The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

The old stope near the High Adit drift—now called the Hall of Assembly—was festooned with fragrant new-cut cedar boughs. Oil lamps glowed, filling the hall with flickering light. Salted pork sizzled over coal braziers, and stews of spring-vegetables steamed. The hall was filled with trestle tables, as was the next nearest stope, enough to feast the entire mine. Warmcoat and Shineboot sat at a table upon a dais, sporting new sets of clothes. Both of their faces were flushed. Next to them sat their brides with hands folded upon their laps despite the food before them, too demure on such a solemn occasion to lift their veils to actually eat. One wore a fine new blue dress and scarlet veils, the other in reverse color. Yorvig had made sure that Lowpleat had attended to the needs of the bridal couples despite the long list of orders he acquired as soon as he announced himself.

Double weddings were unheard of in Deep Cut. A groom would seek to demonstrate his ability to provide with a lavish feast for relatives, friends, and business partners and no one wanted to divide the glory of such a thing. But in Glint, providing for more than one feast was hardly possible, especially since they had decided to make it an occasion for the whole claim, so much as they could. Ample drink would compensate for limited meat.

Yorvig sat with Onyx to the side of the hall, sipping fiery brandy and chewing on salt pork. Greal and Khlif sat with them, as did Thrushbeard. Hobblefoot and Sledgefist sat with the dwarves of their mining cadres, still not keen to keep each other’s company. That pained Yorvig, for he had hoped that with the question of Onyx settled and each now acting as rinlen of their respective endeavors, they would rediscover the conviviality they had once known. It had not yet come to pass.

The herders, as it turned out, were a musical folk. The sound of pipes, whistles, horns, and stone-flutes pulsed and blared in the hall, often overpowered by the lively talk of the assembled dwarves. The heavy downbeat was never quite lost. Most dwarves sang—songs were effective at coordinating the rhythms of group labor—but it was pleasant to hear the instruments in the hall, reminding of the stew-halls and celebrations of their former home. This was Glint's first such occasion.

The fathers of the brides—Crookleg and Foundstalk—rose together, and the music and speech stopped. Yorvig looked up as the hush descended. It was time.

Each of the two fathers held a cloth-wrapped object in their hands as they approached the dais. When they reached the tables, they bid the brides and grooms to rise. The fathers set the cloths down on the table and slid them away, revealing two fine-worked chains of delicate gold.

There was a whisper of muttering in the hall. Chains of gold! They were Onyx’s delicate work, and even though she wore her veil, Yorvig knew by the fine wrinkles that formed at the corner of her eyes that she was smiling.

Chains of silver were used by tradition. Gold was too rare a thing in Deep Cut—but not here. It was a goodly portion of Warmcoat and Shineboot's personal hoards, but they had accepted Onyx’s offer to fashion it into chains.

Yorvig was thankful that the fathers of the brides did not make long speeches. Normally, they would expound on the metaphor of the silver chain: marriage bonds could grow tarnished, so they must be polished afresh and not neglected, and other such. They refrained from those sayings. Pure gold does not tarnish, and while everyone knew there was some amount of alloy in their gold—mostly copper, from its slightly reddish color—no one was going to make a metaphor of it.

In parallel, each bridal father solemnly wrapped the chain around the arm of their daughter and the respective groom, binding the couple together. So they would remain for the rest of the evening until the brides were led away to their groom's stonehold.

“So you are bound,” said Foundstalk. “And so you shall remain,” said Crookleg. “We all bear it witness, and we all hold you to it, until you go to the halls of the Crippled King. So it shall be.”

Such oaths were not idle, nor did they dampen spirits. The hall broke into cheers and shouted toasts as the dwarves rose to their feet, slapped the tables, stomped, and banged their mugs. The noise did not die away, only calming somewhat back to a lively chatter. The music once again throbbed atop the din.

And that was it. They were married. Almost. The rest would come later and alone, after the procession of bride and groom to their stoneholds. After that the tables in the hall would be pushed aside, and the plodding group dances of the dwarves would form the old circles and patterns through the stopes and down the drifts. The dwarves had separate dances from the maids and wifs, but all joined together at times. For those dances, dwarves and maids held opposite ends of a scarf rather than hands together.

Onyx glanced at Yorvig, and he blushed. It was still so strange to him to be married. It was such a private thing on such public display. He stood, raised his mug to the dais, smiled at his friends whose blushes were much deeper than his, and finished off his brandy. It was good brandy. He wondered when next they’d have so fine a liquor.

The next glass would be birch beer. The table pitcher was low, so he took it and headed to the keg. It was warm in the deep stope-hall. It was good to celebrate again.

Yorvig sat in his newly excavated reception hall. It was situated just off the main High Adit drift near the entrance to the Owner’s Drift, and it had a narrow second passage that connected with his and Onyx’s private hold. Onyx had overseen Khlif's cadre in its digging, as well as the transformation of their fifty. There was a new greeting chamber at the front, a larder, a kitchen, storeroom, workshop, and six other chambers, one of them their own bedchamber. It was like something from Deep Cut in size and design, much bigger than Yorvig’s family hold growing up. The stone of Deep Cut was claimed for many miles by mining companies, and the pillared mines they often left behind were too vast and open for habitation. To live close to the heart of Deep Cut often meant to live small. Yorvig's family only had a twenty in Deep Cut, and that by long inheritance alone. Technically, they still had it, though it was empty and unused. Left uninhabited for twenty years, it would be sold by the Council.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in.”

It was Thrushbeard—precisely who Yorvig had been expecting, mostly because he’d sent for him.

“You summoned?”

“Ay, yes, have a seat,” Yorvig said.

There was a single piece of parchment on Yorvig’s table—the freight manifest from Eldenhaul, which the old dwarf had apparently given him to keep; he hadn’t asked for it back. Yorvig sometimes looked at it, thinking about the runes.

Thrushbeard sat in the chair across the table. The dwarf was probably about fifty years of age, not overly young but still in early prime. Dwarves as a rule didn’t inquire of someone’s specific age, as it could easily be considered a slight. Dwarves hated to be considered too old for labor, and they hated to be thought too young for consideration. Neither was a threat to Thrushbeard, but questioning was still impolite. The dwarf had apparently gotten his name from his curly beard—tangled much like the cliff-hugging nest of a thrush.

“I have kept you long on the wall,” Yorvig said.

Thrushbeard nodded, waiting. He could sense this was an unusual meeting.

“Do you grow bored?”

Thrushbeard opened his mouth, but he faltered. Yorvig realized he thought it a trap, so he asked something safer.

“Why did you come to the Red Ridges?”

Yorvig knew Thrushbeard had come as a prospector seeking to stake his own claim, but had fled to Glint when the ürsi attacked. Like many, he had stayed on rather than return to his old claim.

“To prospect.”

“To gain wealth?”

“Ay, yes.”

“And if you could have gained the same wealth in Deep Cut, or here, would you have still come?”

Thrushbeard hesitated again.

“I feel a fool saying it, but I like it here better,” he said at length.

“Why is that?”

Something about the question resonated with Thrushbeard, because when he spoke, the hesitation had fled.

“Even stationed at the gate, I feel that a dwarf’s deeds matter here. Here there are stakes. In Deep cut. . . it all felt the same.”

Yorvig nodded. He knew the sentiment. He could have said the same words about Deep Cut, himself.

“Would you like a more active role in this endeavor?”

“Ay, that I would.”

“We are going to form a contingent of dwarves. They will be called the Ridge Wardens. They will map this region, they will travel the claims, they will scout for ürsi, they will warn of danger, and they will protect trade.”

“How many?”

That was the hardest question. Yorvig wanted at least thirty to start, but it would be difficult to find volunteers. He would not order kulhan to venture at such risk of their lives.

“That you must help me discover. They must be volunteers. Are you willing to lead them?”

“Lead them?" Thrushbeard thought for a moment. "I would lead them. But I fear not many will risk it. I know a few stout yowgan who might. But everyone knows what happened to Tonkil’s rangers.”

“That is why they will be paid double, and you triple.” It was a costly choice, but Yorvig had settled on it as the only option. He had found that Greal had a mind for meticulous work, a trait that aided him in the faceting of gems. It also meant he was good with numbers. The claim was heavier in ore than in gems, so Yorvig had put Greal in charge of portioning out the wages of the dwarves, among other details. Greal had complained more than the other owners at the expense of the Ridge Wardens, but Yorvig had carried the argument. It helped that Greal did not truly believe many would volunteer for such a dangerous role, even with the incentive.

Thrushbeard kept his face blank, but Yorvig knew the offer carried weight.

“I can think of five who would join me,” he said.

“Then take those five, and set them to convincing others. From today, you are rinlen of the Ridge Wardens. Update me within the week. Find me thirty, or as many as you can.”

“There are only two hundred in the claim,” Thrushbeard said, surprised.

Two-hundred and seven, in truth. But Yorvig didn’t say it. They had picked up more of the poor of Deep Cut who had not come well enough equipped to stake their own claims. Far more were trying to make a go of it in the valleys and ridges of the region.

“Do your best,” Yorvig said.

“I will." Thrushbeard looked to the side, and his brow furrowed.

"What is it?"

"Even with thirty. If the ürsi do come back. . . we will be far from safe should they ambush us."

"Ay, yes. It is a dangerous task. But we will equip you as best we can. And we will make it harder for them to come at you unaware."

"How?"

"You will have Mine Runners."

"Cats?"

Yorvig nodded.

"Cats."