They spent days like this, sometimes squeezing two or three shifts in, if the banshees happened to be a little less taxing on everyone's psyches. Gradually the stockpile of painstakingly mined silicon grew, and Sev set to work growing his crystals.
He was all too willing to share his methods with the First and Second, much to their wizardly delights. Eff had provided Sev with equipment and a laboratory, and the three of them spent hours in it discussing the forgemaster's art in terms Pierce couldn't understand.
He would spend his breaks watching Sev work, though, just curious about how the forgemaster had passed his days down in the Underlands. The process was slow, methodical, precise. Sev must have had legendary patience. He had to be still, his mind quiet, with no thoughts for things outside of the lab. Pierce didn't think he could do that, but he supposed in an abstract way Sev's work was similar to his own life's calling. In a fight, a duel or a battle, Pierce couldn't allow himself any distractions, any doubts about his ability. He couldn't let his mind be drawn toward things that didn't pertain to the fight.
That focus and passion for their work - it was something the two of them had in common. Maybe that was why Pierce had ultimately been drawn to his new friend.
Six days into the project, and they were a little over half done by Sev's reckoning.
Sev had praised the pureness of the silicon the teams were bringing up. He said the veins in the Underlands, though plentiful, were often shot through with other elements - silver, gold, platinum - that had to be discarded for their uselessness. He seemed to grow more excited, working quickly and smiling often.
Pierce had taken the first shift as usual, and now he was over the edge, sweating as he chiseled at the cliffs. He swore his voice had grown stronger in the last few days. He sang his songs boldly, and the banshees continued to remain at bay.
He was chipping away mindlessly at the stone when he heard a yelp from the next position eastward. The soldier working there must have lost his grip on his tools - Pierce could see the gleam of metal as they fell into the Chasm. The man flailed, trying to catch the tools, and swatted away his hauling sack. The spotter and trumpeter up above took the movement as their signal to haul both the soldier and his sack up, and the man stopped singing to try and holler that he wasn't ready yet. The banshees, forgotten for the moment, took their chance and rushed in, keeping unusually quiet as they did so, coming in low. They had learned. They had been waiting.
Pierce hollered at anyone who was listening, trying to keep a melody in his voice as he did so. He didn't know what to yell, so he just ended up stammering loudly. He tried to gauge the distance to the soldier in trouble. If there were any kind of foot or handholds, he could make it. But the cliff was sheer, slick. His boots wouldn't get a grip. He'd left his sword up above, knowing it would do no good against the banshees anyhow, so he couldn't cut into the cliff. He kicked it, propelling himself away. He kicked and kicked again, making a tiny crater in the rock. He pushed off of it, trying to generate a lateral swing.
The banshees had almost reached the man. His spotter had almost gotten him to the top of the cliff and might have finished if the trumpeter had been helping, but he was busy unloading the silicon from its sack. It wasn't surprising, this lapse in procedure. They'd been at this for days. It was easy to let one's guard down when one had repeated an action a hundred times.
The banshees shrieked at last, pouncing on the hapless soldier, grasping his legs with clawed hands. They yanked him away from the cliff-face violently, pulling the spotter up above off his balance. He stumbled toward the edge of the Chasm, screaming in shock as he finally saw the banshees. He tried to scramble backwards across the ground, but the lowering rope was tied around his waist. He fumbled at it.
Pierce had gotten a good swing going, and his trumpeter was looking down from above in confusion. Pierce waved him away, put a thumb to his lips to indicate the man should make sure to keep playing. He nodded and played all the louder, looking toward the man who had been caught.
There was no way Pierce could reach him, and if he did, there was nothing he could do to help.
The dangling miner was in the grasp of a half dozen banshees, and they tore at him in mad rage. One bit into his leg below the knee and Pierce heard the snap of the bone, the rip of the flesh as the banshee tore his lower leg off entirely. It didn't even care to feast on the limb, just carelessly let it fall into the Chasm. The banshee noticed the spotter, fumbling at the rope around his waist, unable to get free. It grasped the rope and began to pull while its brethren continued to rip the first man apart. The trumpeter tried to hold onto the spotter, and both of them were getting pulled toward the Chasm's edge. The banshee yanked another time, and the spotter went over the side, hanging from his waist and swinging down below the miner he'd been responsible for. The trumpeter had let go, and was laying on his stomach at Chasm's edge, staring in shock.
The banshees relished in their kills, now swarming both men that had fallen, rending flesh. One cut into the spotter's belly almost carefully, drinking in
