The Crystal Eye Read online

  The Crystal Eye

  The Crystal Eye

  The Crystalline Chronicles, Volume 1

  Blake R. Wolfe

  Published by Blake R. Wolfe, 2022.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

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  Also By Blake R. Wolfe

  About the Author

  To those that read this book, welcome to the world of Udalara. Keep your eyes on the heavens and your blade close at hand. The path is rife with danger.

  One

  There was a sharp crack in the air and a searing pain across the back of his legs. He gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out. That always earned anyone another lash. A guard stood nearby with a cruel smile on his face.

  “Pick up the pace!” he snapped, spitting on the dirty man covered in salt and grime in front of him. He watched for any sign that the man was going to wipe it away, but when he didn’t, the guard clicked his tongue and walked off in search of another victim.

  Ignoring the saliva seeping into his ratty clothes, he turned back to the wall, swinging the pickaxe to break the salt away from the stone. Dusk was what the foreman had named him as if he were a harbinger of impending darkness. Too many beatings across too many years had taken his original name away, not that he had any use for it anyway. The solid sandstone walls of the mines and the clang of metal against stone were his only companions and they had no use for names. They simply stared back in the darkness, glinting in the lamplight, constantly and silently observing as faces came and went through the years.

  Unlike many of the other enslaved men, Dusk enjoyed his time in the mines. There, he wasn’t under constant surveillance from the guards. The roughly forged shackles that he had to sleep in each night were removed from his wrists and ankles so he could work. He’d only ever tried to escape once long ago, at dusk, which won him shackles for life whenever he was outside of the caverns. He was only a boy when he’d tried, still hopeful there was freedom just beyond the edge of the woods. He’d fled at nightfall, earning the name Dusk when he was dragged back bloody and beaten. There was only one way in or out of the mines now, guarded heavily by men too eager to quench their blades in the blood of those considered less than human. Sometimes Dusk wondered if he should try again, even though he’d never make it out alive. But maybe that was the point. There was no possibility of freedom once you were captured. You either died working or died escaping. That was simply the way of it. Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t shorten the sentence and get it over with.

  Dusk shook the dark thoughts away as he heard his name called in the dark.

  “Dusk!” the gruff voice of Foreman Maxon called out. The sound echoed through the tunnels, making the other men bristle with fear. Maxon was always ruthless when it came to punishments. Just the sound of his voice made Dusk’s back ache and his skin prickle.

  “Dusk! There you are. I thought maybe you tried to run off again, but I guess it’s too early in the day for that,” he said, laughing at his own joke, smacking a meaty hand on Dusk’s shoulder. He always feigned a friendly familiarity with all the slaves. “I’ve got a job for you to do.”

  “Yes sir,” Dusk replied weakly, keeping his eyes turned downward. Maxon didn’t like the slaves looking him in the eye. He said it was disrespectful to the natural order of things and those that didn’t learn went to the post.

  “We’ve got a new volunteer and I need you to show him the ropes. Make sure he knows what to do. And if there is any mischief,” he hissed as he slipped a grimy hand around Dusk’s shoulders, “I’ll know who to blame.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I knew you’d understand, Dusk. You’re always so cooperative.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That reminds me, it’s your birthday soon isn’t it?”

  The foreman always referred to the day someone was purchased as their ‘birthday’. It was a small remark, but he never missed an opportunity to belittle them and highlight their station in life, reminding them how much their lives weren’t their own.

  “It’s been ten years, hasn’t it? You’re not going to be with us much longer then.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That’s a shame. You’re a good worker, but rules are rules. Make sure you train the new kid well, he’s your replacement. We can’t have a decrease in productivity.”

  “Yes sir.”

  With one more heavy pat on the shoulder, Maxon turned his back and lumbered up the mineshaft towards the sliver of light in the distance. Dusk, still holding the pickaxe in both of his hands, felt the sudden urge to give it a swing to crush the skull of the man who so stupidly put his back to him. But his hands didn’t move. They didn’t even shake with anger. Instead, he turned back to the wall, knowing he wouldn’t have much more time with the mine, his silent friend who had kept him company during all the waking hours of the day.

  As he began to swing the pickaxe again, Dusk found himself once more lost in his thoughts. The dull clang of the metal against the stone created a hypnotizing rhythm. He couldn’t believe it had been ten years. At first, it had seemed as if each day were a month. But slowly, as time went on, they began to meld together. His life turned into one long never ending night. Before dawn he was in the mines, searching for the red salt the nobles sold all over Ditania and beyond. By the time he stepped out after the day's work, it was dark again. And so, with nothing but sleep to pass the marking of the days, they began to run together. He only realized a year had passed when he was called into Maxon’s quarters to receive his mark. It was a crudely tattooed line on his forearm, one line for each year in service. Each tick brought him closer to leaving the mines. Soon he’d be receiving mark number ten, the last one anyone got before getting sold.

  Slaves were always sold off after ten years. It was a common practice to discourage camaraderie and mutiny. Either way, he didn’t know where he was going to end up, but he wasn’t sure if he cared. The long years in the tunnels and the constant beatings had taken away most of the spirit within him. Here and there he had flashes of it, like his sudden urge to kill Maxon, but they were always fleeting, like a candle flame in a stiff breeze. Long ago he had accepted his fate and even now, staring into the unknown of being sold into another life, he couldn’t find the will to do anything more than keep swinging his pickaxe. That was all he knew how to do, and all he had the willpower to do.

  Approaching footsteps caused him to take pause once more and turn expecting to see Maxon had returned. Instead, standing in the darkness that his eyes had become accustomed to, was a young boy no more than fifteen. He was gangly with locks of curling hair framing his face, although in the dark Dusk wasn’t sure what color it was. He knew immediately that the boy was fresh off the streets from his demeanor and the way he placed both his hands on his hips as he stared. There was an air of cockiness radiating from him and a glint in his eye that could only mean mischief. It seemed he was already sporting a black eye and a small cut on his forehead. It was easy to see the fire of life burning inside him, something that hadn’t been snuffed out by years of servitude. Yet.

  The boy stood there, waiting for Dusk to speak. When it became obvious that Dusk wasn’t going to speak first, he gave a loud sigh. Crossing his arms over his chest, the boy shifted his weight to one leg, grinding the leather sole of the opposite foot against the loose gravel.

  “So who are you?” the boy heaved as if it took more effort than he could possibly muster.

  “Dusk,” he replied quietly, not really wanting to speak at all. “That's what they call me here.”

  “What's your real name? It can't be that.”

  “It–it doesn't matter. They won't let you keep it anyway. What are they calling you?”

  The boy sighed again, shaking his head as he uncrossed his arms and held his hands up. Even in the dim light Dusk could see he was missing the ring finger on his right hand. It wasn't freshly severed, but it looked recent enough, maybe within the past year.

  “That buffoon that sent me in here is calling me Nine.”

  “Don't say things like tha—”

  “You're probably wondering how I got this,” the boy continued, ignoring his warning. “I got caught stealing scraps of food from a vendor in Malkekna. The stall keeper thought himself a real saint when he only took my finger instead of my whole hand. He said I still had time to learn the difference between right and wrong.”

  Dusk was silent, listening to the boy grow cockier as the story went on. It was a dangerous attitude in a place like the mines. There were ears around every corner, listening for any sign of malcontent. Although the majority of the slaves weren’t quick to bring harm to the others for their conversations, there
were a few who thought some well-placed information could lead to their freedom, however misguided they might be.

  “Well, I showed him. Two weeks later I stole a whole crate of food from him and he didn't even notice until he had nothing to sell for the day. Asshole.”

  “You won’t try anything like that here, will you?”

  “I'm a pro now, they wouldn't even know I did it,” he scoffed, throwing himself up against the wall.

  “You'd be dead before you knew you'd been caught. Or worse.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” he scoffed again, turning his head to stare at the sliver of light marking the tunnel exit. “I'm not gonna be here long anyway. It’ll be easy to slip out of here.”

  Dusk's heart sank at the words. The thought of being beaten because of this child’s lack of sense caused his blood to boil. Usually, it lasted only a moment, but he found himself stepping forward, grabbing Nine by the scruff of his shirt and slamming him up against the wall. He was already breathing heavily as he stared into the boy's eyes, terror and fury plain on his face.

  “What the hell—“

  “My neck is on the line for you too, so don't go doing anything stupid. They'd kill you before you got to the treeline. But if they did catch you alive, you'll wish you were dead. Then when I get a hold of you, you'll wish it again. Understood?”

  “Get off me—“

  “Understood?”

  “Yeah, yeah, let go.”

  Dusk released the shirt, stepping back from Nine who was rubbing his back where the stone wall had scraped against him. Dusk reached down and retrieved his pickaxe from the ground where he'd dropped it. He pulled it backward, ready to swing when he heard Nine's voice once more, but this time with a darker intonation.

  “What... what do they do to you?”

  The pickaxe came down loosely, the head dropping to the floor next to Dusk. He shivered as the memory coursed through his psyche. Images and phantom pains felt as real as the night he'd gotten them. The night he'd been caught trying to escape into the woods. He couldn't have been much older than Nine, maybe younger, he wasn't sure anymore. All he remembered was that he'd been caught at the treeline, further than most made it, and it had taken days for him to be able to even move again. After that, it was weeks before the scabs on his back stopped splitting open every time he swung his pickaxe. Even now he had trouble with his knee that had been broken with a hammer by Maxon. It had never healed right. He absentmindedly rubbed his wrist, feeling the raw skin that never fully healed. The nightly shackles were a constant reminder of his transgression.

  “Just—just don't try it. Don't speak of it. Don't even think of it. Even thoughts can lead you to the whipping post.”

  The boy looked terrified enough, maybe that would keep him in line. But Dusk knew that the first time he witnessed a beating, it would be enough to convince him fully. The foreman made a regular habit of making the other slaves watch when there was a lesson being taught. And then, usually about once a year, they killed someone outright after a long session of torture and flaying skin from bone. Maxon didn't want anyone thinking he had gone soft. A single worker was a small price to pay for such a lasting lesson.

  “Do what you're told and keep your head down. You don't want to draw attention to yourself. Go get a pickaxe and I'll show you how to use it.”

  For the next few hours, they worked in silence except for the few minor directions from Dusk. He tried to show Nine how to hold the ax correctly and avoid hurting himself. He showed him how to move the mined salt to the carts to be pulled up towards the entrance. The boy was obstinate, but soon it became obvious that hard labor was not something he was well practiced in. By the end of the day, his hands were covered in raw blisters and he could barely stand up straight.

  Long after the tiny spot of sunlight at the entrance had gone dark, a hollow tin bell was rung, signaling the end of the workday. Sweaty, sore, and exhausted, they exited through the mouth of the tunnel along with a stream of other tired men. Kept under strict surveillance by the guards, they were led to a large, dimly lit tent where their meager evening meal was served. Each night they were given an hour to eat and socialize before heading to bed. With bowls in hand and a hunk of stale bread each, Nine dug in greedily once they sat down, shoving a heaping spoonful in his mouth like a starved dog. Grimacing, he immediately spit it back out into the bowl and made a retching noise.

  “Oh, gods! How can you eat this?” he spat, turning to Dusk. “Garbage in the streets tastes better than this.”

  “Shut up you idiot!” Dusk hissed as one of the guards turned to eye the boy. For the first time, Dusk noticed the boy had red hair. No wonder he had gotten caught. He stuck out too easily. It never paid to be different whether you could help it or not. “If you talk like that you'll get beaten! Same if you refuse to eat.”

  “Oh it's not all that bad, once you get used to it of course,” a tall, gaunt man said as he sat down next to Nine. “Sometimes there's even a little meat in it if they feel like giving us a treat.”

  Nine eyed the man suspiciously and looked to Dusk. “Who's the skeleton?”

  “They call me Ox,” the man replied, holding out a bony hand. “I'm a cart puller.”

  “So everyone has some weird, made-up name?”

  “The name you're given is the name you have,” Ox said matter of factly, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Ox here was born into service,” Dusk explained, gesturing to the older man busy eating his bowl of gruel. “He wasn't from the outside like you and me.”

  “That's terrible,” Nine replied, obviously surprised. “They don't even let kids out of here?”

  “Workers are workers.”

  Nine continued to stare down into his bowl in disgust, swirling it around with the wooden spoon in his hand.

  “Maybe I can help,” Ox said as he reached into one of his pockets. He pulled out a small pinch of blood-red salt, looked to make sure the guards weren’t watching and tossed it into Nine’s bowl. “There, stir that in and see if it helps.”

  Nine stirred the gruel quickly to dissolve the salt. He took a small bite.

  “That’s... that’s not too bad,” he grinned.

  “It’s not much, but it helps,” Ox replied. “Welcome to the Ronja mines.”

  After the meal, they were herded to their sleeping quarters. The floors were lined with ratty blankets that looked like a single breath would shred them to pieces. Nine watched on as one of the guards led Dusk to the corner where two sets of shackles were bolted to the floor. Without a word, Dusk laid down and the guard locked his wrists and ankles, giving each a violent tug before he grunted and stalked off. The lights were doused and the windowless building was locked, trapping all the slaves inside for the night.

  In the dark, Nine lay next to Dusk. Turning over on the hard, wooden floor he whispered, “Why did they chain you up?”

  “I tried to escape once, long ago. Since that day, this is how I have to sleep,” he whispered back. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it. Now go to sleep. There's lots of work to be done tomorrow.”

  Two

  The days passed by easily for Dusk but were painful for Nine. Dusk had begun to feel sorry for the boy and asked other slaves in passing to scrounge up a few rare scraps of cloth. He used them to wrap Nine’s hands that had gone raw from breaking stone day after day. No matter their pains, they were awoken each morning and led to the mines before the sun rose. There was always work to be done.

  On the fourth morning, Dusk was called into Maxon's quarters after he had been unshackled. Maxon made him stand and wait for him to finish his own breakfast, knowing full well that Dusk was missing his. Dusk kept his eyes pointed at the ground as he stood and waited, listening to the sound of tearing meat and the sloppy slurping of stew. As Maxon took his last bite and sat back in his chair, patting his belly, he finally turned his attention to Dusk.

  “Tomorrow marks the end of your tenth year with us,” he said matter of factly. “You'll get your last mark and we'll be sending you to the city to be sold.”

  Dusk felt his heart drop a little. Even though the work was exhausting and Maxon was a force to be reckoned with, the mine was all he knew. Every day was the same and he knew what to expect. In the next couple of days, he'd be tied up with others like cattle and walked all the way to the nearest city to be sold. Whoever he was sold to could do whatever they wanted with him. He could be let loose and hunted for sport, sold to a brothel to be used, or worse. Nothing was certain.