The Builders Trestle Board

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and stale desperation, a familiar perfume of the mines. Above me, the entrance to the abandoned air shaft yawned like a hungry maw, exhaling a faint, chilling breath. I ran a gloved hand over the rough-hewn rock face, feeling the cold indifference of the mountain. Duty called, as it always did on, especially when the mountain decided to reclaim its bounty, trapping the souls who dared to seek it. Three slaves – two men and a girl – had been caught in a minor collapse further down, too deep for the regular tunnels, but reachable, we hoped, through this ancient, barely-used shaft.

My gaze drifted to Elizabeth, standing beside Tedor, my foreman. Her eyes, usually alight with sharp intellect and an even sharper wit, were clouded with a worry she tried to conceal, but failed. We’d shared too many sunrises and sunsets, too many quiet moments under the tri-moons, for her not to read the grim set of my jaw, the coiled tension in my shoulders. She knew the risks of these old shafts, the treacherous earth, the sheer unpredictability of it all.

“It’s a fool’s errand, Alexander,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper that only I could hear over Tedor’s booming instructions to the rope crew. Her hand, so soft yet so capable, found my arm, her fingers tracing a pattern on my worn leather sleeve. “There are other ways.”

I shook my head, my eyes meeting hers, a silent conversation passing between us. ( You know there aren’t, Elizabeth. ) The main tunnel was blocked by tons of rock; time was of the essence. And these were my people, even if by the strict laws of Gor, they were slaves. As the Builder, their lives, their continued work, was my responsibility. Their value wasn't just in the ore they extracted, but in the simple fact they were living, breathing beings under my charge.

Her sigh was almost imperceptible, a faint puff of warm air against my arm. She knew. She always knew. Then, she leaned in, her lips brushing my cheek. The contact was feather-light, fleeting, yet it left a warmth that seeped into my skin, a stark contrast to the cold dread settling in my gut. Her scent – herbs and something uniquely Elizabeth – lingered, a poignant reminder of the world above. She pulled back, her eyes still locked with mine, a silent plea for my safe return. Then, with a graceful but decisive turn, she stepped back, leaving me to face the darkness.

Tedor clapped me on the shoulder, his touch rough but reassuring. “Rope’s secured, Builder. The energy bulb’s charged, as much as it can be.” I nodded, fastening the small, heavy energy bulb to my tunic, just over my heart. It pulsed with a dull, amber glow, a pathetic defiance against the cavernous blackness it was meant to conquer. The air shaft, barely wider than my shoulders, was a vertical tunnel of misery. Ages of dust, rockfall, and accumulated grime coated every surface, ready to be dislodged with the slightest tremor or contact. It smelled of rot and minerals, a deathly combination.

“Alright,” I grunted, taking the rope, testing its tension. It was thick, braided spun hemp, strong enough to hold a thresher-beast, but still, a single point of failure between me and the crushing earth. “Send me down.” The first few feet were relatively easy, a controlled slide down the rope, my boots bracing against the rock, sending plumes of fine, gritty dust billowing upwards. The energy bulb, my solitary star in this subterranean night, struggled. Its amber light could only pierce a foot or two ahead, turning the descending darkness into a series of flickering shadows, making the tight space feel even more claustrophobic. I could feel the dust coating my face, invading my nostrils, turning my saliva into gritty paste. Each breath was a conscious effort, the air growing colder, thinner, heavier.

Then I heard them. Faint, ragged, desperate coughs, echoing up from the depths below. They sounded weak, pitiful. The female slave, I remembered Tedor saying, was a young one, barely out of her teens. The thought spurred me on, overriding the growing discomfort of the descent.

“Builder! How’s it looking?” Tedor’s voice, distorted and muffled by the shaft, rumbled from above. “Tight! Filthy! Keep the rope coming!” I shouted back, my voice hoarse from the dust and strain. My hands, despite the thick leather gloves, were beginning to ache from the constant friction. My shoulders burned, my muscles protesting. A low rumble vibrated through the rock around me, a sickening reminder of the precarious situation. The cave-in, Tedor had reported, was still unstable. Any further shifting could seal the shaft, or worse, trigger another collapse where I was. I hastened my descent, ignoring the burning in my arms, the tightening in my chest. Each inch was a victory, each meter a step closer to those trapped below.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my boots touched down. Not on solid rock, but on a mound of loose scree and debris. My energy bulb cast its feeble light over the scene. The shaft opened into a small, jagged alcove, choked with broken timbers and fresh rockfall.

And there they were.

Three figures huddled against the far wall, covered in dust, their clothes ripped and grimy. The two male slaves, older, tougher, looked grim but conscious, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and relief. The girl, however, was in a worse state. She was slumped, her head lolling against one of the men, her breathing shallow and ragged, punctuated by wet, hacking coughs. A dark stain spread across the tattered fabric on her leg.

“You alright down here?” I asked, my voice rough, but trying to project calm.

The older of the two kajirus , a burly thrall named Hoyt , nodded weakly. “Aye, Master Just… cold. And the air…” He gestured vaguely at the dust-filled space.

I moved quickly, assessing the situation. The air quality was poor, no doubt, and the cold would be leaching their strength. The girl needed to get out first. She was likely suffering from shock and injuries.

“Alright, Hoyt. We’re getting you out. One at a time. The girl first. Can you help me tie her off?”

Hoyt, despite his exhaustion, pushed himself up, his movements stiff. Together, we gently maneuvered the girl. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, wide and unfocused. She coughed again, a pitiful sound that tore at me. I unwrapped a length of rope from my waist, securing it carefully around her chest and under her arms, ensuring it wouldn’t slip.

“Tell Master Tedor to be gentle,” I instructed Hoyt, who would be relaying my messages. “She’s hurt.”

He nodded, already looking a shade better at the prospect of rescue. I tugged hard on the main rope, three sharp pulls – the signal to haul up. I could hear the creaking of the pulley above, followed by a muffled shout from Tedor. Slowly, carefully, the girl began her ascent, disappearing into the darkness above, her weak coughs fading. A profound sense of relief washed over me, quickly replaced by the gnawing worry of the remaining two.

Next were the men. Hoyt, being the stronger, I tied off first, letting him brace himself against the shaft walls. He went up with a bit more speed, grunting with effort but managing. The second man, younger and clearly more injured than Hoyt was harder. I had to support much of his weight as I tied him, and he swayed precariously as he began to rise. I kept my hand on his back until he was well clear, watching the last flicker of his struggling form vanish.

Now it was just me. The silence that descended was heavy, oppressive. The thought of being alone in this deep, cold tomb was unnerving, even for me. I secured the rope around my own chest, double-checking the knot, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility lift, replaced by the simple, primal need to survive. “Alright, Tedor! Builder coming up!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the confined space.

One pull, a steady signal. The rope tightened, and I began my ascent, hand over hand, pushing against the grimy walls with my feet. It was harder now, my muscles screaming from the exertion, my lungs burning. The energy bulb, its amber glow seeming even weaker, cast dancing shadows that mocked my progress.

About halfway up, it happened. The shaft, already barely wide enough, narrowed further. My shoulders, broad from years of swinging an axe and hauling stone, snagged. I grunted, trying to twist, to push myself free, but the rock held me fast. My breath hitched, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. I was wedged.

“Damn it!” I cursed, a guttural growl that reverberated around me. I pushed, I pulled, my boots scraping uselessly against the slick rock, sending down a shower of loose grit. The rope above continued to pull, inexorably, tightening painfully against my ribs. I could feel the pressure, the distinct discomfort of being compressed. My cussing grew louder, more colourful, a testament to my frustration and the burgeoning fear. “Alex! What’s wrong?” Tedor’s voice, laced with urgency, filtered down.

“I’m wedged, like a bad shit ! Keep pulling! Harder!” I started to laugh as I yelled back, my voice strained. I could feel myself being dragged, the rock abrading against my arms, my back. It wasn't graceful, it wasn't comfortable, but it was forward motion. The rope crew, obviously following Tedor’s laughing orders, heaved. I felt a painful give, a tearing sensation as my tunic ripped, followed by a sudden, jolting release. I was free, but the rest of the ascent became less about climbing and more about being dragged, scraped, and unceremoniously hauled upwards through the last, miserable stretch of the shaft. The energy bulb was smashed, its light extinguished, by the time I was unceremoniously yanked clear of the shaft opening. I hit the ground with a thump, sprawling on the rock-strewn earth, gulping in the relatively fresh air. My head spun, my muscles screamed, and every inch of me felt bruised and battered. My lungs burned from the dust and the exertion.

Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up, my vision blurring at the sudden influx of light. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they did, the first thing I saw was Elizabeth.

She was kneeling on the ground, her face smudged with dirt, her auburn hair escaping its braid, but her eyes were fixed on the female slave who was laid out on a stretcher. Her two assistants, Cara and Samantha, moved with quiet efficiency, tending to the other two male slaves who were being wrapped in blankets and given water. The scene was one of quiet, urgent care. Elizabeth, was in her element, a beacon of healing amidst the grime and danger.

She looked up, her gaze finding mine. Relief, swift and profound, washed over her features, making her lips curve into a small, weary smile. It was a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding of the risks taken and the lives saved. I was battered, filthy, and probably smelled like a tomb, but I was here. And so were the slaves, now safe in her competent hands. I stumbled forward a step, feeling the aches in every bone, but the sight of them, being cared for, being given a second chance, was all the reward I needed. The weight of the mountain, for now, had lifted.