They say work is work, no matter what you're swinging at.
But this... this was different.
Back when I first came to the mine, we'd hack at the rock all day, shoulders burning, backs screaming, and still only fill a single cart by sundown. Now? You barely get started before the cart's full and someone's yelling for the next one.
The new pickaxe feels odd in the hand, bit heavier at the head, smooth on the grip. The foreman said it's walnut and goatskin, whatever that means. All I know is, it don't chew up my palms like the old ones. And when the foreman says "go," the handle hums, just a bit, like there's a bee trapped inside. That's the rune, they say. Magic, in my hands.
"Don't hit the same spot twice, you'll break the tip," warns Garrick next to me.
I tell him I've been breaking rocks since before he had whiskers. But still, I ease up. Can't afford to ruin something the young lord made special.
Never seen the lad much before all this. But now he's everywhere. In the mine, in the smithy, even down by the carts. He's got this way of looking at things, like he's already built 'em in his head and we're just catching up. And when he talks, that little voice in my brain says, Don't laugh, he's serious.
The gear system's the strangest part. Big teeth of metal turning slow and steady, the whole frame creaking like an old mill. Used to be, we'd haul the rock up in sacks. Now we just load the cart, hook it to the rails, and the horses barely break a sweat pulling it out. I swear even the air's cleaner without all that dust getting kicked up from the climb.
At midday, Garrick and I take our break. We sit on a flat stone, each holding bread stuffed with chicken and some strange mush the cook calls 'sauce.' Says the young lord made it up and calls the whole thing a 'sandwich.' Don't know what the words mean, but it's better than dry bread. We eat while watching the new mixer being set up by the road site. The young lord's there again, sleeves rolled, barking orders like he's twice his size. The barrel spins slow, thick gray muck sloshing inside. Some say it's for a road… stone ground to powder, mixed with sand and water.
"What's wrong with the roads we got?" Garrick mutters.
I shrug. "Ask me ten years ago, I'd have said nothing. Ask me last winter, when the wagon axle snapped in the mud? Different answer."
We sit quiet for a bit, chewing. Then Garrick leans in like he's about to share a crime.
"Since the famine, you notice there's food everywhere now?"
"Yeah," I say. "Prices are down, too."
"That's 'cause of him." Garrick jerks his chin toward the young lord. "Word is, he's the one who brought in all them chickens. Eggs, meat, and their dung fixing the fields. Even gave the farmers special tools like he did us. Folks say the plenty's all thanks to his 'odd' inventions."
I snort. "What's next, he gonna make beer flow from the well?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," Garrick says, dead serious. "Reckon he's saving that trick for the right day."
They pour the mix into a frame, smooth it with long boards. Steam rises where the sun hits it, like the ground's letting out a sigh. The young lord steps back, arms crossed, just staring. Can't say I blame him. Looks solid enough to carry an army.
A couple of the lads wander closer. "This gonna be everywhere?" one asks.
"That's what they're saying," I tell him. "From here to the city. Maybe more."
Truth is, it's hard not to feel something watching it. Pride, maybe. Or just the thought that one day, my boots won't be caked in half the county's mud.
When the horn sounds, we head back to the mine. The picks hum again, the carts roll easy, and the gear keeps turning. It's all work, same as always. But now, there's this feeling in the air, like the ground under our feet's about to change, and we're the ones making it happen.
And for the first time in years, I don't mind the dust.