The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Yorvig was woken from a deep sleep by hammering at his door. First, he suspected that someone was drunk and angry. His dwarvish sense of time told him he had only been asleep for a couple of hours. He swung his legs out from his bed alcove, sending Striper hissing and leaping.

The hammering continued, and someone shouted his name. He didn’t recognize the voice.

He cracked open his door. Beyond it stood a dwarf he recognized as one of the hunters. His clothes were dark with damp, and there was a gash above his eyebrow that had bled down into his beard. A little behind him stood two other kulhan, one holding a lit lantern.

“What is it?”

“Ürsi!” the hunter said. His name was Hillmane; Yorvig knew all the hunters' names, now, and remembered their faces well—he'd made sure of it. Hillmane's eyes were so wide they looked startlingly white. Other doors in the Owners Drift were opening. Sledgefist stepped into the hall.

“What’s going on?” he called.

“Ürsi!” the hunter yelled again.

“He was shouting on the tower,” the dwarf with the lantern said. “We heard him.”

“The ürsi attacked us!”

“Where?” Yorvig said.

“Upstream. The flats.”

“Where’s Tonkil?”

The hunter shook his head.

“I. . . I got away. I jumped in the river.”

Sledgefist and Shineboot arrived. Hobblefoot and the rest were on their way down the drift. Even Onyx stood outside her door.

“You jumped in the river?” Sledgefist said, as if the act was suicidal madness, which for most dwarves it would have been.

“It was a shallows. I got in among the driftwood in the rocks. I blew up my waterskin and floated downstream before the ürsi found me.” The hunter was trembling, and he kept raking his hands through his beard. He was too distressed to be lying.

“What became of the others?” Yorvig asked.

The hunter shook his head.

Yorvig put a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen to me. How many ürsi were there?”

“It was too sudden. They hit us with javelins and slings. They were all over the riverbank. We were around the fire after a kill, like normal.”

Yorvig turned to the lantern-bearer.

“Go get this dwarf drunk and back to his chamber,” Yorvig said. “Keep an eye on him for tonight.” The lantern-bearer nodded, and the two kulhan guided the hunter down the drift. After they had passed her, Onyx came to stand with the other owners. They were all there, now. Warmcoat looked drunk and bleary-eyed, and he stared at Yorvig with a deep frown.

Yorvig waited until they were gone.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit!”

“Where were they?” Shineboot asked.

“The marsh flats,” Yorvig answered.

The marsh flats was a wide valley area rich in game where the river often flooded far beyond its banks, leaving pools of low reed-choked water and oxbow lakes when it receded. He knew the hunters had headed that way.

“Where’s that?”

“About five miles upstream,” Yorvig said.

“What should we do?” Hobblefoot asked. Everyone instinctively looked at Yorvig, but he did not answer. Silence hung for a time.

“Chargrim,” Shineboot said. Yorvig said nothing. “Chargrim, this is not the time."

“What do you think we should do?” Yorvig asked his brother.

“Even if I were a mine rinlen, that wouldn’t make me a war rinlen.”

“This isn’t about rinlen right now!” Shineboot snapped. “What should we do?”

“We should set a guard on the adit doors,” Greal said.

“What about the herds? The gardens? There are herders out there,” Shineboot said.

“There are herders outside now?” Khlif asked.

“Aren’t there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we can’t exactly ring the whole dell every hour of the night!” Greal said.

Yorvig knew that the herds would be huddled together in a fold carved in the mountain, behind a shut door with at least two herders watching over them. But there was no access to the fold direct from the mine, even though it was carved into the cliff. They should be safe for the moment, but would their new rinlen, whoever it would be, keep them safe?

“The attack was five miles away,” Warmcoat said, a bit of a slur to his speech. He'd been drinking. “They surely can’t have the numbers to attack us here.”

"They cannot hope to take the mine. The prospectors will be most at risk," Hobblefoot said.

“So what, we set a few guards inside the doors and that’s it?” Sledgefist asked.

There was silence again. Yorvig saw that Onyx was watching him. Yorvig was already forming a list of the things they needed to do. He couldn’t help it. But it was no longer his authority.

“Pick a new rinlen, and let them decide,” Yorvig said, feeling Onyx’s eyes on him. An impulse to escape gripped him, and he turned, stepped back into his chamber, and closed the door. He laid back down in his alcove and put his hands over his ears to block out the angry voices that erupted outside the door. It didn’t block out the thoughts though. His friend was dead. . . countless prospectors might be as well. They might be dying right now. Tonkil had told him of four claims within ten miles south, more to the west and north. The hunters had ventured little east, but more claims could be expected in that direction. If the ürsi were raiding, and in unknown numbers. . . How could he take Onyx away, now? He couldn’t.

All those years of mountains, claims, lands, and caravans had led Tonkil to one marshy riverbank. Silent tears of mingled grief and frustration rolled down his face. Not just for Tonkil, but for Elkhorn and the others with whom he had shared drink behind Tonkil's Rock, and the new hunters he had forced to join them.

After time, his grief stilled, and he was left in the silence of his chamber. The others had moved away from outside his door. It was quiet now. No longer could Yorvig pretend that leaving would be safe either for Onyx or the many dwarves he had lured to the ridges. Refusing to lead would not make him any less culpable for their deaths. So much he had wanted to believe it. He might not be rinlen, now, but he was an owner. More than that, he was at fault. Fault for so many things and so many lives. He could not walk away from that. Not now. Not and live with himself. He could either accept the guilt and weight of all those lives upon his shoulders, or what? Run?

He rose and headed to the adit. He would warn the herders. They might be out watching their flocks, and the others might neglect to tell them. The Owner's Drift was empty as he went. Soon, it would be dawn—dawn of the day he was supposed to marry. It would not be the day he expected. His mind sped, planning.

Early the next morning, a group of five prospectors arrived at the claim. Yorvig was at the adit to meet them. They were not from the same claims as each other; they were spread from three different claims in the area, and they had harrowing tales to tell. They had only survived because they had been under stone. Some of their companions had not been so fortunate. The ürsi came swiftly, attacking and dragging off the bodies of the fallen dwarves, but the beasts had not stayed long, or else the dwarves would not have made it to the dell. One prospector’s partner had simply vanished, not returning from an effort to check snares for small game. Only a great swath of blood in the pine needles and tracks of ürsi were to be found. The prospectors were shaken, clinging to their axes and picks even once they entered the adit.

News ran through the claim. All labor ceased, as the kulhan—perhaps just yowgan now—gathered to talk and demanded to know what was to be done. Yorvig left the other owners to handle the question, hating that all eyes kept turning to him. Sledgefist was doing most of the talking. The dwarves Sledgefist had brought from Deep Cut were familiar with him at least. They had not yet had an oath-taking, and some of the yowgan were threatening to leave, although Yorvig didn’t expect anyone to go far while ürsi were raiding, not unless they all went together. The herders demanded to know how they would be protected when they took the herds to graze along the river.

In the confusion, Yorvig left and sought out the surviving hunter from the night before, finding him snoring in a blanket-covered alcove, smelling of beer. His brow was wrapped and his beard cleaned of the blood, at least. Despite snoring, the dwarf's sleep looked untroubled—merely the stupor of drink. Yorvig went and brought a pitcher of beer and a mash of radish and some of the cave-bread that the wifs had fried from the fungus growing in the Low Adit storeroom. The wifs were propagating it in some of the older workings, now. He set these on the stone so that the dwarf would see them when he awoke. The hunter was now likely the dwarf who knew where the most claims were in the area. Satisfied at least for the time being, Yorvig went back to the High Adit drift, but the Owners were gone. The yowgan turned to look at him as he came up, but he ignored them, heading to the terraces. There, he found that Sledgefist had at least put lookouts to watch. So, he turned to the Owners Drift. Yorvig needed to speak with Onyx. Would they still marry? There was too much happening to answer all his questions at once. He stopped there, preparing to knock.

The door to Sledgefist's chamber opened, and Sledgefist stepped into the drift. He turned toward Yorvig's chamber, but Shineboot followed Sledgefist out and saw Yorvig.

"Chargrim," he said. Sledgefist stopped and looked back.

"Brother," he called. "We must speak." Sledgefist motioned to his chamber.

Yorvig sighed and joined them. He found Hobblefoot, Greal, Warmcoat, and Khlif inside the small chamber as well. Why they weren't using the meeting chamber, Yorvig didn't know. Onyx was notably missing.

“What have you decided?” Yorvig asked.

“The prospectors are fleeing here," Shineboot said. "The ürsi have been killing in all directions.”

"I know," Yorvig answered. It was past noon, and he had spoken with a number of the refugees before they even reached the adit, trying to learn more.

“More will be holed up in claims, if they’ve had enough time to dig,” Hobblefoot said. “But they won’t last long.”

Yorvig figured that would be the case. Tonkil was right about the ürsi. It made sense, now. The more of a thorn the dwarves became to them, the more they would band together and push back. He'd had time to think about it. They were always around in late summer and fall. They moved quickly, and the prospectors were many but scattered. The death that must come to the unwary had kept Yorvig up through the night and this day also. Would it have mattered if Yorvig had not stepped down? Would anything have changed for Tonkil and the others? He didn't know. He hadn't wanted more blood on his hands. What if renouncing rinlen had merely stained them more? Ay, yes, he had come to the Ridges in the wild hope of establishing his own line. But he had also come for his friends, cousins, brother. . .

“So what have you decided?” Yorvig asked again.

“We’re releasing you from your oath,” Sledgefist answered, and then leaning in he added: “You are the one to do this, Char. Not me. Not any of us.”

Yorvig looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see Onyx at the door.

“Chargrim, this isn’t about a maid anymore,” Shineboot said as if reading his mind. “Folk are going to die.”

“They are dying!” Sledgefist said.

“I know.”

“Then lead!” His brother raised his voice to a shout. “Shit on rinlen. I don’t care! Do it without a title if you must.”

“If Onyx doesn’t understand this,” Shineboot said. “Then she isn’t the maid you think she is.”

At first the statement made Yorvig angry. But it rang true.

“If you marry, you’ll have two shares of the mine between you," Hobblefoot said.

"We don’t need a mining rinlen, Char,” Sledgefist added, sticking with the familiar shortened name. “We need an Irik-Rhûl.”

Yorvig laughed. The phrase meant Mine Lord, a title in old stories from back in the days of the Kara-Indal and the ancient kings and queens whose Irik-Rhûl governed the out-mines. These were fireside tales for gilke and gilna, nothing more. But the others didn’t laugh.

“This is no Kara-Indal,” Yorvig said, trying to brush it off. They did not chorus.

"This isn't a mine anymore," Shineboot said. "No mining rinlen in Deep Cut grows their own food, or hunts, or brews."

“Go speak with the maid if you must,” Hobblefoot said. He didn't look happy nor sound it, but he said it nonetheless. Greal nodded his agreement.

"You will have our blessings. All of us."

“It’s the right thing, Char," Sledgefist added. "It's the only thing.”

Without replying, Yorvig turned and walked down the drift toward Onyx’s door. She might have been anywhere in the claim, but somehow he felt confident she was within, waiting. He knocked, and the door opened.

She wore no veil. He was still not used to seeing her without it. Her skin was smooth as marble, and her hair shone with new oil. It was like leaving the dark of a mine and stepping out into the sunlight. He let his eyes drift lower, not caring that she saw him taking in the fineness of her shoulders, carved like cast bronze, rising to the slope of her neck like a cavern pillar smoothed by master masons. Somehow, even within the iron of his purpose, he felt a flutter.

“I must lead them,” he said.

“I know why you laid it down, and I know why you take it up again."

“Will you still have me?”

"Would you do it anyway?"

"I must."

“We marry tonight,” she said.

“No.”

She frowned.

“Why not?"

“I must go out. If I marry you, and if I die, you will be a widow. I cannot do that to you.”

“You could have died from a rockfall, or a bleeding ulcer, or anything! Marrying is always a risk for a maid!” Onyx snapped, stepping back, her brow darkening with furrows.

“I know that, and you know that this is different.”

“What care I for widowhood? Am I not wealthy?”

“If we cannot survive this, then none of us are wealthy. I must lead this folk in a bloody business. These are our folk now. We brought them here, even the fools who didn’t believe us, and they’re dying. I cannot lead as I ought if I know I would leave you a widow.”

“If you fell, I would marry a trade.”

“But you want children. If you didn’t, you would have taken a trade years ago. You will live yet hundreds of years.”

“What makes it your decision?”

“I gave up my work with no certainty you would have me. I did it for the hope of joy. But I have a duty beyond joy.”

"Then so do I, and I will march along with you."

"I will not allow it."

"You renounced rinlen, and I will not swear oath to you as rinlen again, only as husband. You have no right to command me. I will take up hammer to fight the ürsi myself. Unless you leave me here as wif.”

Her eyes locked on his, resolute. He had no doubt she meant it, and by it he was overcome. She read it in his expression, and she smirked.

“My name is Ühlvaran,” she said. Yorvig gaped. That was a true name. It meant the glow of a flame in the darkness. She was supposed to tell him that when they consummated their marriage.

“I am Yorvig,” he said. It meant settled—like layers of sedimentary rock.

“Get the chain, Yorvig.”

They said their marriage oaths before the others in the Owners Drift, and Greal bound their arms in the iron chain. Khlif ran for a mug of whiskey, and the couple shared it together.

They had little time together. In another hour, shouting echoed down the drifts of the claim.

Within his chamber, Onyx handed Treadfoot to Yorvig, they pressed their foreheads together, and he stepped out of the door. When he strode toward the crowd in the High Adit Drift, the steel cap of Treadfoot sounding against the stone with each stride, the dwarves hushed and parted. Behind him followed the other mine owners. When he reached the center of their mass, he stopped. Sledgefist shouted for all to hear:

“Chargrim is Irik-Rhûl, chosen and sworn by the owners. We heed him. Listen!”

The time for formal oaths would come again. For now, Yorvig spoke, just loud enough that he knew it would carry, but quiet enough that they must attend.

“Bring me every blowing-horn in the claim. Tell Brownfoot to make hand bells in the smithy, and let there be no delay.” Yorvig hadn’t seen him there in the crowd before, but the movement of Brownfoot pushing his way toward the smithy caught his eye.

“The mining cadres will present to their chiefs in the dell as armed as able, prepared to march, each carrying a waterskin and nine pounds of rations from the stores,” he continued. “All others will remain on guard here and prepare for assault. Greal and Khlif will have further orders for you.”

There was a hesitation in the crowd.

“Go!” he said.

And they went.