Chapter 2
(Abene)
The bones jolted in Abene’s arms every time the pickaxe slammed against the hard rock; iron riven into it like veins. Hatteras was an unforgiving pit with dense air and dust in every breath that she took. Her palms were blistered, knuckles bloodied, and wrists chaffed from the chains the Elves mined endlessly, pulling up iron from the godsforsaken hole. Not only did they have iron shackles seeping the life from their bones, the iron dust took it from their lungs. As a chunk of ore came loose, Abene stopped to cough in her arm, blood splattered into her elbow. That wasn’t unusual. Many died from the Ironsickness here, even the rare human was a slave. She was the last slave from her village who picked the short stick into getting sent here. It has been four years and even she had been starting to wonder how she was still alive. Lately, she couldn’t even eat food without throwing up, so now Abene just let someone else have it. No point in wasting it.
When she woke up, Abene knew today was the day she was going to die. She could feel it within herself just as easily as she felt the cold of the iron around her wrists. But the young woman decided that she would not die sleeping, giving up. Today, at the end of her shift, she would finally fight back, even knowing that she would lose. As she continued her relentless mining, Abene thought about the little boy who had been her friend. She wondered how he was doing, if he was still alive, and doing better than she was. Abene certainly hoped he was, there wasn’t much worse than these mines. She thought about his curly, brown hair and his honey-brown eyes, the innocent smile on his face that was marred by brutality and subjugation. Abene screamed as she slammed the pickaxe ever harder into the stone, it sparked, a rift formed in the rock. She could take this pain, this weakness, and everything it entailed ten times over if it had meant that she could have spared him this. But she couldn’t. He was stubborn and sharp-tongued, and maybe he dreamed too much, but he was her responsibility, and she failed.
Abene roared her voice hoarse as she rammed the pickaxe against the stone, another lump of ore fell. Sweat ran down her face and back, but all she felt was warmth in the chill mine. The wood in the pickaxe groaned, but soon she heard the bell at the front of the mine rung clearly down the tunnels. A hundred pickaxes slowed until all Abene heard was the ringing bell. She closed her eyes and sighed; the time had come. She gathered the ore into a sack and hauled it over her shoulder. Chains clanged and echoed in the deep tunnels and pickaxes scraped against the ground, people were too tired to lift them. All except for Abene. She felt the anger, the sadness, the loss, and the heartbreak as a tempest inside her heart. Today is the day I die, but I will not waste it.
The slaves walked for some time; the tunnels ran deep chasing the iron into the earth. But soon it wasn’t so dark, and the dim torchlight was not the only source of illumination. The day shone through the large gates that was the way in and out of Hatteras. Two guards stood there lazily inspecting the miners, they didn’t expect dissension. Why would they? Hope was shattered amongst them. The last High Lord had fallen, it is said. The manacles made them weaker and the iron dust ever more so. Slaves did not last long in the mine. Except, for Abene. As they walked out the gates and into the large yard, the Sun shone in the dusk, giving its last tendrils of warmth and might before it disappeared. As the slaves went to drop off their quarry for the day, she stopped, weakness passing over her. Abene felt her time was running short, that at last she would succumb to the Ironsickness. I will not die this way, I will die fighting, I must. A guard came over to poke her with the butt of his spear, but as he was lifting it, she sprung up in fury and ran her pickaxe through his chest. The heavy iron head shattered his sternum and killed him instantly. Blood ran quickly from his body, as the guard fell to the ground.
Abene’s arms jolted in the impact, and weakness ran over her again, but she would not stop. This was to be the end of her days. Commotion rang across the courtyard in shock. In those precious moments, she slammed her pickaxe into another guard’s head, just a few feet away from his fallen compatriot. The Elf let the pickaxe remain in his head, as she grabbed his spear, and stood her ground as soldiers began to flood into the yard. Alarm bells pealed into the growing night. Orange and red filled the sky and the wind picked up as if sensing what was happening. Blood filled her nose, but she couldn’t let it distract her, Abene couldn’t think about killing people who had families and lives, no she could not. Some of the slaves went into action and used their own pickaxes as weapons. But more and more soldiers filled the courtyard and surrounded them, killing slaves as they went, no matter if they had participated or not.
Abene stabbed the nearest guard in the leg and whipped the spear against his head knocking him to the ground. Commands among the leadership roared to the soldiers. “Kill her! End the scum’s life!” The men moved methodically around her in a practiced stance, encircling her, giving the woman no escape. She spoke in the language of her people, “The Light of the Hearths shine upon me!” Abene roared as a spear stabbed her in the leg, precious blood poured out. Pain lanced up her side. She turned around kneeling and thrust her spear in a guard’s neck, blood rushed out in a gush and sprayed against her face. Weakness so strong pulled Abene to the ground, the sickness overwhelming her. She spit blood onto the ground, as her eyes grew dark. She breathed heavily and shut her eyes. She was ready and she could hear the shuffling of feet, the yell of the commanders, and the crying of the slaves, the gasps of the dying. And once more, she thought of boy from her childhood. His name had been Eli.
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Fury filled her again, but she could not get up. The circle of spearmen was almost to her, just aching to stab her with a dozen spears. Abene’s mind raced and adrenaline pulsed through her. The peace she thought she would have did not come. Instead, her anger and sadness expounded on each other. Abene realized she was crying and shouting. And suddenly, everything went dark.
She heard the lilting sounds of Leshyn, the language of the Elves, in her ears, “Abene, daughter of Aldrin, what have you done?” Confusion filled her mind, Aldrin was not my father’s name, it was... I can’t remember. She opened her eyes and looked around, time had frozen and a grey veil seemed to have been cast over everything. In front of Abene, in a dress of white and gold, with bronze skin and eyes of white, hair as if milk, stood a woman. Her voice filled the air, as if it came from it.
Abene answered the woman, almost forgetting she had asked something, “I didn’t want to die having given up.”
The woman looked at her curiously, “But the end of your days has not yet to have passed. You have some time still, why waste it?”
Abene responded to her once more, “Any later and I would have been too weak to fight back.”
The woman in white knelt and sat on her legs, putting her hand to Abene’s head, her thumb to the Elf’s brow. “Abene, daughter of the Healer, you have a purpose yet to follow.” A warmth ran through the young woman and the pain and hurt fled. The chains at her wrists fell, tough scars showing that they had been there. She gasped and tears fell down her face.
“I cannot go back to that, to them. I cannot be chained again.” Abene sobbed as the memories ran through her mind.
The woman spoke, her voice surrounding the Abene like a shield, “You are free Abene, daughter of the Hearths, but only as long as you follow the path set before you. And with you, I grant you a gift.” The woman pulled from her chest a kernel, an ember, with a flame as if from the Sun. She put it to Abene’s chest, and a fire roared within her. She roared with it.
A blinding light flashed, and time unfroze, the guards exactly where they had been before. The woman in white nowhere to be seen. Abene stood with ease and the soldiers had shock on their faces, they faltered. She held my hands up and the shackles fell to the ground in molten iron. Abene bellowed into the fading light of the Sun, “You cannot have me! You cannot have my freedom.” She raised her hands farther and the earth rumbled, the air seethed, pulling into her. Everything was taut as a string and the wind whined. Suddenly, a wave of fire went forth from all directions around Abene in a great golden flame. The guards flew across the courtyard tumbling like leaves in the wind. She grabbed her spear from the ground, golden fire spun around it. Soldiers, commanders, Overseers, all the oppressors fled, ran over each other, cursing, and called out for their god Marwoelaeth.
“Chayim, on me!” Abene shouted over the commotion, command in her voice. The slaves looked in shock as their chains turned to dust in their hands. They picked up spears and swords, remembering the time when they fought with honor and dignity. “Let’s bring down this Hell!” The Elves shouted in loud voices, hundreds became a thousand, as they flooded into the yard.
Disbelief shone on everyone’s faces, chainmasters and slaves alike. Abene’s spear roared in flame and she thrusted it into the air, a banner for her people to rally behind. They picked up fallen spears, armed themselves with pickaxes, anything they could find that could be a weapon.
She knew that she had to work quickly. The guards and Overseers would shut themselves into buildings and towers, calling for aid with the flight of a dozen falcons. Following Abene, the slaves ran to the heavy wooden gates, they were reinforced with wrought, black iron. She could feel the magic within her was fleeting. Abene gathered every piece of her soul, all her fury and she brought it into herself. The world pulled together as she summoned the fiery magic that had been invested into her heart. The flame seethed as she threw it at the gates. A shockwave boomed across the twilight and a great wind pushed all of them to the ground. Light flashed in her eyes and stars buzzed across her vision. Breath left Abene’s lungs, and the heat was thick. Suddenly, it was over, the slaves got up to their feet, only pausing for a second to survey what had happened. The wooden gates had shattered, the iron was but pieces on the ground, hinges were black marks on stone.
Her spear was no longer on fire, but surprisingly undamaged. At the front, Abene led a thousand Elves away from the center of pain and misery it had been for years.