Page 60 of The Sun He Buried

I drag the loose timber out behind me. Stone presses into my spine. My knuckles are already split from the wall; they open again on the rescue line and stay open.

“Dróttin?” a man calls through the dark.

“Save your air.”

He obeys. Excellent. Terror has improved him.

The new fall fills the crawl from floor to roof. A hand could fit through the gaps. Mine doesn’t need to.

I pull the first stone free. The next shifts into its place. I take that one too.

The roof drops against my shoulder.

Pain cracks down my ribs. They break one after another beneath the weight and stay broken. I brace on both knees and shove until the timber runner slides under the load.

Behind it, three people breathe too fast.

“Kick the loose rock toward me,” I say.

They do. Small pieces first. Then one large enough to take skin from my wrist.

Heat returns.

Gods.

Her thighs tighten. Baldr’s hand moves over her again, sure now. He knows what she needs.

The stone in my hands breaks in half.

“Dróttin?”

“Keep digging.”

The gap opens enough for a face. A woman, grey with dust. Blood runs from her nose to her mouth.

“How many breathing?”

“Three.”

“Ozur?”

Her eyes drop.

I tear the opening wider.

The first man has a crushed hand. The woman can crawl. The third lies with his thigh pinned beneath the snapped prop. Ozur is beyond him, half-covered by the roof he held up for the others.

Pleasure gathers low in Solveih. I get every tightening breath without a sound.

I put both hands beneath the rock on the pinned man’s leg.

“When it lifts, pull him.”

The woman grips his harness. The other man takes his shoulders.

I lift.

The slab peels skin from both palms. My right wrist breaks under it. I hold the weight anyway until they drag the miner clear, then let the stone drop.