Read Online Furnaces of Forge (The Land's Tale) by Alan Skinner - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Skinner
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blue mist. Her morning eyes cleared and the burning stone came into focus. Despite the heat, she shivered.
‘Kinda spooky first thing in the morning, isn’t it?’ she heard Touch say. ‘Well, at least I think it’s morning. Hard to tell in here.’
‘You could check your watch,’ said Cres.
‘I did. It isn’t the same. Just cos your watch says six hours before noon doesn’t make it morning.’ Touch smiled at her. ‘The sun makes it morning.’
‘How long do you think it will take us to get some of the stone?’ Cres asked.
‘Dunno, really,’ said Touch. ‘Not long, I hope. If we can break some off and leave within a couple of hours, we could be back in Forge by morning, if we ride straight through the night.’
‘That’d be good. Don’t fancy spending another night here. Gave me spooky dreams.’
‘Yeah, me too. Let’s get to it, then.’
It didn’t take them long to eat and get ready. With the leather aprons over their overalls and thick leather gloves on their hands, they were hot and sweating before they’d even set to work.
Touch grabbed his welding mask and the pick and walked up to the burning stone. He slid the mask on his head and pulled the faceplate down. The glass on the face mask was tinged slightly red, making the blue flames purple. He raised the pick, swung it back over his shoulder and brought it down with all his strength on the stone.
The point of the pick rebounded from the rock, wrenching the muscles of his hands and wrists. His fingers tingled and it felt as if every bone in him rattled. He looked at the stone in disbelief. There wasn’t even a mark where the pick had hit it. Touch adjusted his grip, moving his hands almost to the end of the handle. Twice more he swung the pick as hard as he could, but the blows left not even a scratch on the stone.
Cres put on her helmet. From the pile of tools, she selected the crowbar with the pointed end. Her eyes scanned the stone for a crack or fissure. Spotting a line that looked like it could be a fault in the stone, she gave it a hard jab. But like the pick, the crowbar simply rebounded.
Despite the jarring of her bones, Cres struck the stone again and again. Touch could see what she was trying to do and, when Cres stopped to rest her arms, he attacked the same spot with the pick.
They took turns. Cres jabbed, trying to force the bar into the stone; Touch hammered the stone with the pick, trying to split the rock. After an hour, Cres stepped back, exhausted. She dropped the crowbar and slumped to the floor.
Touch came as close as he dared to the stone. He could feel the heat through his gloves, scorching his hands. He rested the point of the pick on the spot he aimed to hit, and spread his feet slightly further apart. His muscles prepared to unleash what strength they had left in one final blow.
Before he could swing the pick, the wooden handle turned into a shaft of blue flames. They roared down the handle towards Touch’s gloves. He dropped the burning pick and tried to shake the gloves from his hands. His right glove flew free but the left one refused to come off. A tiny spark of blue fire appeared on the back of the glove. Even through the thick leather, Touch could feel its heat.
‘Cres!’ he yelled. ‘The glove!’
Cres grabbed his glove and wrenched it free of his hand. The spark immediately leapt to her own glove. She dropped Touch’s glove, tore off one of her own and then flicked the other on to the floor. They watched, stunned, as the tiny sparks burst into a ball of blue flames and burned all four gloves to nothing.
They looked back at the stone. Nothing remained of the pick handle, and the head had dropped on to the stone. Already it glowed red hot, and within moments the edges began to turn orange and white.
The pair backed away. Defeated, they slumped on to their sleeping bags and sat clutching their knees and watching the terrible fire.
Touch winced and blew on his left hand.
‘Let me see,’ Cres
‘Kinda spooky first thing in the morning, isn’t it?’ she heard Touch say. ‘Well, at least I think it’s morning. Hard to tell in here.’
‘You could check your watch,’ said Cres.
‘I did. It isn’t the same. Just cos your watch says six hours before noon doesn’t make it morning.’ Touch smiled at her. ‘The sun makes it morning.’
‘How long do you think it will take us to get some of the stone?’ Cres asked.
‘Dunno, really,’ said Touch. ‘Not long, I hope. If we can break some off and leave within a couple of hours, we could be back in Forge by morning, if we ride straight through the night.’
‘That’d be good. Don’t fancy spending another night here. Gave me spooky dreams.’
‘Yeah, me too. Let’s get to it, then.’
It didn’t take them long to eat and get ready. With the leather aprons over their overalls and thick leather gloves on their hands, they were hot and sweating before they’d even set to work.
Touch grabbed his welding mask and the pick and walked up to the burning stone. He slid the mask on his head and pulled the faceplate down. The glass on the face mask was tinged slightly red, making the blue flames purple. He raised the pick, swung it back over his shoulder and brought it down with all his strength on the stone.
The point of the pick rebounded from the rock, wrenching the muscles of his hands and wrists. His fingers tingled and it felt as if every bone in him rattled. He looked at the stone in disbelief. There wasn’t even a mark where the pick had hit it. Touch adjusted his grip, moving his hands almost to the end of the handle. Twice more he swung the pick as hard as he could, but the blows left not even a scratch on the stone.
Cres put on her helmet. From the pile of tools, she selected the crowbar with the pointed end. Her eyes scanned the stone for a crack or fissure. Spotting a line that looked like it could be a fault in the stone, she gave it a hard jab. But like the pick, the crowbar simply rebounded.
Despite the jarring of her bones, Cres struck the stone again and again. Touch could see what she was trying to do and, when Cres stopped to rest her arms, he attacked the same spot with the pick.
They took turns. Cres jabbed, trying to force the bar into the stone; Touch hammered the stone with the pick, trying to split the rock. After an hour, Cres stepped back, exhausted. She dropped the crowbar and slumped to the floor.
Touch came as close as he dared to the stone. He could feel the heat through his gloves, scorching his hands. He rested the point of the pick on the spot he aimed to hit, and spread his feet slightly further apart. His muscles prepared to unleash what strength they had left in one final blow.
Before he could swing the pick, the wooden handle turned into a shaft of blue flames. They roared down the handle towards Touch’s gloves. He dropped the burning pick and tried to shake the gloves from his hands. His right glove flew free but the left one refused to come off. A tiny spark of blue fire appeared on the back of the glove. Even through the thick leather, Touch could feel its heat.
‘Cres!’ he yelled. ‘The glove!’
Cres grabbed his glove and wrenched it free of his hand. The spark immediately leapt to her own glove. She dropped Touch’s glove, tore off one of her own and then flicked the other on to the floor. They watched, stunned, as the tiny sparks burst into a ball of blue flames and burned all four gloves to nothing.
They looked back at the stone. Nothing remained of the pick handle, and the head had dropped on to the stone. Already it glowed red hot, and within moments the edges began to turn orange and white.
The pair backed away. Defeated, they slumped on to their sleeping bags and sat clutching their knees and watching the terrible fire.
Touch winced and blew on his left hand.
‘Let me see,’ Cres
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