The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

The next morning, well before the sun would rise at the horizon hidden behind ridges and many hours before its light would reach the dell, the dwarves assembled in the meeting hall. A single lantern glowed, hanging from a wooden spike driven into a drill-hole at the top of the stairs. Its light was ample for their purpose. Yorvig surveyed the newcomers arrayed before him. He knew what to expect, and the reality mostly confirmed it. These were lower-rung miners, crafters, folk who had little to lose back in Deep Cut but much to gain from such a venture. They would be younger dwarves of poorer families, or those who could not carve themselves more space in Deep Cut, whether that was rock or garden or pasture. They were the same sort of folk as Yorvig and the other claim owners.

“Good waking, yowgan,” Sledgefist said. It was dwarvish for “hands,” less formal than kulhan and also more appropriate, as oaths had not yet been sworn. “As I told you, this is Chargrim, rinlen of the claim by rights. Hear him.”

Yorvig stepped forward. The assembled dwarves sat cross-legged on the stone, all eyes upon him. They wore their tool harnesses. Picks and shovels lay across their knees. There was a curious expectation as they tried to gauge what sort of rinlen this might be.

“Good waking. We have much to do and we must rely on ourselves to do it. This is yet a young claim. There are few comforts here. But there is wealth here, more than we yet know.” The collective adjustment of all eyes was like the moving of a draft in the hall, as the dwarves went from watching Yorvig to looking up and behind him. Yorvig turned. Onyx was walking down the stairs into the hall, wearing her orange dress over dark brown trousers and no veil or headscarf. Her thick black braids formed a raised ridge in the center of her head, oiled and shining in the lamplight as they fell down her back. It was the first time Yorvig had ever seen her bare-faced. Her jaw was strong, smooth muscle lines curving toward her ears, and her oiled and dusky skin gleamed in the lamplight. Her mouth was broad. They had not waited for her in order to begin. That was a mistake. All thought of what he intended to say seemed to flake away like scale beneath the hammer. Yorvig turned back to the dwarves. A few eyes returned to him, but more remained fixed on Onyx.

Yorvig knew by the sound of her footsteps that she had come to stand amid the other mine owners. This was a choice. It was no accident that she’d descended those stairs with her face uncovered for the first time since she’d arrived at the claim. Yet he had no idea what the strategy could be. It was bewildering enough trying to regain his own track. He felt a flush of heat and a quickening of his pulse. He decided to ignore her interruption.

“Before we begin our labor, we must settle oaths and terms. I know that Sledgefist negotiated wages—” It was a shared two-tenths of the wealth of the mine, a generous portion, but they had all agreed they needed to lure and keep kulhan. “—but we have not discussed the term.”

Term meant how long a dwarf was sworn to work a mine. It was a disgrace to a dwarf to break oath before their term, and it was called desertion. Typical terms in Deep Cut were ten years, and the shortest five. Yet it would also have been unnatural in Deep Cut for the youngest miner to be rinlen. Many things might be a disgrace in Deep Cut that would be mere survival and fortune in the wilds. So Yorvig was prepared to do something unusual.

“To stay in this claim, you must swear your oaths,” Yorvig said. “I know many of you came here to seek more than a kulhan wage in this claim, generous as we intend to be. So I offer you this. Keep your oaths here for one year and a day. If for one year and a day you remain true to your word, then you may leave as you wish to stake your own claims, or you may stay on. If you cannot keep your oath for such a short time, then what will any of us say of you?”

There were mumblings in the crowd, and dwarves looked from one to another in surprise. This at least seemed to interest them more than Onyx—at least most of them. No one had heard of a one year term before. Yorvig hadn’t either. But he had a feeling that if he could keep them there for a year, the claim would be set to survive, and more than survive. But he doubted whether their oaths mattered so much so far from Deep Cut, or if they would keep them; he’d been thinking much on oaths of late.

Yorvig nodded to Sledgefist, who stepped forward.

“You have heard the terms of the rinlen. If you would swear it, stand up!”

The hall filled with the sound of shuffling as the dwarves stood. Yorvig didn’t really expect any different, considering how far they’d come, but there was always the chance some had merely wished to travel in company and set off on their own once here. None remained sitting. Sledgefist led them in the oath, and all their voices were raised together. It was an odd experience, but Yorvig took it without expression, or so he hoped.

The dwarves ended the oath with a cheer.

“I must inform you of a few simple rules. There are ürsi in these ridges. No one goes to the surface alone or without permission from myself or your cadre chief. If you have work on the surface, you ask. Now be seated and we will call you and divide you. ”

“Miners first as we discussed?” Sledgefist asked. Yorvig nodded and continued on:

“I understand that there is a brewer here, three cultivators, a bee keeper, two smelters, and a mine smith,” Yorvig said. All this he had learned from Sledgefist. “Stand.” A few dwarves scattered throughout the others rose. “Move to the back of the hall, we will get to you last, I’m afraid.” The dwarves moved toward the back, speaking together in low tones.

“Now who among the miners has completed an apprenticeship?”

Only eight dwarves rose, but that was good, all things considering. Not all dwarves who wished to mine or go prospecting completed an apprenticeship. For one, there were only so many spots for apprentices in Deep Cut. Some were bought and others were traded as favors. Others had legacy spots, which was the case of Sledgefist and Yorvig—they apprenticed in the same company their father had worked for over a hundred and fifty years.

“You eight, arrange yourselves in order of experience, right to left,” Yorvig said. It took the dwarves longer to gather at the front than to figure out their order through a few muffled conversations.

“These dwarves will be the cadre chiefs,” Yorvig said, pointing at Hobblefoot, Sledgefist, and Warmcoat. “Divvy them,” he said to the chiefs, and in moments the dwarves with apprenticeship were divided between the three. Next they divvied up the rest of those who came as miners or unskilled labor. But as the kulhan milled about in the process, someone caught Yorvig’s eye. He was an old dwarf, his skin furrowed and sun-parched. The fact his beard was more dirty gray than white had helped hide his age in the midst of the crowd. As the chiefs were dividing and speaking to the dwarves of their cadres, Yorvig caught the old dwarf’s eye and motioned him over.

“What is your name?” he asked when the dwarf stood before him.

“Tonkil,” he said. Either he was a Named of Strength adherent or the name had meaning Yorvig didn’t know. It could be insulting to inquire now, so Yorvig moved on.

“Why have you come, Tonkil?”

“The same as the rest.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why is that?”

“You are old.”

“And you are forward,” Tonkil said with a laugh. It was more casual than a response should be upon meeting the rinlen, but Yorvig also did not wish to play tough with such an elder. He was obviously the oldest in the claim by far, and though it was difficult to tell, he may be a hundred years older than Yorvig.

“Uncle, I mean no disrespect. I’ve gotten used to the wilds. But I have a responsibility to know.”

Tonkil’s mirth faded to a wry smile.

“That is good,” he said. “The wilds take many things and give many more. You’ve lost and gained already. But have no fear. Though older, I am harder than many young dwarves here.” His eyes flickered toward the others. Yorvig had to admit, his frame did not give the impression of idleness.

“You talk as one who knows the wilds.”

“I’ve spent more years in the wilds than most of these have lived,” he said, motioning behind him.

“After so long a life, do you have nothing to rest on, that you would come here?”

“I have no desire for rest. More I desire to see the inside of far mountains, smell the air of strange mines. I have been to the Long Downs, I have travelled to the human kingdoms by caravan, dug in the Brown Hills, and I have visited the western Red Ridges, all before you were born.”

For nearly three centuries after Tourmaline led their folk in exodus, the dwarves delved and hid within the caverns and canyons of Deep Cut, rarely emerging to the surface of the Waste. Thought not rich in silver, gold, gems or other precious stones, it held all needed for life. While in human kingdoms the memory of the traveling dwarves faded to something of a fireside tale, the folk of Deep Cut slowly multiplied.

It was the grandchildren of those first refugees, with no memories save tales of the world beyond Deep Cut, who climbed again to the surface from the canyons of colored minerals, eroded pillars, and balanced boulders to search the Waste and the fringe lands beyond. There they encountered humans again, but this time they had trade the humans wanted: salt and steel and coal, mostly. And so the caravans began. As more dwarves found life in Deep Cut restricting, they spread to the Long Downs and even the Red Ridges.

“I meant no disrespect, Uncle,” Yorvig said.

“I took none. I’m only answering your question,” he said. “Riches can make a dwarf poor if they keep him from delving or treading upon the mountains. This was the way of Tourmaline, and of the Crippled King.”

Yorvig nodded. It was a philosophy he’d been taught as a gilke, though few who had wealth seemed to take it seriously. It was always the scrappers who moved on, searching.

“Still, these are dangerous mountains,” Yorvig said.

“Oh really? From what yonder golden-tongue said, it is paradise.” Tonkil gestured at Sledgefist, then leaned in closer. “But you’ve had more trouble with ürsi than he told us.”

“Why do you say?”

“I saw the underside of the bridge. Did you do that yourselves?”

“Sledgefist didn’t know about that. It happened after he left.”

Tonkil nodded and leaned back.

“It started the same in the Long Downs. Skirmishes here and there. They hate us like we hate them.”

“How did they overcome the delvings there? There must have been thousands.”

“Thousands there were. But they didn’t overcome the delvings. We abandoned them. They starved us out and waited for us to surface. Many didn’t make it back to Deep Cut.”

Yorvig squinted. This was not a comforting tale. He knew many hadn’t made it back, but he’d always heard it spoken of as a battle where the ürsi simply overwhelmed the claims. But then he realized what else Tonkil had said.

“Us? Do you speak of our folk, or were you there?”

“Ay, I was there. A young rhundaela in my uncle's claim.”

“I see.”

“Chargrim,” Sledgefist said, walking over. “We’re set.”

“You know what to do,” Yorvig said, loud enough that Warmcoat and Hobblefoot could hear as well. They nodded and called orders to their cadres of kulhan. All this they had planned for hours the previous night. They would begin by finishing the planned expansions. With so many miners, the basic delvings should be complete in two weeks’ time. Yorvig was not primarily concerned with the mining, but they needed to organize, and by getting the dwarves busy in cadres right away, he had a basis for giving orders. He still needed to know more about these new kulhan. Tonkil moved to go with the miners.

“Wait aside, Tonkil,” he said. “We may have other duties for you.” In truth, Yorvig wasn’t done speaking with him. Tonkil shrugged and stayed behind, stepping a few paces away and waiting. Of the owners, only Onyx remained, still standing near the foot of the stairs, her arms folded. As the other dwarves filed up the stair, many looked over at her.

Yorvig motioned to the dwarves waiting at the back of the hall. They had split off into huddles, speaking quietly, but a few saw Yorvig’s wave and soon all were arrayed in loose line before him.

“Cultivators?” Yorvig said. Three dwarves extended an arm forward, palms down. They all looked fairly young, but they could have been as old as Yorvig.

“How much time do you need before spring?”

The three dwarves exchanged glances. It took a few moments before one decided he would speak for them.

“We need all the time we can get,” he said. “We know you have some kind of terraces, we saw them from outside, but we have not seen them close.”

“What is your name?”

“I am Wornstalk,” he said.

“Wornstalk, you will be the voice of the gardeners until I change my mind. What tasks do you need to accomplish?”

“We must find the right soil and prepare it,” he said. “Spring should come in a month—”

“More like two here, but go on,” Yorvig said.

“The soil is thin atop the rock in these mountains. We need to move soil and create beds. We will need to grow in the dell as well as the terraces, unless we can delve five times the number of terraces.” The gardener’s face was red. Yorvig could tell he was uncomfortable, but he’d already learned much from the dwarf.

“Onyx has looked to our gardening until now,” Yorvig said, motioning to the maid. “You will report to her, and she will report to me.”

Onyx showed only the flicker of an eyebrow. Yorvig nodded to her. “Go ahead.”

She motioned to the cultivators and they followed her up the stairs.

“Smelters,” Yorvig said. Two dwarves raised hands. Both were young, like most of those who had come.

“Sledgefist’s cadre is beginning to delve two smelteries. Go, help, and if anything needs changed, suggest it to Sledgefist. When it is finished, report to me.” The two smelters inclined their heads and hurried for the stairs.

“Brewer?” Yorvig asked. The dwarf who raised his hand was older than Yorvig, perhaps a hundred years old, and he had narrow eyes that gave him an appraising look.

“I have no sources of sugar right now,” Yorvig said. “But the maple and birch sap will run before the spring truly arrives.”

The brewer hardly seemed to hear, but started counting off on his fingers.

“I need casks. I brought enough iron for my still. I’ll need the forge for that. I need to make taps for the trees and pails. I’ll need a cauldron. I brought beet seeds for the gardeners. I’ll need many planted. I’ll need a workshop with a vent.”

“You will have a workshop on the drift where Sledgefist delves. It will be carved this week, if all goes aright.”

The brewer nodded, still looking at his fingers to count.

“And there is some cedar stacked in the Low Adit," Yorvig went on. "Follow the main drift and go down the ladder. You’ll see it. Start where you can.”

The dwarf nodded, and he too hurried away.

Only two dwarves remained. One was surprisingly young, his face unlined. He had blond hair and a beard that went somewhat to red at the roots, and he barely looked past rhundal. Most likely, he was a youngest gilke hoping for a chance at something, and he would have had no time to claim the title of a mine smith. So Yorvig guessed he was from a family of beekeepers.

The second dwarf stood with his beard already tucked down his shirt, and he wore a leather apron—another giveaway. He carried no pick or shovel, but he held a long folded canvas bag that no doubt was full of tools.

“I take it you’ve seen the smithy already?” Yorvig asked him.

He nodded.

“There will be tools to put in order,” Yorvig said, nodding toward the stairs. Without another word, the dwarf headed on his way.

That left the young dwarf waiting and Tonkil still standing to the side.

“There are bees in these woods,” Yorvig said. “We found a hive in the dell once.”

The dwarf stood there, staring at him and not speaking.

“What do you need to do to keep bees here?” Yorvig asked.

“Oh,” the dwarf said. “I’ll need to make skeps, though the weather here is harsh. Much harsher than Deep Cut. Maybe hives. I’ll need to make traps, too.”

“Traps for bees?”

“Swarm traps,” the dwarf said. “I brought black brood comb.”

Yorvig wasn’t sure what that was. He would need to talk to this dwarf much more. Maybe when the young dwarf was calmer—he was sweating and looking quite flushed.

“How long will it take you?”

“Well, they won’t swarm till the warmer weather.”

“How long to prepare?” Yorvig asked. “We cannot be idle and wait.”

“Weeks,” he said. “And I’ll need to scout for trap locations.”

“Then you’ll be in the hunting parties. That should help.”

The dwarf’s eyes widened.

“What do you need in order to begin?” Yorvig asked.

“Just wood.”

Yorvig realized they hadn’t set aside enough lumber. Then again, they hadn’t been prepared for all these newcomers, not yet. They would have to go out to cut more timber.

“We will go woodcutting today,” Yorvig said. “Wait for us at the High Adit.” The young dwarf scurried up the steps. Yorvig realized he hadn’t asked the dwarf his name. Nor had he asked the brewer, or the smith, or the gardeners. He sighed and looked at Tonkil.

“Have you fought?” Yorvig asked. He suspected he knew the answer.

“Ay, yes, I have done that.”

Yorvig nodded.

“Well, today we fight trees only. I hope.”

That night after their labors, Yorvig was sucking on a small piece of smoked meat in his private chamber when Sledgefist knocked and entered, interrupting the sums of food Yorvig was running in his mind. Sledgefist had slept in Yorvig's new chamber the night before, as he had not had time to dig his own chamber yet and didn’t want to sleep in the drift now that the newcomers had arrived. Yorvig barely noticed his arrival; in a matter of two days, the numbers had grown to a size that completely changed all his plans for the winter.

“A good day,” Sledgefist said. “We’ll be ahead of schedule, I think. The kulhan dig with gusto.”

“Good, good,” Yorvig answered.

“You should be coming during the day to check on the progress,” Sledgefist said. “Like the rinlens back in Deep Cut.”

“Should I?”

“And you shouldn’t be leaving the claim to go cutting wood,” Sledgefist said. “You’re the rinlen.”

“I didn’t know there were so many rules, and I thought the rinlen made them.”

In truth, mining rinlen back in Deep Cut didn't need to worry about bee skeps and casks for brewing.

Sledgefist snorted.

“Not so much rules as expectations. Still, there’s rules for everything, and where there’s not, we’ll make them.”

“That I believe,” Yorvig said. He looked at his brother, his big, broad open face, his shoulders wide-set. Sledgefist was unrolling his blankets atop a pelt, obviously pleased at the day.

“They all seem to like you,” Yorvig mentioned.

Sledgefist’s joviality faded a bit, and he leaned in to whisper, even though the stone door was shut.

“Truth be told, Char, I wouldn’t take rinlen now if you tried to force me. It was a nightmare enough to plan this expedition, especially drunk. You may be my little brother, but I can admit I’ve not the mind for the grand schemes like you do. If I didn’t have a few solid heads among the expedition, it might have gone poorly. It was one thing when it was just four of us. I’m a miner, little brother. I don’t like thinking about stockings and blankets. Today I directed the cadre's digging and left the nuisances to you. That isn't so bad.”

Despite Sledgefist’s self deprecation, the expedition had brought many needed and useful supplies on their sleds: whole bundles of long drill bits, even some fifteen-footers, and sacks of salt as well.

“Oh, hey.” Sledgefist reached into his heavy jacket and pulled out a wrapped parcel. “For you,” he said.

The aroma hit Yorvig’s nose as soon as it was in his hand. Hill-smoke.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“The trip gave me time to think, too, as busy as I was. I’m not going to give up so easy yet, and I won’t leave her to Hobblefoot uncontested. I’m not done trying for Onyx. I’ve whole new plans on that end.” Sledgefist touched his nose and winked at Yorvig.

Yorvig’s stomach sank.

“Oh, and I thought we’d share this.” Sledgefist reached into his coat again and pulled out an engraved silver flask. “Honey liqueur,” he said. Yorvig raised his eyebrows. That was a costly distillation. Sledgefist slapped Yorvig's shoulder. “We’re rich now, remember?” He unscrewed the top and took a swig, passing it to Yorvig. Yorvig smelled it, the rich aromas rising up into his nasal passages, then he sipped.

It was the best thing he’d tasted in a long, long time.