The four inverted shadows moved from the cavern's entrance. Shovel drawn up spear-like in a double-handed grip, the speaker circled around to Sark's right. His companion followed suit, the cross-guard

Fist clenched, he fixed his stare on the swirling morass of blue null light. Sark listened to the activity around him. Chained fists retrieved picks and shovels. Ore cart wheels screached on iron rails.

Sark allowed his pick to drop from fingers deadened by toil. It's iron head clattered off gouged stone, striking sparks from more solid materials. Hands throbbing, he swatted rivulets of perspiration from

Another lash ripped open the dwarf's pale grey skin. Knotted leather parted flesh and set rich, red blood flowing from the open wound. Mouth a twisted rictus, Sark Ore balled his hands into tight fists.