Kul’s pick ripped through the air, striking the rock with such fervor that sparks curled to life. The timeworn slab finally began to crack. He wrested the pick’s head free and with a single arc he swung again. His aim was impeccable and could only have been earned through years of repetition. With a clangorous jounce the stone split into two even halves. The slabs would be smoothed and transported across the desert but those were tasks for others.
The disparate beads of sweat on Kul’s head coalesced into a single tiny flow. He wiped his ragged hand across his face to dry his skin. The work didn’t bother him. He was born for labor. The gods had gifted him with the strength of a mule and though he was by no means a stupid man, his predilection for swinging a tool was far greater than his ability to swing a sword. The cormary sought him out at the age of thirteen - they were always keen to add another warrior to their ranks - but it rapidly became apparent that he did not possess a mind worthy of battle. And so they had put a hammer in his hand and stood him at an anvil.
Sometimes he missed that life, especially when the whip cracked. The scars on his back revealed nothing about him; it told only of the cruelty of others. Kul’s story was written in the creases on his face and calluses on his palms. When the Tandari swept through his village he did not pick up a sword but instead ran for the river. The air had been thick with smoke from the burning huts. There was a young boy separated from his mother. Kul scooped the child up and absconded to the shore where they hid amongst the reeds. They might have remained unnoticed but the child’s cries alerted the Tandari. They slaughtered the boy there on the bank and immured Kul. He could still remember the child’s blood dissipating into the running water.
That felt like another life and he remembered it almost as if it happened to someone else. This was his life now, breaking stones for the Tandari. The conditions were harsh and the rations were meager but it was work and Kul was born for labor. He heard whispers of what they were building. It was to be a vast stone Urdakai, a symbol of power at the heart of the Tandari empire. He also heard whispers of an uprising but Kul did not want to fight against the oppressors. He wanted to swing his rusty axe until the day his body wouldn’t allow it.
The sun sank below the horizon but the heat of the day would linger for a few hours more. Kul set his pick against the rock wall and leaned over the stone he had just split. With a grunt he hefted the slab up over his shoulder. The short walk to the cart was the closest thing he would have to rest until the day was done. The foreman nodded to him as he placed the block next to the others. Kul was satisfied.
Quarry was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
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