The hammer fell, forcing chisel through the stone even as the vibration
sent a numbing jolt through the hands of Baylin Grindstone. Another
strike, and the cracks widened for a split second before the stone
separated. The young dwarf stepped clear and admired the stone for a
moment. It was freshly cut, the start of a job that would take several
days to complete. It would take several seasons of weathered storms to
find true perfection, but most humans would never live long enough to
see it. The mason brushed the dust from his hands and returned the
large chisel to the bench. He stood for a long moment, examining the
set of smaller chisels, hammers, and whet stone before finally selecting
a chosen piece.
“Artificer guide me,” muttered beneath his breath, the dwarf felt
the blessing of his deity as he placed the chisel against the stone and
started to lightly tap smaller fragments from the whole. It would be
his first piece on his own, without the guidance and advice of his
father or any one of his three older brothers. He allowed his thoughts
to wander a little ways, to the many years he crawled through his
fathers shop and watched the older Dwarf trade his goods with the
worlds’ many races. He fondly remembered fussing over his robes as a
growing lad, brushing dust from the linen with a fear that it would
somehow insult the Great One. He glanced down now at his robes, worn
and tattered through travel and covered in the same dust he once feared
without justification. He shook his head and continued to cut the
stone, mindful of each strike and careful to push the steel only so
deep.
“The dust, the sweat of our brow; these are a greater offering to
the Artificer than any coin or gem. Do not be such a foolish child,
Baylin.” His mother had chided him often enough, “He is a builder of
things, a creator and a designer. He does not lie back in the comfort
of some temple, wallowing in the excess these Gods of Men invoke.”
Lifting the stone from the table, Baylin struggled to lift it upright
and felt his grip slipping for the slightest of moments. He lowered the
stone quickly, chiding himself for the arrogance of his youth and in
believing he could lift the granite slab without aid.
“Every creature has strength and a weakness. There’s no shame in
understanding our weaknesses, Baylin. We face them and we overcome
them. The Artificer gives us a mind to learn about the world, to shape
the world to our preference.” Baylin thought of his eldest brothers’
words as he wrapped the leather harness around the stone, using the
pulley to lift the stone from the table and to the wheelbarrow. Lowering
the stone gently, Baylins’ muscles were tense and his shoulders
trembled with the effort. He released a long breath at the last, and
leaned against the bench for a moment to collect his wits.
Outside, the wind became a cool chill against his sweat-soaked body.
Baylin Grindstone had already dug out the frozen ground, a little over
a foot deep. He lifted the kettle of boiling tar and poured it in the
hole, feeling the steam rise in a sudden wave that brought comforting
warmth to his body. He muscled the wheelbarrow closer, and carefully
angled the cart so the stone slab would slide down into the hole. The
Cleric pushed and pulled, inching the stone so it would stand straight
and then waited for the tar to set. He felt the chill stabbing deep
into scars he suffered as a youth, felt the stab of ice in his marrow,
and fought back the urge to surrender his efforts to the Winter winds.
He finally loosened his grip when enough time had passed, stepping away
slowly to admire his work.
“In Memoriam: Mason Grindstone, his Wife, and two Eldest Sons.
Killed by a Traitors Sword on a winters’ Eve.” The stone-carved hammer
would act as a marker for their graves, and Baylin would return in some
many years. After the rains and the winds had taken the sharp edges and
made them smooth, after the years had dulled the ache in his heart and
long after the anger had abated.
For now, the Cleric washed the dust and filth from his body and
prepared to leave the remains of his small village. A tyrant had come,
seeking treasure and followers and resources, and he had left with a
share of both. Baylin examined the tools, choosing the least worn. He
thought back to a year earlier, his last visit from the temple. “He has
the best tools, the best work, and the most affluent clients.” Baylins
brother grumbled once more, casually dropping a chisel into his tool
chest. Sarkin had left the temple after a year, believing himself to be
too important as a descendent to the Grindstone legacy. He had
apprenticed to their father, but he paid little attention to his
responsibilities and often complained to his younger brother. “That’s
the only reason people here show him any respect! If I had his tools,
his clients… I could be the greatest mason of all the Grindstones! But
all he cares about is the bleedin’ Stone… not even the smallest
consideration for his son!” The tools were gone now, taken as payment
for Sarkin’s betrayal.
Sarkin had believed in a tyrant’s promise of greatness and glory.
And with the tools of his father, Sarkin would create one flawed piece
of work after another and another. He would blame others, of course.
Baylin could watch him rise, could likely watch him fall, and would meet
many more of his ilk. And tyrants would find them, employ them, and see
them march in waves. And the brave souls who stood in their path would
find a new ally in their struggles. He would stand, not for petty
vengeance, but for righteousness and the freedom of Dwarves, men, and
other creatures.
Baylin hefted the pack to his shoulders and took one step on the road, but it was the next one which fell the hardest. The beginning had come-
