The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Twelve Years Later

(Seventeen years since the staking of the claim)

The reception chamber was full of parchments. Parchments stacked on inset shelves in the rock. Parchments in ordered rows along the tables. Ledgers in cubbies. Yorvig dipped the nib of his steel-point and stared down at the figures, rubbing his eyes. All these sums would change in a month, anyway. Their third pack-train would arrive in that time, bringing yet another load of salt. Salt for meat, salt for seasoning, salt for brining and fermenting and pickling in great stone crocks. . . Salt was one of the perennial expenditures, and the Deep Cut merchants sold it to Glint at a higher price than to any other, even the humans. They had all banded together to do it, too. Yorvig had even tried to purchase a salt mine in Deep Cut, but the Council had forbidden it. They wouldn't even let him buy shares.

Shit on them.

He slid his chair back and rose. That was enough for tonight. He blew out the oil lamp, leaving only the glow of the Miner’s Eye. The fungus had taken strong hold of the upper workings, now that the dust and disturbance of active mining was so far away. He left his reception chamber and headed to the spiral stair. Instead of leaving the stair to go to the terraces—nearly the whole cliff was carved now—he continued up. In the evenings, Yorvig often climbed the winding stair to the top of the ridge, emerging in the fortification he’d ordered built three years before. It was the latest of his fortifications, protecting the top of the cliff and overlooking the dell, the surrounding valleys, and the course of the river running south. The evening was clear, the smell of damp spring earth rising high above the valley floors. Yorvig’s leg ached, but he stubbornly refused to let it stop him. The exercise was good for it, he told himself. He stomped up the tower to the top chamber, where a massive iron bell hung suspended from great wooden trusses. A clapper the size of his head was wrapped in cloth to keep the wind from sending alarm through the ridges. The sound of the bell could carry for miles.

They were “his” fortifications because the kulhan grumbled when they were sent into the sun to build, just like they grumbled when they underwent their mandatory martial exercises. At least Shineboot, Warmcoat, and Khlif had given up complaining about so much labor being redirected. The labor shortage was not what it once was, anyway. There were 1,307 dwarves in Glint. He’d done the figure that morning, scratching on parchment.

From there, Yorvig watched evening descending. No longer were the ridges covered in trees, at least not for a mile north and south. In the rivervalley, protected stands of maples and birches stood like islands, surrounded by split-rail fences to keep the sheep away. Even the eastern ridge was bare of trees over half-way up its slope, growing grasses and moss instead. He could see the wool of the white sheep standing out in the falling evening, knowing the black and grey and brown ones would be there, too, hidden in shadows for miles. The herders had expanded far beyond the protective wall of the dell, digging new sheepfolds at regular intervals. Yorvig had wanted to continue expanding the walls but Crookleg talked him out of it; there was simply no way to pasture all the flocks behind walls in case of a siege, nor could the dwarves hold all those walls. Crookleg had reported close to seven thousand head of stock now ranging the ridges and valleys along the river—sheep, goats, and pigs. In the case of a siege, the flocks could all be brought either within the dell walls or into folds, many of which were connected by tunnels to Glint, itself. That wouldn’t solve their problem for more than a month before they would need to start slaughtering the beasts. Most of those that could be herded into sheep folds in the rock would end up being butchered there and salted or smoked. There was no way around it. It was a vulnerability that nagged at Yorvig constantly.

Yorvig glanced up to the top of the east ridge. There was no way to see the Ridge Warden redoubt there on the crest thousands of feet above the river, but he knew it was there. Within it, Ridge Wardens watched to the east, to the source of their true threat. Thankfully, summer had not yet fully bloomed, and the fall raids were yet months away. Glint was less a single mine and more the hub of a wheel of claims and outposts, but they could only keep what they had the warriors and food to defend.

Walking back to the western window, he looked down at the flowing river.

There—movement coming up the river. He saw perhaps a dozen dwarves on foot, with only three donkeys between them. More migrants, no doubt. They would stream to Glint in their family groups through the summer, as they had for years.

Yorvig was still in the tower staring absently into the distance and thinking when one of the sentries reached him at a run, his face streaming with sweat, hair matted. He had obviously raced up the entire stair.

“Rhûl,” he said. “Hobblefoot has come.”

Yorvig wanted to run down the stairs, but he forced himself to walk. He knew his leg might give way if he hurried, and he valued his teeth more and more. The sentry slowed his pace to let Yorvig keep up with him. When they reached the High Adit drift, Hobblefoot was already there. Yorvig was surprised how glad he was to see his older cousin. It had been twelve summers. He looked much the same, and when he saw Yorvig, he stepped from the head of the cluster of dwarves and rushed to his cousin with arms wide. They embraced, laughing. Warmcoat was already there, but Shineboot was deep in the delvings, and it would take him time to return.

“Cousin! It does my heart good to see you,” Hobblefoot said. In his broad smile there was none of that conflict that Yorvig had known before. He put one arm over Warmcoat’s shoulders and one arm over Yorvig’s, drawing them close against both sides.

“And mine to see you,” Yorvig said. He was looking at the group of dwarves who had come with Hobblefoot. There were four wifs among them, and some gilke and gilna, but near the fore was a veiled and scarfed wif wearing a grey travel cloak over her dress. The fabric was dense and of finest quality. In her arms she held a gilke who could not yet be three years old.

“Here!” Hobblefoot said. “May I introduce to you my, wif, Spinel, and my son! My son!”

Yorvig bowed. A pang of jealously struck him. A babe in just seven years! He masked his face with joy.

“It is my utmost honor,” he said. Spinel inclined her head in typical wifish fashion and held up the face of the gilke for him to see.

“And these are my kin,” Hobblefoot said, motioning. He proceeded to name and introduce his father-in-law, mother-in-law, five of Spinel’s brothers, one gilna sister, two of her brothers' wifs, and a few of their gilna and gilke as well. Yorvig smiled and nodded and bowed, knowing he did not hope to remember so many names so quickly introduced.

“You must be weary from your journey,” he said. “We will feast you, and I will have your hold prepared.” Years ago, Yorvig had all of the absent owners' fifties excavated in fine style along the Owner's Drift, on the hope that perhaps one day they all might return. He’d even excavated a fifty for Savvyarm, thinking that maybe one of his relatives might someday come. They never had.

“By all means, please, fete my kin,” Hobblefoot said, turning to Yorvig. It was then that his brow darkened, folding in familiar lines that Yorvig remembered well. “But we must talk, and we must talk soon. I have come here wasting no time.”

Yorvig believed he had wasted no time, because if he had stopped at the southern outpost, word would have reached Yorvig ahead of him.

“Go get Second Cyprine,” Yorvig said to the sentry who still stood in the drift. The wif was called Second Cyprine merely because there was another Cyprine who had been there first. “Tell her to see to our guests in Hobblefoot’s hold.”

Hobblefoot tilted his head.

“I’m afraid they won’t all fit in my old chamber,” he said.

“Don’t worry." Yorvig grinned. "Your hold will fit them. At least until we can delve and settle your brothers in their own holds.”

It took Hobblefoot a few moments to catch that gesture, but he smiled.

“Where can we talk?” he asked.

Yorvig led him not to the reception chamber, but to the feasting chamber in his own stonehold, where there were chairs awaiting them covered with lambskins. It was hardly ever used, but it was more fitting for kin. When they entered, Onyx heard the voices and emerged from her workshop.

“Hobblefoot!” she said.

Hobblefoot bowed.

“Onyx.”

“Welcome back. I had no idea you were coming.”

“I apologize for the surprise, but haste was necessary.”

“Hobblefoot’s family is here too,” Yorvig said. “They are to be fed and welcomed in Hobblefoot’s hold.”

“Then why aren’t we going there?” Onyx asked.

“There is news I must share in private,” Hobblefoot said.

Onyx looked from Hobblefoot to Yorvig for a moment, then sighed.

“Tell me later,” she said. “I will go and make the guests welcome.”

With that, she stepped into their private chamber.

Yorvig was a little surprised that she would choose to go to Hobblefoot's family, after how poorly she had gotten on with Sledgefist’s wif. But Onyx had been a little strange of late.

“Sit,” Yorvig said. There was a samovar sitting on a table nearby, but it was cold and empty, hardly ever used. One thing he did have was mead in the larder, so he returned in moments carrying three mugs. He passed Onyx on her way out of the hold in a fine dress and veil.

Yorvig handed drinks to Warmcoat and Hobblefoot, only for Shineboot to rush in almost as soon as Onyx had closed the door behind her. Yorvig returned with a fourth mug while Hobblefoot and Shineboot embraced and laughed. Shineboot had visited Hobblefoot a few times over the years, but Hobblefoot had never returned to Glint since he’d married.

Settling into chairs, the four dwarves raised their mugs and took a drink together. Striper appeared, now that Onyx had gone. She rubbed her fur against Yorvig's leg, rolled on her side, and batted at his pants.

"Still with your Mine Runners," Hobblefoot said. "You know they'd eat you if they were big enough."

It was a good-natured jibe but Yorvig ignored it.

“Alright,” he said. "What news?" He was happy to see Hobblefoot, truly, but he was certain that the circumstances were ill.

“Well,” Hobblefoot said, looking at each of them in turn. “The Council has annexed East Spire.”

Yorvig stared at him.

“What does that mean?” Warmcoat asked.

“It means that the Council has put a representative in place as Irik-Rhûl.”

“Hardeye is Rhûl of East Spire,” Yorvig said. Hardeye was senior of the owning family there, and he'd taken on the title of Irik-Rhûl almost as soon as he'd heard that Yorvig had done so. They had had dealings many times over the past few years especially. Hardeye was a hard bargainer but had a reputation for being fair with his own.

“He refused to rule in the name of the Council. They offered him to stay Rhûl in name, even to continue duties, but the wealth would go to Deep Cut.”

“That’s absurd,” Shineboot said, even as Yorvig said:

“They have no right.”

“Deep Cut is hungry,” Hobblefoot said.

“That has been true for some time,” Warmcoat said.

“They have grown too many. They had to rely on imports of food for the past two years.”

“That doesn’t give them the right to usurp a dwarf’s claim!” Shineboot snapped.

“You cannot tell me that Hardeye gave in.” Yorvig said.

“No. As I said he refused. But Deep Cut sent Jackals, not in their kit but as if they were guests or traders. No one noticed them come in. They arrested Hardeye in the night and brought in the Council’s dwarf. By the time it was known, the Jackals held the mine. There would have been bloodshed, but there was no one to lead against them.”

Yorvig's hand tightened on his mug even more, his knuckles whitening.

There were two warrior-groups of Deep Cut. The Deep Cut Guard kept only to the caverns and canyons, while the Jackals patrolled the Waste, keeping watch on caravans and scouting the borders. In all, there couldn’t be more than five hundred warriors between both the Jackals and the Guard, though Deep Cut itself numbered in the tens of thousands.

“I couldn’t believe it happened,” Hobblefoot said. “But there was no one to stand.”

East Spire had been settled two generations ago. It numbered fifteen hundred dwarves, but they were miners, cultivators, and herders, not warriors. Yorvig had sent warnings to Hardeye, telling him to prepare, but that was against ürsi, not fellow dwarves.

“This is outrageous,” Shineboot said. “This is against law.”

“The Council said it was necessary for the safety of the folk. They blame the humans. They said we could not stand as so many separate claims.”

“So they decide to steal the wealth of East Spire?”

“They said it will not matter to the kulhan and others living within the claim, only to one family of owners who had made their hoards there. They said the wealth must be for the folk, not for a few.”

East Spire was a galena mine, dealing most in lead and silver and flocks that grazed on cleared pasture in the valleys. It had only a fraction of the wealth of Glint.

“When did this happen?” Yorvig asked.

“Thirteen days. I could not get here faster with my family. I had to leave through a side adit and traverse east to make it away. I feared the Jackals would hinder us.”

You should have sent word, Yorvig thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. For once, the fact that East Spire had so many adits did not strike Yorvig as foolish.

“The Jackals. They might be close behind,” Warmcoat said.

“I fear so,” Hobblefoot answered. “I wish our reunion was a happier one.”

Yorvig stood.

"Warmcoat, get me Thrushbeard as fast as you can run."

By now, Warmcoat knew Yorvig's tones and faces, and he ran without question.

If the Jackals were wise enough to head to both claims at the same time, they would already be there, but maybe they didn't have the numbers. Yorvig thought back. How many new dwarves had arrived so far that spring? He knew there were some. He had a tally on parchment in his reception chamber. Enough for a coup? He doubted that. But if they struck the owners at once in the night, would Thrushbeard and the Wardens put up a fight against Jackals of Deep Cut? If ever their great distance from Deep Cut had favored them, let it do so now.