The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Yorvig sat eating a breakfast of mashed radishes and leeks. Onyx was already up and at her labor in the smithy. Yorvig’s sleeping pattern was still off-kilter. A knock came at the door. It was not too unwelcome a distraction; some of the radishes used in the mash had turned, but they couldn’t be wasted.

“One moment,” Yorvig said, taking another bite. He’d learned to make eating mechanical when it could not be pleasurable. Chewing, he walked to the door and cracked it to see Thrushbeard standing outside. There was a stranger with him. Yorvig stepped out into the drift—he would not bring any into the chamber where he had his marriage bed.

“Rhûl,” Thrushbeard said. “A newcomer begs to speak with you.” Just like the name Glint, the dwarves had taken little time in shortening his title from Irik-Rhûl to simply Rhûl for everyday use.

Just behind Thrushbeard stood a young dwarf who looked like he must be barely past his rhundal. His clothes were stained by the road, but they were of indisputable quality. The fabric was heavy, the seams straight and fine, and the colors had once been fair—the shirt a uniform and deep blue, now marred by a few weather stains. Besides his clothes, Yorvig immediately noted that the dwarf had no visible tools besides a camp knife at his belt. His pack was of fine leather, but it lacked loops and ties for hanging tools.

“What is—” Yorvig began, but remembered to make some show of hospitality. “Welcome,” he said. “From Deep Cut?”

“Ay, yes,” the young dwarf answered.

“How goes it there?”

“The same,” he said. “Grain is dearer than last year, as the humans—”

Yorvig nodded and waved his hand. In truth, he had little interest in the goings-on of Deep Cut, anymore. In Deep Cut, meeting an unknown dwarf like this would have necessitated two or three formal niceties, at least some genealogical rehearsal, and talk about some uninteresting commonplace like the price of grain. None of that mattered in Glint.

“Thrushbeard can get you settled in, if you are planning to stay,” Yorvig answered, then looked at the dwarf's pack again. “What do you do?”

“I am called Lowpleat, a clothier,” he said. “Youngest son of the Pointed Bone hold, descendant of Halfshoe, who came with Tourmaline—”

Yorvig laughed, interrupting and discomfiting the newcomer both. A clothier was one of the crafters Yorvig was hoping to bring from Deep Cut. This was a welcome surprise, though he had no interest in the dwarf’s genealogy. Of a certainty, they would not be related or know the same folk. Yorvig’s kin were all from the poorer sort of miners, established enough to gain apprenticeship for the sake of heredity, but not much more. Even Yorvig had heard of that family of Deep Cut clothiers, though. Their name originally derived from the use of bone needles for some tasks, though he had no idea why a bone would be preferable. He was surprised that one of their members would come to the claim. He suspected that the dwarf failed to mention he was the youngest son of a youngest son, however far removed. Maybe he would have gotten to it if Yorvig had let him.

“What is your request?”

“I wish to be granted a hold so I can practice my trade.”

Yorvig pursed his lips. Welcome as the crafter was, there was a dearth of cloth, and until they could get some, he was another mouth.

“And where will you get your supplies?”

"I have brought some. I will trade for more.”

“Trade from whom?”

“I already put in an order.”

Yorvig stared.

“An order?”

“The pack train master said he would be departing two weeks after I left. I suspect it will take them longer to arrive than that. I was able to move quickly.”

Yorvig shouldn’t have been surprised. Any trader worth their salt would know they needed supplies and had gold to pay for them, probably at a steep price. If they didn’t yet know about the ürsi attack, there was no reason not to come. He wondered what they might bring.

“Ay, I suppose if your tools are light you could. . .” Yorvig said absently. “Did the master say what else the pack train was bringing?”

“No. I did not ask.”

The fool didn’t ask. Yorvig caught himself being unfair. What did this clothier know of the reality here? He was going to learn quickly.

“I see.” Yorvig stared at the dwarf until he noticed the clothier’s eyebrow twitch upward and he remembered that there had been a request.

“A hold. You don’t require flame. . .” Yorvig let that statement hang a moment in case the dwarf objected. He really didn’t know much about the clothier’s craft. “You can have an inner ten on the fourth drift.”

They were cutting a new drift, not parallel with the cliff like the others, but straight into the ridge. It was to accommodate the newcomers who wished to stay on. Yorvig was about to tell the dwarf to go talk to someone about which section he could have but then he realized he had told Thrushbeard to divvy it up for newcomers. Why hadn’t Thrushbeard just given the dwarf a hold?

"Thank you, but I was hoping for something more. I need—"

“Do you have a family?”

“No, not yet at least,” Lowpleat said. “But I need a large space for inventory, a workshop, and a private hold. . . I was hoping for a fifty.”

“A fifty? Are you going to dig a fifty?” Yorvig asked. That would take a skilled miner months to complete. How was this dwarf to eat in the meantime? No one ate for free at Glint. And the last thing they needed was another inexperienced dwarf crushed by falling rock.

“Well. . .” The clothier looked taken aback. “I was hoping you would order it cut. I have the design ready. . . I’m sure you’re aware, the dwarves here are quite ragged. You will need a clothier.”

Yorvig was well aware that his trousers were more patch than original cloth. Still. . .

“You want us to dig it for you?”

Perhaps the clan of the Pointed Bone were used to different ways of doing things.

“Only in the interest of time,” Lowpleat said. Yorvig could tell that he was doing his best to appear calm and confident, but there was an unnatural rigidity to his arms. “I could spend a year digging, but I’m afraid some of your dwarves will be going naked by then. And if I may suggest,” he went on. “I’d prepare more fifties. I know a cobbler who was planning to arrive this summer as well.”

Yorvig curled his toes in the hide slippers he wore. It made sense. The youngest dwarves of a family who knew the craft but had none of the authority or honor would see a place like Glint as an opportunity to establish themselves apart. Demand was higher than anywhere else, and where gold was more plentiful than decent clothing, prices could also be high.

“Are you intending to swear an oath as kulhan and work for the claim?” Yorvig asked. He already knew the answer, but this had turned into barter.

“No, I did not come here to be kulhan. I seek only to practice my craft. My needed craft.”

“Kulhan or not, this is our claim by rights.”

“I understand, and I submit to your authority here. I only ask to be allowed to follow my trade in freedom.”

“All your supplies will have to be purchased,” Yorvig countered. “Not even your food and drink will come free.” If it was to be a battle of supply and demand, that could go both ways.

“I am here for business.”

Yorvig nodded.

“Will you dig the hold?” Lowpleat asked.

“We will dig the hold,” Yorvig answered. “At a cost. You will make eight sets of clothing to show the quality of your work. Seven for dwarves and one for a wif. You will measure for them. They will be done first of all your craft. These are the price of the mining. You will do the same once every year, or the value in gold, in exchange for the right of trade here.” Honestly, Yorvig did not know exactly how long it took for a clothier to make a simple set of work clothes, but he had purchased clothes before in Deep Cut. He did not expect anything fancy or embroidered. They needed hardy stuff.

“Eight per year is too high,” Lowpleat said. “Let it be four.”

“Four, but the sets have cloaks.”

“That is too much fabric.”

Movement caught Yorvig’s eye and he saw Onyx enter the Owner’s Drift and head toward them.

“And what if I outbid you for the fabric?” Yorvig asked, his voice a shade quieter. It was a rude question, but this wasn’t Deep Cut.

The clothier tensed.

“I have an arrangement already.”

“This time,” Yorvig said. “Let the first eight sets for the mining be without cloaks, but the four per year thereafter have cloaks.”

“I will agree to this,” Lowpleat said, frowning. “But I ask that you do not gouge me for my other needs. If I cannot make it worth the privations, I will leave, and you will be naked.”

“I pity us all if that should happen,” Onyx said, arriving. They were blocking the door to her and Yorvig's chamber, so she came to a stop.

Lowpleat made a half-bow to her while Yorvig turned to Thrushbeard:

“I will speak with the rinlen and we will determine where these fifties will be. Please settle our friend until it is decided.” Thrushbeard nodded, giving Yorvig a slight smirk.

Yorvig turned back to Lowpleat. "Welcome."

Lowpleat gave another half bow and left following Thrushbeard.

Onyx waited until they were gone.

“Negotiating in the drift,” she said with a slight shake of her head. She still wore her veil while about in the claim. “You need a reception chamber.”

“It would be useful, ay, but I don’t have the time to dig it.”

Onyx rolled her eyes.

“Obviously you don’t have the time. That is why you will order miners to dig it according to my plans. And while they dig the reception chamber, they will out the rest of our fifty.”

“You have plans?”

“Of course I have. And you won’t give me difficulty over assigning the miners, either.”

“It’s just. . .”

It felt wrong. A dwarf normally dug their own family hold. . . then again, Lowpleat didn’t intend to do so. But Lowpleat wasn’t a miner.

“You have dug the whole claim,” Onyx said, heading him off. “And you have better things to do than argue with your wif. Or a fellow claim owner. So I will go tell Khlif to handle the mining with some of the unsworn yowgan. He is kin, after all.”

“Ay, he is. But I will talk to him about it.”

It may as well be Khlif to dig the clothier’s fifty as well, he thought.

“So long as it is to my design.”

“It will be to your design.”

Onyx nodded, then lifted her head to him. He pressed his forehead against hers.

This was going to be the way of things. Yorvig couldn’t deny it. The prospectors were here, and any dwarf who could turn a profit from them would come, too. The claim would turn to trade rather than all having their needs provided by the mine. They had to provide too much that they couldn’t rely on Deep Cut to supply. They were too far away, and few skilled crafters would take oaths as kulhan—not when they could set up for themselves. The kulhan would then spend wages for what the unoathed crafters could supply.

The problem was how to maintain control and keep the wealth flowing to the claim and not away from it. The herders, thankfully, had sworn on as kulhan, too, and Sledgefist had paid outright for the flocks in Deep Cut. Herders would never have survived here otherwise, and apparently some still thought it a worthwhile endeavor. Yorvig wasn't sure he entirely understood the bargain for the herders. The gardeners were kulhan, too, growing food on claim dirt.

They had to pay their kulhan gold and supply them food. All others would have to buy food from the claim. For now, the mine controlled life. But he couldn't be there every time there was trade for food. It was at risk of being skimmed by unscrupulous kulhan or secret deals made. They needed ledgers, tallies, and strict inventory. Yet Yorvig couldn't even read speaking runes. Onyx had spoken the truth about needing someone to write for him, but he would have to trust them.

The owners sat at the nine-sided table. Next to Yorvig was Savvyarm’s empty chair. Yorvig touched the edge of the seat with his fingertips as he thought. A single dish-style oil lamp gave off a steady light.

Yorvig listened to the banter around the table, sipping on his hot tea flavored with birch syrup.

“Salt is the main thing,” Sledgefist was saying. “What I wouldn’t give for a salt spring!”

“We’ll be able to trade for salt enough. It is cheap in Deep Cut, and we are rich,” Hobblefoot said.

“I’m not making the trip.” Warmcoat folded his arms.

“No one is making you,” Hobblefoot said. “We can pay someone to do it.”

Yorvig smiled absently, but it was a smile of the moment. Already his mind had searched far ahead. They had won the siege. . . But if Tonkil’s stories of the Long Downs had taught Yorvig anything, it was that a single mine could not resist forever. And in his gut he felt a certainty they would see One-Ear again.

He leaned forward, and the others stopped talking, recognizing the signal.

“I have an idea.”

“What sort of idea?” Sledgefist asked.

“We’ll need to start by discussing trade routes—”

“That’s what we’ve been talking about!” Greal said.

“And then what?” Shineboot asked, ignoring Greal.

Yorvig smiled.

“Something that might turn this claim into a colony.”

"A colony?" Hobblefoot asked, hesitant. "What do you mean? You want more yowgan? What will we feed them?"

"Not just yowgan. I want their families, too. And not just here, but all through this range."

"More claims to be dependent on us?" Shineboot asked.

"And more we have to protect," Sledgefist added.

"And if we are to protect all these claims, then we should gain the benefit," Yorvig said. "We should control it."

“No self respecting dwarf will come to the Red Ridges and stake a claim only to give up its wealth to another,” Hobblefoot said. “We have no right to call this whole territory ours. Even if we tried to enforce it, there would be bloodshed.”

“We don't have to claim the whole territory as our own,” Yorvig answered. At least, that wasn’t possible. A dwarf could only keep the rights to a claim if they or their kulhan could actually work or inhabit it. Empty claims were no claims at all.

“Then how are we to control it?” Sledgefist asked.

“What have we been doing since we came here?”

“Mining?” asked Khlif.

Yorvig stopped himself from dropping his head into his hands.

“We’ve been trying to survive. Hunting. Cultivating. Making charcoal. Building forges and workshops. Fighting ürsi. Every dwarf who comes here will have to do the same. Unless.”

“Unless they come to us for their needs,” Onyx said.

"We know this already," Sledgefist said. "That has been the plan."

“And we must expand it. These dwarves are gold-hungry, just as we were." Yorvig felt gracious by saying we. "So we buy donkeys. We establish pack trains. We create a supply post at the south gap. We make sure all the nearby claims get their provisions through us."

"And pay for it," Hobblefoot said, clasping his hands. "We could set the prices."

"We’re just establishing more trade—pack trains from Deep Cut and East Spire. The wealth of the ridges will flow through—” Yorvig pointed at the stone table. “Here.”

“That is ambition,” Shineboot said, his eyes narrow. "Is it just to seek such control?"

"It is not an end in itself. It is merely the first part, the foundation for the second."

"And that is?"

“Protection.”

“We have already made it known that the prospectors should come here if in danger," Sledgefist said.

“I do not mean that. You know how Deep Cut has the Jackals of the Waste.”

“Oh, you cannot be serious,” Greal said. Onyx shot him a sharp glance, but that only made Greal frown with annoyance.

The Deep Cut Guards only concerned themselves with the protection of Deep Cut, itself, but the Jackals moved about the Waste, making sure caravans were not harried by beasts or the human robbers who sometimes lurked near the borders of Laith and Senland.

“Such a contingent could travel the ridges, map the claims, share news, guide pack trains, and above all scout for ürsi. We cannot be surprised like this again. We must have a method of warning. That we must accomplish above all.”

“We have defeated the ürsi,” Sledgefist said.

“They migrate here in the fall and into the winter. They will return.”

“Maybe they did. But if they can remember anything, they’ll remember losing.”

“Do you honestly think they will return after such a defeat?” Shineboot asked, but not in the agitated tone of Sledgefist.

“Where else will they go?” Yorvig replied.

“The humans have pushed them out of the west and press them in the north,” Greal offered with a conciliatory tone. “Laith and Senland might even take the Long Downs from what I heard before we left Deep Cut.”

“And in the south the steppes go on for hundreds of miles with little to speak of, they say,” Yorvig added.

“The humans are always taking land,” Hobblefoot grumbled.

“What is to the east?” Shineboot asked.

“A sea, eventually.” Yorvig had sought that knowledge before he came to the ridges. So far as he knew, no dwarves had ever seen it, or even been east of the ridges, but the human traders brought maps. The human world was thin and broad, like metal beaten nearly through.

The dwarves about the table looked thoughtful. It was obvious nothing would go into a sea if it had any sense—not even ürsi.

“How many?” Hobblefoot asked.

“How many seas? Seas are bigger than lakes,” Sledgefist said. “I’m sure there’s only one.”

“How many for this contingent, or whatever they are to be called,” Hobblefoot said, not looking at Sledgefist. “It will take a great number, if you are right about the ürsi.”

Yorvig had already thought of a name. The Ridge Wardens. He felt nervous to say it though. It felt grandiose.

“Thirty to start if we can find them. They can move in groups of fifteen to start, armed and ready. Eventually, more.”

“Many hands lost to work,” Hobblefoot said.

“With promise of reward, I hope some of the prospectors who came to us for shelter might be persuaded.”

“Some of them have already left to go back to their claims. The boldest, at least,” Shineboot said.

“We will do the best we can. I think some may be persuaded. There will be gold in serving in this way. Maybe more.”

There was a time when Yorvig might have been tempted by such a role. Yet he could not. Great exertion was hard on his leg, and now he had a wif. The idea of going off on such expeditions would mean being parted from her. He’d been married such a short time. That was the last thing he wanted.

"They will be most exposed on the surface," Shineboot said. "Most at risk of ambush from the ürsi."

"We must establish regular strong places in the rock. We should not go a day or even half in any direction without some hope of shelter."

“Do the prospectors trade for this protection as well?” Hobblefoot asked.

Yorvig paused, thinking. He’d thought about it before, but it was still tempting.

“Not with gold,” He would keep to the decision he made in the night. “We are one folk. We protect our own. But no one eats for free, whether by labor or gold. Only we can guard the pack trains—and bring them here.”

"Or stop others?" Hobblefoot asked.

Yorvig squinted. He had wondered about that, himself, but it did not feel right. Such heavy-handedness might turn folk against them, and they had no natural right to impede trade.

"That is not befitting a free dwarf, cousin," Sledgefist said, an edge in his voice.

"It was a question," Hobblefoot snapped. "I am not the one trying to raise a war host."

"Easy," Yorvig said, raising his hand. "I will take whatever trade comes this way, at least as far ahead as I can see."

“There is one other thing,” Onyx said.

Yorvig looked over at her. She had not spoken to him about anything else beforehand.

“Ay?”

“Disputes. Between dwarves and between claims. They will need arbitration.”

There was a pause.

Arbitration was not a duty that Yorvig wanted. In Deep Cut, arbitration could go on for years, and the more arbiters, the more complex the arguments became. In the end, the Deep Cut Council held the right to settle any disputes that the arbiters could not, but that did not keep them from endless arguments and deflections. Most dwarves lived their lives away from any serious matters of claim-law, keeping to the simple traditions. That could not be said for the mighty.

“Perhaps there won’t be a great need,” he said.

Onyx arched an eyebrow.

“There is great wealth involved and many claims.”

Yorvig sighed.

“This burden I do not want. I do not wish to sit in judgment over the matters of other claims.”

“No one said it had to be you,” she answered. The muscles around her eyes flexed and relaxed. He’d seen that look before. There was challenge there.

“What makes us think folk will heed our arbitration in their own claims?” Greal asked. “Even the Council does not arbitrate outside of Deep Cut. Or the Waste, at least.”

“For safety," she answered.

“I don’t follow you,” Sledgefist said. “Safety from what?

“I remember you and Hobblefoot nearly coming to blows, if I had not stopped you," Onyx said.

A hush followed that. Yorvig tried to break it.

"There might be need," he acknowledged. He didn’t want to encourage Onyx in the matter, but he also felt obligated to aid her. Besides, he knew it was better to be prepared for trouble than to be surprised.

“There has always been risk of murder among new claims,” Onyx continued. “Think of Copperbiter in the Long Downs, or Yellowshank when East Spire was young."

Sledgefist fake-spat at the names.

“Foul deeds,” he said. “I hope we see nothing like it.”

Onyx’s examples were a century and more old, and yet it was true—they had been committed in the dividing of new territory. Murder was not without precedent, but it was rare enough to cause a great stir. And one murder had a horrid way of leading to reprisals of one kind or another.

“Hope is soft,” Onyx intoned.

They all knew the rest of the saying: hope is soft, rock is hard. Things didn’t always go how you wanted. "Would we let it go unpunished," she asked, "if it occurred in these ridges? Who else could enforce a judgment?”

"To enforce a judgment like that by strength of arm," Greal said, looking back to Yorvig. “You’re talking about. . . That would make you like a shul.” It was the old word for king.

“Don’t use that word," Yorvig said. "That word belongs in stories. Let there be only the Crippled King in the Red Ridges.”

“These are dangerous matters,” Sledgefist said. "This is far beyond mining. Or fighting, either."

"If we dig the drift aright, what we do will provide safety for these ridges, and wealth for ourselves."

"Wealth and power," Hobblefoot said.

They all sat in silence for a time.