Burrow Miner's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The crack widened above Burrow's head. Fumes poured through it, thick and sour. His lamp lit a haze that stung his eyes. The molten vein glowed at his feet, gold and red, the treasure of his whole life. Up top, the frost driller screamed and died. The cold wind stopped. Heat rushed back into the shaft like a closing fist. Burrow gripped his pickaxe. He did not climb out. He swung again. "Burrow! It's dead! The rig's finished!" Caleb Cinderspark II's voice fell down the shaft, hard and flat. Boots scraped on rock. The young blacksmith climbed down into the smoke, one hand over his mouth. His winter armor was scorched at the shoulder. He had built the machine that saved Burrow's lungs. Now he stood in the ruin of their deal, coughing, furious. "You promised me half. There is no half if you die down here. Drop the pick." Burrow kept chipping loose ore. His chest burned. Each breath tasted like rotten eggs. "Almost," he rasped. "Almost mine." "It was ours." Caleb grabbed Burrow's arm. "The vents are slag. My father's rig, gone. I get nothing, and you'll get a grave." Burrow shoved him off and struck the vein once more. A chunk of molten ore broke free. He raked it into his pouch with the pick's edge. Then the ceiling groaned. A slab dropped where his head had been. Rock and heat filled the gap. The path out of the hollow cave back to civilization was closed. The two were stuck in here with rising fumes and temperatures and oxygen was lowering.