Chapter 121: The Value of Blood
At dawn, the mountain fortress became a hive of activity. Following Kellar’s orders, Mark and his men began coordinating timber cutting on the nearby slopes, dragging thick oak trunks to craft the support frames. At the same time, Krag gathered the group of freed captives in the yard to organize cleanup squads and begin clearing the mine’s entrance.
However, the lack of explanation and the bitter memory of the old regime triggered disaster within minutes. For the former slaves, seeing themselves dispatched back toward the ill-fated "Stone Tomb" could only mean one thing: their freedom had been a lie.
The clash of shields and shouts of anger echoed at the fortress’s northern entrance. A group of nearly forty former captives, armed with wooden stakes and quarry stones, had made a stand before the mine shaf refusing to take a single step inside.
Krag kept the hunters in line with crossbows raised, the veins in his neck bulging with rage.
"Silence, you ungrateful dogs!" roared Krag, stepping forward with his mallet raised high. "The Great Shaman gave you shelter and food! You will obey orders, or I will beat you to a pulp!"
"You said we were free!" shouted one of the oldest miners, displaying arms covered in scars from past cave-ins. "You deceived us! You know perfectly well that entering that place means dying crushed or suffocated! We are no one’s slaves to be handed over to the poison air!"
"We would rather flee into the mountains than return to that tomb!" chorused the crowd, tightening their grips on the stakes in desperation.
Krag clenched his teeth, ready to order a charge to quell the riot with force. However, before the first strike was thrown, a firm hand rested on his shoulder.
"Lower your weapon, Krag," said Kellar, stepping forward and placing himself unprotected between the loaded crossbows and the enraged mob.
Kellar advanced through the hunters, gesturing with his arm for them to lower their weapons. The Shaman’s mere presence caused the shouts to cease, though distrust and fear still burned in the men’s eyes.
"You are right," said Kellar, his voice calm yet infused with an absolute authority that echoed throughout the compound.
Krag looked at his leader in astonishment, while the crowd of miners held their breath, bewildered by the response.
"You are right to be afraid," said Kellar, walking with a steady stride toward the old miner who had led the protest. "The Black Skull Tribe used this place as a slaughterhouse because their leaders were ignorant and cowardly. They built their iron upon the corpses of men like you because they knew nothing about the mountain."
Kellar turned toward Vael and Lennis, gesturing toward the heavy oak beams and wooden structures the craftsmen were assembling in the yard.
"I do not need slaves, nor do I need sacrifices to gain the earth’s metal," said Kellar, pointing to the freshly cut frames. "Those oak pillars that Mark and his men are cutting are meant to hold up the ceiling and prevent the rock from crumbling over your heads. And that wooden machine Lennis is building will force fresh air inside to disperse the poison air."
The crowd began lowering their stones and stakes, exchanging looks of growing shock.
"No one in the Overlord Tribe will work themselves to death," said Kellar, taking a step directly toward the tunnel’s mouth and grabbing a lit torch. "And as proof that I am not sending you into a tomb, I myself will enter first with the first crew to oversee the installation of the supports. Let’s go."
Absolute silence gripped the northern entrance. The old miner who had led the protest dropped his wooden stake onto the snowy ground, swallowing hard with deep emotion.
"The Great Shaman enters with us..." said the old miner, bowing his head with eyes on the verge of tears. "No leader in the history of these mountains would have ever done such a thing for people like us."
"If the Shaman walks at the front, I will follow him into the very bowels of the earth!" shouted another of the young workers, raising his pickaxe.
Cheers and shouts erupted among the miners, erasing any trace of revolt as they followed Kellar into the shadows of the tunnel, ready to turn the former Stone Tomb into the greatest forge the north had ever seen.
Kellar crossed the stone threshold leading the group, holding the torch high to illuminate the tunnel’s shadows. Behind his steps, Krag, Vael, and the first crew of miners entered carrying the heavy, freshly cut oak beams and boxes of iron tools.
Barely a few meters in, the mountain’s groan echoed above their heads. Vael halted for a second, instinctively flinching from the fear accumulated after years of tragedies.
"Easy," said Kellar, pausing before one of the ceiling’s most dangerous fissures. "The weight of the rock distributes evenly if we place the right structure. Vael, place the first frame right here."
Under the shaman’s direct supervision, the miners positioned the two vertical posts against the stone walls and fitted the top crossbeam under pressure. With heavy wooden mallets, they drove the wedges in until the oak structure stood solid as a rock, bearing the vault’s weight.
"It fit perfectly!" said one of the younger miners, running his hand over the solid timber. "The ceiling didn’t even vibrate."
Shortly after, several of Lennis’s men entered the tunnel dragging thick leather pipes connected to the crank-operated fan installed on the surface. The moment they engaged the mechanism from outside, a steady stream of fresh, clean air began rushing from the pipe’s mouth displacing the dense stench of sulfur and stagnant dampness.
The old miner took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold outside air without feeling the usual dizziness caused by the invisible poison.
"Unbelievable..." said the old miner, staring at Kellar with eyes wide with emotion. "The air is pure. One can actually breathe in here."
"I told you," said Kellar, brushing his fingers against the reddish ore vein. "The mountain is not a tomb; it is our greatest source of wealth. Clear the debris and reinforce the next fifty meters of the gallery. Today we prove that the Overlord Tribe does not work with blood, but with intelligence."
"Get to work!" said Vael, raising his pickaxe with a resolve he had never felt before. "Let the iron flow for the Great Shaman!"
The strike of pickaxes and the steady rhythm of labor echoed through the entire gallery, not as the groans of dying slaves, but as the birth of the mountain’s new industrial engine.