dorian walked up to me. “Yeah, overdid it a bit. Should have done the whole thing at 25%. Don’t worry about the wall. It will hold. Might make it easier to expand this place if we needed it. So, does this convince you?” He lifted the pickaxe before my eyes. “And take a look at the point. It even withstood the strike better.”

The tip was pristine. No cracks. No chips.It didn’t show any signs of wear.

Dorian pointed to the floor below the two impact sites. “Do you notice?”

I hadn’t, but now that he showed me, the second crater had only a small layer of rubble on the ground.

“You pulverized all that stone to dust?”

“Yep. You get all that power without having to constantly repair your tools. Plus, it is so much quieter.”

I hadn’t even noticed, but he was right. Despite the power of the strike, there had only been a thud. “If the wood is better, why does it even have the metal on it?

“Production cost and durability, primarily. The head was made with multiple pieces of wood. It diminishes the efficiency, but it is much cheaper. The iron bands keep them together better than any glue, which will help with efficiency. They also protect the head from splintering with a mistimed strike. Plus, the weight is useful for certain skills.” He picked up the damaged pickaxe. “Now let’s get you one that will work.”

Eyeing the iron-clad pickaxe he was still holding, “Not that one?”

“Ha! I said it would be wasted on you, and I wasn’t kidding. There is no way you have control of your Energy yet.”

Condescension was becoming a fast friend, one I wanted to get rid of. Clearly, I was missing something fundamental. I needed more information. I feigned anger. “How do you know?”

He laughed again and tapped his head. “Not like you are trying to hide your Mark. I’ve been in enough fights as a teen to know what early level Marks look like. Your class must favor the Mind, and you can’t be over level 5. It would be rare for you to learn to manipulate Energy.

“But I could.”

“Sure, but the true giveaway is your hands. They are as plain as the day you were born. You don’t have any channels there.” He perused the rack until he found me another pickaxe. “You might want to consider getting some gloves. You have the look of someone…sheltered, and the Ættir don’t take kindly to that. That is without you being Human.”

He held out the new axe by the end of the handle. Despite the weight, the head didn’t quiver a bit, and he showed no sign of strain. Just how strong was he?

I grabbed under the head and pulled. It didn’t move an inch. I cocked my head, waiting for an explanation.

“A human below level 5 here in this camp with a life debt. I am sure there is a story there.” We stared at each other, seconds ticking away until he finally let go. “That is fair. I would be guarded too. However, I think you will find a friend in me, and,” a huge grin broke out over his face, “I can offer drinks when you are ready.”

I prepared to heft the pickaxe onto my shoulder when a strange sound echoed from the cavern’s entrance. Was that shouting…or perhaps chanting?

Dorian must've heard it too. "Those jerks." He grabbed the iron-clad pickaxe and rushed towards the tunnel.