Swords, Sorcery, and Sex in the World of Greyhawk - Chapter 3 - Part 3

Chapter 3: Transformations - Part 3

It wasn't until the second long-cycle that he noticed the change. As usual, he'd followed Taman out to the face and set to work, letting his mind go blank and his stress drain away with his sweat. When he'd come to, he realized that Taman was there beside him, looking at the lode he'd uncovered. Steve started in surprise; it was bigger than anything he'd seen so far at the dig. Taman mutely showed him how to pry it out without breakage.

Steve lay awake that rest-cycle, trying to reconstruct how it had happened. He couldn't remember why he'd dug there, it just...felt like a good spot. The next day he tried to duplicate the feeling, without success. Only after their mid-cycle snack, when he gave up and let his mind go blank again, did he notice that the wall face seemed to be in sharper focus now; he could see smaller details, and he suddenly realized that he knew what they implied, like the way curves in the rock suggested stresses from ore trapped inside. There might as well have been flashing arrows pointing out cutting angles. He hammered obediently, discovering hidden ore exactly where his subconscious had predicted. Now he understood Taman's isolation; he wanted it to be just him and the rock face - exactly how it should be.

Steve's demeanor changed. He spoke less and worked more, going early to the face while the others chatted after breaking their fast, and staying until Maria called angrily that he wouldn't get any dinner if he didn't "get his ass over here." The others short work hours aggravated him - he didn't like laziness. Steve's production increased steadily, until even Casmir and Wenzel had to admit they were impressed. His new attitude made the others wonder, though, what was going on in his head.

At the end of every work cycle, the men would rack their picks in a pyramid near the camp. One rest cycle, Steve brought pick with him to dinner, holding it in one hand while he lined up for mushroom dumplings.

"Stefan. Pick goes with the others. You know that, lad." Casmir admonished him.

Steve looked puzzled for a moment, like he'd heard a non sequitur. He looked at Casmir, then looked down at his pick, then back up at Casmir without saying a word. Part of his brain was telling him to rack the tool, but somehow that didn't seem...important...any more. This pick wasn't like the others - it fit. The balance matched his short stature, and the narrow blade made precision blows easy. This was his pick. The others could see his knuckles whiten as he gripped it harder, staring at Casmir.

Looking at him, Erica suddenly realized how much he'd changed since they washed up on the underground beach. His muscles had always been well-defined, but now they were inhumanly so. If he had a hammer and sickle he could have passed for a piece of Stalinist sculpture, a figure of sharp angles cut from a block of obsidian. Impossibly, she thought his nose had grown too, hanging over a luxurious wave of black hair that flowed down his neck.

"Um." Casmir was taken aback by the intensity of Steve's glare. "That's an old handle. Might break any cycle, I reckon. I suppose if that's what you want-"

"Yes. It is." Steve interrupted.

"Alright then. We'll...make an exception." He said finally.

"Good." Steve turned to get his food, still holding the pick.

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The next day, Casmir waited until Steve had moved down the face to where he had been working at cycle-end last, and pulled Peter aside.

"This friend of yours, Stefan. He is...human, isn't he?" He asked tentatively.

"Human?" Peter didn't know how to respond.

"I mean...is he a half-blood?"

"Ah...no. Why?" Peter said, knowing that Erica didn't want him to talk about where they'd come from, but unsure what to say.

"It's nothing, probably." He paused. "That pick-head, see, I won it from a Dwurfolk. Down on his luck, spending his last coins on drink and gambling. Once his coin was gone he anted that up. Shaft was broken, but you could tell the head was Dwarf work."

"Hm, I see." Peter said, not seeing at all. Steve wasn't the only one to cause problems, though.

After a week of listening to Casmir and the other diggers sing, Erica had the simple melody of their chant memorized. Bored with the daily repetition, she idly added a soprano harmony to their song. She had a clear, sweet, voice, and the other students looked at her in surprise. The diggers stole glances in her direction too, but their faces looked worried. Unaware of their concern, Erica kept on singing. When the prayer was done, she waited with a smile.

"Elika!" Casmir stood, fists clenched, and took a step towards her; his face flushed. She dropped back, fear replacing the smile. "What do ye think ye were doing?!"

"I...I only..." She didn't know how to respond.

"Did that sound like a women's service? Huh?! Or maybe you have one of these you haven't told us about?" Casmir yanked down his trousers and pulled out his cock. "No? Then what were you doing?" He yelled.

Erica's shoulders shrunk and her lower lip trembled. Pulling his trousers up Casmir glared at her. Maria looked at his package appraisingly, ignoring the temper tantrum - after all, it wasn't her fault.

"This is prayer, not a tavern sing-a-long. You can sing at prayer with the women in One-eye Cove, but not here, understand?"

Erica nodded, unable to speak.

Casmir stomped back to the cooking stone, grunting as he thrust his plate out to Maria, who ladled up his dumplings without a word. Wenzel and the others followed him, careful not to look at Erica. When they were done the men headed out to the face, too afraid of Casmir to say anything.

Dinner that night began in the same awkward silence. Erica was still bitter at being yelled at for trying to help, and without her small talk, conversation faltered. Seemingly oblivious to the tension, Cheven fed the silence a steady diet of dirty jokes without drawing more than a few dry chuckles from Taman. Eventually, even he gave up.

After he ate, Wenzel moved away from the camp circle, sitting with his back against the cave wall. In a low, slow voice that carried the darkness of a life underground, he began to sing.

"Just behind this wall the gold, it is a' laying,

Only waiting `till we seek it from its bed.

One by one, the other diggers joined the mournful song.

I left behind a hungry baby and a wife

to dig it out with shovel and pick

And above the ground, the rich man stands praying

While each miner's wife bows down her weary head."

"Go on then, let's have another." Ademic called.

Still resentful that Casmir had gotten angry at her, Erica was determined to sing. This wasn't prayer time, and if he didn't like women singing, well, screw him, she thought. Before Wenzel could start again, she opened her mouth and sang the first piece that came to mind, the theme from Cats that her voice coach had assigned her the previous year.

Midnight. not a sound from the pavement.

Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.

"Ye have a nice voice, girl. Just so long as ye know when to use it." Casmir said grudgingly when she was done.

No shit, Sherlock, and if you'd get that sexist pole out of your ass you'd enjoy it more, Erica thought. She was a politician's daughter, though, and she knew better than to let the anger show on her face.

"Enough of that sappy stuff." Cheven interrupted, raising his raspy voice in song.

There once was a girl named Screw Ma'lue

She went out west to find her fricken best

When she fucked, she fucked for keeps

Laid her victims up in heaps

But in this town named Bad-Ass Crete

There lived a half-assed bastard named Piss-Pot Pete

With snot in his beard and shit on his feet

He had twenty-six pounds of swinging meat

Well Screw Ma'lue had met her fate

Turning back was much to late

Until this date today

Her drawers hang in the town's cafe

"Oh yeah?" Erica's spirits were reviving. Performing for other people always gave her a thrill. The knowledge that they were all looking at her, all watching her do something they couldn't do - she loved that. She knew how to hold Cheven's attention and countered with a parody that her choir director would not have approved of.

My Grandfather's cock was too long for his jock,

So it dragged half a yard on the floor,

It was longer by far than the old grandpapa,

And it weighed near a hundredweight more.

He's a horn on the morn of the day he was born,

It was always his pleasure and pride,

But it dropped shrank, never to rise again,

When the old man died.

"Wooh!" Cheven said exuberantly, just like she expected. The others cheered, the tension from that morning's fight dissolving in laughter.

"Um." Mickey cleared her throat, and everyone looked at her in surprise. The normally shy girl didn't seem like someone who would have something to add here. Blushing, she recited:

Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard

to get her poor dog a bone

but when she bent over

Rover took over

and gave a bone of her own!

"Ahem." Casmir cleared his throat as Mickey blushed even deeper.

"How about this?" Erica said archly, ignoring Casmir and refusing to let Mickey overshadow her.

There once was a woman from Arden

Who was seen sucking a man in the garden

Her mother said, "Flo, Where does it all go??"

And she said, "Gulp, Beg your pardon?"

Another round of applause followed, and Erica basked in the approval. It felt good to be the life of the party again. She always was back home, and until now she hadn't realized just how much she missed that feeling.

"So what'cha got, girl?" Cheven said, looking at Mickey, who reddened anew. Her embarrassment didn't stop her, though, from offering another of the limericks that her father loved to recite after a few cups of whiskey.

They continued in that vein, but Casmir sat silently, watching them with an annoyed expression. After one of Cheven's stories about a whore named Backdoor Sally, that left nothing to the imagination, he stood up and frowned.

"We've work to do tomorrow. That's enough talk tonight." He said, bidding them goodnight.

As Wenzel and Peter lay in their own lean-to, a thought occurred to Peter. That didn't happen as often lately, he'd vaguely noticed.

"Wenzel, are you married? Do you have a wife and a hungry baby yourself?" He asked.

Wenzel stared straight ahead in the dark for a time, then answered in a voice that a parent might use to a small child. "Yes, lad. I was. And yes, I did." He said simply.

Once he understood what Wenzel had said, Peter blushed, and apologized quietly.

Wenzel didn't respond, but before Peter drifted off to sleep, he heard Wenzel singing in a sad voice.

Come and listen you fellows, so young and so fine,

And seek not your fortune in the dark, dreary mines.

It will form as a habit and seep in your soul,

'Till the stream of your blood is as black as the coal.

Continued in Chapter 4

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