The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

The noise of the storm was so loud, they would have had to yell to be heard, but as yet there was no need; they all knew the plan. Each cadre had only one purpose. Theirs was to ascend the south ridge and strike for One-Ear. They couldn’t see the ridge through the whipping snow, but dwarves could keep their directions upside down in the dark beneath a thousand feet of stone. They had stared out at the ridges for months, and they knew the distances and directions to guide them whether in pitch black or snow white.

Each cadre was committed without reference to the others. One hundred and twelve dwarves had poured out of the mine. They could no more know what was happening with the other cadres as the rear of the line could know about the front. Yorvig led straight across the dell. He knew when the ground would rise. He knew where the ladder on the dell wall would be. They handed up the second ladder without need for command, and Yorvig lowered it over the far side, swinging over and descending. Shineboot landed behind him in the snow, and Yorvig pressed on, going slow enough at first for the others to make it over the wall without losing sight of the next in line.

The ridge rose rough and treacherous in front of them. The snow had already fallen eight or nine inches. It was heavy and damp, giving them some purchase on the ascent. The hut of One-Ear was a few hundred yards upward beyond the wall. All the time Yorvig wondered how the others fared, but all he could hear was the wind and the crunching of snow beneath and behind him.

It felt like they moved so slowly. How long would it take the ürsi to stir? Though his leg complained, he fought it with clenched teeth. At last, Yorvig used the beak of his walking hammer to pull himself upward the last few feet, and then he saw the first hovels loom out of the blowing snow. He ignored them, checking back to make sure that Shineboot was still behind him and the others were making it up the steep final push. One. Two. Three. Four. They were still coming. He turned and stalked between the first hovels; they didn’t matter. There was no sign of ürsi outside in the bluster. The rush mats that covered the hut openings were pinned closed with rows of bone toggles.

Then color shone out of the snow ahead — yellow stripes of ochre paint on peeled birch bark. He raised a hand in signal. Other dwarves passed it back and broke off in groups of threes to the openings of the other nearby huts, while he, Shineboot, and two others moved ahead toward the striped hut. They reached the opening. The entrance cover was secured with the same bone toggles. Even through the pressing wind and the freezing hairs of his beard and mustache, Yorvig smelled ürsi. He waited a few moments, then hefted Treadfoot and motioned to the door. Shineboot stabbed the mat with a long knife and tried to draw down, but the rushes just bent. Even as he yanked, a javelin blade thrust outward, nicking Shineboot’s hand. He nearly dropped his dagger, but one of the other dwarves returned the thrust with his spike-ended spear. The javelin retreated. The third dwarf used the blade of his spear to slash at the side of the hut, this time horizontally. Chunks of bark tore away. They saw movement within, a flash of yellow. The others stabbed with their spears through the bark, pressing the ürsi back from the entry. Yorvig hooked the mat with Treadfoot's beak and ripped it open, bursting through the gap and nearly stepping into a blazing firepit. There were four ürsi there, shoulder to shoulder, and in the middle was the feather mantle.

An ürsi swung a serrate club, but Yorvig knocked it aside with Treadfoot. A javelin thrust at his chest from mere feet away, but he let it skid against his breastplate rather than parry, stabbing back with Treadfoot’s spike into the ürsi’s gut even as he stepped aside to evade a blow from One-Ear’s club. Then Shineboot was there, and the other dwarves leaning into the hut through slashed walls, pressing their long spears forward. One of the ürsi tore at the back of the hut with a knife to make an escape, but Shineboot’s spear drove home into its back. One-Ear leapt forward with a shriek and a flash of ochre, only to be spitted by another dwarven spear. Yorvig didn’t get a chance to land another blow. Spears punched and drove until the bodies were still.

Shineboot spit on One-Ear’s body, but as Yorvig looked down at the fallen ürsi, he saw that the beast was wearing a headdress fashioned out of an elk skull, black wirey hair hanging from beneath it. He had never seen One-Ear wear that before. He kicked at it, knocking the headdress away from the ürsi’s head.

“Shit!” Yorvig said. “Shit on him!”

“We did it,” Shineboot said, not realizing the reason for the outburst. “We killed the kulkur.”

Yorvig knelt down, actually grabbing the ürsi’s head in his hand and turning it side to side, as if somehow his eyes betrayed him. The ürsi had two ears.

“What are you doing, Chargrim?”

“This isn’t him!”

Shineboot stared.

"That’s the feathers.”

“It’s not him!” Yorvig rose to his feet. For the first time, he took in the contents of the hut. There were a few filthy hides on the ground, stone grinders, scrapers, and little holes dug full of nuts and roots. But hanging from the domed ceiling near the wall was a dangling leg. It was completely coated in some kind of black tarry substance, and it had pieces carved from it, the tarred bone projecting from the end. There were other scraps of blackened meat hanging with it, but he barely noticed anything but that leg. As if the sight restored his sense of smell, the vile reek of the hut struck him at once. He felt bile rising.

“Keep looking!”

He pressed back through the opening, gasping for the roaring winter wind. Shineboot following behind.

“I can’t see a blasted thing out here!” Shineboot yelled.

An ürsi fled past, so quickly they didn’t even have time to react. They saw dwarves stabbing into hovels, and now they could hear shrieks.

“Don’t spread too wide!” Yorvig shouted. He couldn’t tell if anyone besides those few clustered next to him could hear the words. There atop the ridge, the wind was so fierce they had to squint against the side-flying snow.

Shineboot pointed as an ürsi head poked out of a nearby hovel. They attacked. Another group of three dwarves arrived at the same moment, and together they ringed the hut and pierced and slashed with spears so the bark hung ragged and the occupants lay in their blood in the middle. One of the bodies had fallen onto the embers and smoked. The largest of the huts were barely twelve feet in diameter, leaving precious little room to avoid the spears.

Now, ürsi were rushing to and fro among the huts, but they acted confused and disordered, no more than three or four holding together at a time, others running headlong in all directions. The snow eased just enough to extend their sight five or six more yards, and the fighting began in earnest. The dwarves were few, and the ürsi that kept their heads noticed. If it weren’t for their shields, the dwarves could not have stood. Stones and javelins flew, yet the dwarves fought in small clusters between the huts, pushing toward any ürsi that held against them. Shrieks and howls mingled with the wind. About ten dwarves rallied around Yorvig as he called, voice cracking to rise above the storm. Where the others of the cadre had gone in the confusion and snow, there was no telling, but they pressed forward along the ridge, tearing open huts and moving with shields raised. He tried to be as methodical as could be in the confusion of huts and snow and fighting. They slashed through hut after hut, but most were empty, now.

One of the dwarves next to Yorvig fell. He turned to look, but there was a javelin pierced through the dwarf's throat. Where had it even come from? He counted the dwarves around him. Seven. When had it become seven? A cluster of ürsi burst out of a hut ahead, threw a few errant javelins, and fled away into the snow, watching over their shoulders at Yorvig and the others. The fleeing ürsi never saw the spears onto which they plunged. Emerging from the blowing snow ahead was a cluster of dwarves. Yorvig squinted at them. He didn’t recognize them—couldn’t make out their faces beneath their hoods and through the snow that clung to their beards. He rushed forward.

“What cadre are you?” Yorvig yelled.

“First!”

“Where is Sledgefist?”

The dwarf raised his shoulders and looked around as if to say, where is anything?

Yorvig still knew where they were. They had pressed over the crest of the south ridge and were on its downward slope, but they had not gone too far in their descent. This new group had pressed up along the ridge from the direction of the river. It wasn’t exactly the plan for the first cadre, but now was not the time to worry about plans made before battle.

“Hold with me!” Yorvig said, angling southeast, away from the river and toward the foot of the ridge. He had spent long hours standing in the terraces studying the smoke rising from beyond sight, and he knew that there were ürsi fires in that direction. Sure enough, as they reached the base of the ridge, they came upon a score or more huts clustered beneath pines. The ürsi there were already outside, aware of danger but apparently unsure of what to do or where it might appear.

As the dwarves emerged from the trees into the clearing, the ürsi loosed a scattered volley of darts and stones. Some of the foe charged, but some of them retreated. Yorvig heard dwarvish cursing, but he could not stop to look as an ürsi rushed at him. He brought down Treadfoot in an overhand blow. The ürsi parried up with a short stabbing blade, and Yorvig pulled down with the beak of the hammer, hooking the ürsi’s weapon and drawing the beast's arm down with it. He stabbed forward with Treadfoot’s spike, ramming it into the beast’s throat. It fell back, wheezing dark blood onto the snow. The dwarves advanced, and once again they slashed and thrust their way through the huts as ürsi threw their darts and fled. Few rushed at the dwarves to fight at close quarters—only those cornered or caught unprepared—and those died, staining the snow.

The score of huts turned out to be at least two-score, more emerging from the blizzard as they advanced, and Yorvig could not tell how long the fighting went on. At last, a pale light strengthened through the easing snow, already past noon by the angle. Even with the increased visibility, all he saw beyond the huts were pines and spruces, their branches laden with snow. There were no foes left in sight, just mangled huts and bodies. He gathered his dwarves about him. There were nineteen present.

“What cadres were you with?” he asked.

A few from his own fourth remained yet with him, including Shineboot who had stayed close by his side, his beard and blade stained with dark blood. Most of the rest called out “first cadre,” but a few also said “second.”

Yorvig knew they had wounded or dead left behind, and he was unwilling to leave them in this weather. Dwarves did not suffer heat or cold like humans did, but they could still freeze if left weak and exposed. Maybe he should have tried to tend to the wounded as they fell . . . Yorvig tried to shake off the thought. This was a time of action. Doubts could come in the dark, after the doing was done. He knew they would.

The wind seemed to lessen, and the blowing snow lightened yet more. It was then that Yorvig heard horn-blasts on the mountain: to the west, single blasts repeated at intervals, and to the northeast, double blasts. The first and second cadres.

“Stay with me,” Yorvig said to all those present. “We will search for the wounded together.”

And so began the process of backtracking up the hill as the storm acted as if it would blow itself out. If they had waited an hour or two later, the attack may never have happened. It was the snow that had aided them. Still, they could not relax. It was far from clear if the ürsi were defeated or merely scattered.

Yorvig tried to re-trace his steps, but others of the dwarves had joined him from other directions and recalled wounded there as well. He was unwilling to sunder the group. He was exhausted, his leg throbbing. Twice it buckled and took him to his knees, Shineboot and Treadfoot alone helping him regain his feet. The others were hard-pressed as well, struggling back up the ridge through the trampled snow and searching among the ruined huts for wounded. A few huts smoldered with fire where the structure had collapsed on embers.

By the time they reached the top of the ridge, they had found five wounded. Some they carried and others helped with an arm or shoulder. Yorvig picked out one of the less damaged hovels with a fire still burning, and though it stank of ürsi, they sheltered the wounded there under guard and continued the search. They were still searching among the huts atop the ridge when dwarves descended from the east, and Yorvig saw Hobblefoot leading them.

His elder cousin smiled as they clasped hands.

“I am relieved,” he said. “Relieved to find you. Have we won the day?”

“We have survived it so far,” Yorvig said.

“Did you kill their chief?”

“I have not found him.”

Hobblefoot cursed, but it was a passing darkness, for with grim satisfaction he said:

“We have made slaughter on the heights. I have sent wounded back to the claim, but I still have half my strength.”

“We are searching for our wounded,” Yorvig said. Even as he said it, the wind picked up again, whipping the fresh snow up from the ground and stinging their eyes.

“We have searched the ridge from above,” Hobblefoot said.

Yorvig gave orders for a detachment of his dwarves to move the wounded back to the claim. Joining with Hobblefoot, he continued on down the ridge slope toward the river.

On the way, a grisly scene met them—fives dwarves fallen amidst a heap of slain ürsi, their bodies pierced by javelin and crushed by stone. Yorvig recognized them from his own cadre, some of those separated in the fighting atop the ridge. He had no time to mourn, or energy to be spent on the dead. They bowed their heads as they passed, and raised their weapons in honor, though Yorvig could barely walk without leaning on Treadfoot.

Little enough fighting had taken place on the lower part of the ridge, by the look of it. What hovels they found there were empty. As they neared, Yorvig heard again the sporadic hornblasts of the first cadre from below and a little downriver. Letting the sound guide them, they soon found their comrades of the first cadre.

Sledgefist came stamping through the snow, his face bright red and his beard laden with icicles. He grabbed Yorvig in his arms while still clutching his mired shield and spear.

“We have routed them!” he said. “Routed them!” Ahead, Yorvig saw many ruined hovels in the woods along the river, smoke still trailing upwards.

“How are your wounded?” Yorvig asked.

“We have them under guard in the rear.”

“Is there any more fighting?” Yorvig asked.

Sledgefist shook his head.

“We were fighting here when more came flooding down the ridge from your direction. I feared for you. If they weren’t surprised to see us, it may have gone ill. We cut many down.”

Yorvig could tell that by the bodies littering the ground.

"We drove them off the heights," Yorvig said. "Let us return with our wounded.”

The storm was intensifying again, and even had they the energy, they would not see the dead further than a few feet away. Bodies would soon be covered by the drifting snow.

In another half an hour, they met the third cadre holding the mouth of the dell near the end of the bridge. There were plentiful ürsi huts there, too, and the already half-covered bodies of ürsi protruded stiff-limbed from the snow.

They clasped hands with Warmcoat.

“Where is Khlif?” Yorvig asked.

“Hurt, but I hope not unto death,” Warmcoat said. “I have sent him back with the other wounded.”

Yorvig tried to gauge the numbers of dwarves still standing around Warmcoat. It was fewer than he would have expected. Warmcoat saw his searching eyes.

“There are many hurt,” he said. “We were pressed upon from the north, even before we finished with these.” He motioned toward the broken hovels.

“You have held,” Yorvig said. “You have all done great deeds this day. Let us return under stone.”

“And out of this foul weather,” Sledgefist said.

“Foul weather a fair friend,” Shineboot replied.

“That it was,” Yorvig said. “That it was, for those who live.”

Under stone was little rest for Yorvig. Sums would never leave him. He stomped back and forth through the drifts on throbbing leg, from chamber to chamber full of wounded, counting and numbering. They had no surgeons among their numbers, but those who could helped as they might. At the very least, wounds were cleansed with the last of the whiskey, poulticed with lamb's ear and other garden herbs, and wrapped with clean felted wool. Hot tea was brewed twice and thrice and beards thawed, and for the first time in months no charcoal was counted as the dwarves of Glintridge thawed.

Greal and Onyx hovered over their brother. Khlif was pierced through the thigh by a sharp javelin. He had lost much blood, but it seemed staunched now, and though pale of face, he grinned when Yorvig approached with Treadfoot.

“Sister, fashion me one of those,” he said, pointing at the walking hammer.

“Shut up, you’ll be fine,” Onyx said. She had already shared her greeting with Yorvig. She had waited for him just inside the adit, ignoring his request to stay above as soon as reports of wounded had reached her. If it wasn’t for the breastplate she’d forged, her embrace may have crushed him. Later, he would find the breastplate scraped and dented from blade and stones, though he could not remember the blows.

Though he was relieved for Khlif, the sums weighed heavily on him. Maybe he should have given more dwarves to the third cadre. They had been grievously hurt when the ürsi from upriver rushed down. In all, twenty-three dwarves were missing. Twenty-three dwarves who had followed Yorvig's command. Yorvig had little hope for them, even if wounded and not dead. The weather was too bitter, and turning more so every moment. It was far too dark for the time of day. Another thirty dwarves were wounded, though most not grievously. Three, Yorvig feared, would not survive the night.

One of the three did survive the night, and to Yorvig’s greater amazement, four other dwarves arrived limping at the Low Adit door the morning after the battle, arms around each other for support. All of them were wounded, but they had sheltered in an ürsi hut, kept a fire, and survived the stormy night. Staying the night out in one of those vile huts must have been a horror, wounded and not knowing if the foe would return. Their backs were often and heartily slapped for many a day after. That morning dawned bright, with a high blue dome in the heavens. It had snowed another six inches or more through the night, with deep drifting, and apart from the slouching walls of the hovels sticking up above the snow, all signs of the battle were covered. Yorvig stood in the terrace watching through most of the day as Onyx brought him mugs of hot tea. He leaned on Treadfoot and waited.

At night, he went inside, but he returned the next day again, staring out over that undulating white landscape pierced by the deep green of the pines that shook off their burdens on the ridgesides. He had to squint to look out into the glare, so bright was the post-storm sun on the surface of the snow. Onyx tempted him down to eat a warm meal in the middle of the day, and then he toured among the wounded, trying to encourage them. Most didn’t need encouraging. Morale in the claim was higher than it had been in months, wounds and all. They grieved their losses, but reveled in the blows they had struck. Yorvig said a thanksgiving that there would be no more empty spots at the nine-sided table as Khlif’s flush of blood returned to his face.

In the evening, Yorvig climbed on his stiff leg to the terraces once again, squinting out toward the south ridge. Memories of the fight flashed in his mind, and fatigue burdened him. He stood there for a time, eyes closed, tired, remembering.

As if startled, he opened his eyes. There he was, his shoulders laden with yellow feathers. One-Ear, his head bare and his disfigurement on display. He'd descended the slope of the south and stood alone at a level with Yorvig. The two sole enemies stared at each other across the dell as they often had over the past months.

The ürsi raised an arm, wielding a short punching javelin. He pointed at Yorvig with his other hand.

“Shit on you,” Yorvig muttered.

At last, the One-Ear lowered his weapon, turned, and climbed up the slope. Looking back once more, the ürsi disappeared over the ridge.