The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

What was the point of being one of the wealthiest dwarves in the world if he could not use it for his ends? It did him no good otherwise.

Yorvig marched at the head of two hundred and fifty dwarves—all of the Ridge Wardens as well as the cadres of reserve warriors drawn from miners, herders, and gardeners who trained monthly in Glint. They did not compare to the discipline of the knot of forty-four Jackals who marched in stolid silence behind them, but Yorvig had learned that if you point enough crossbow bolts, skill matters less and less.

Thrushbeard was taciturn and quiet, which Yorvig had expected, considering how strongly he had opposed this course of action.

“They have to believe we are strong, not that we're in danger!” he’d said.

“We’re all in danger,” Yorvig had replied.

They had marched through a misting rain for five miles, and it was still morning. The path they were taking was well-trodden but far from easy. The Ridge Wardens used it regularly to move to and from Plainview, their easternmost watchpost. There were a number of other posts on heights and promontories in-between, each with a large iron bell, a platform for viewing distances, and a stone tunnel that could be securely blocked, each stocked with food enough to keep the few Wardens on duty fed for a year. There were also Mine Runners kept at each post. They did not have enough Wardens to garrison enough watchposts that a bell-signal could go all the way, but with a mixture of bells and runners, Glint would know of movement before the foe was within twenty miles.

At night, they camped around the wooden tower of Crowsbeak, rain hissing into campfires. A dwarf could get a fire burning in bad conditions—especially when there was birch bark to be had. Yorvig had invited Reamer to eat with him, but the Jackal rinlen had refused. The Jackals remained together in a tight group, eating their own dried rations by tilting up their warmasks to take bites. It seemed they would even sleep in those masks, but Yorvig didn’t blame them.

His own dwarves would sleep in their kit as well. Yorvig had forbidden anyone from Glint to speak to the Jackals. He did not want them to learn of their destination or purpose. Only a small group of Ridge Wardens had ever seen their destination. Yorvig had tried to keep the knowledge hidden, but rumors spread in a mine. That was one thing no Irik-Rhûl could prevent. There was still a difference between hearing and seeing, though. It had been the same for Yorvig when Thrushbeard had brought him.

The weather was better the second day, which was a relief; mists would have hindered Yorvig’s purpose. His leg ached. It had been two years since Yorvig had come so far, and the path was mostly steep ascent or descent. They traversed streams on wooden foot-bridges in the few narrow valleys.

In the afternoon, they crossed a ridge and looked beyond to see one more lower ridge and then a pale blue-green country stretching toward a haze of grey in the distance. The grey haze strangely reflected the light, almost like metal. It had looked wrong when Yorvig first beheld it, and it still did. Yorvig hurried the dwarves along. He did not wish anyone to look too hard at that plain yet. It was another five miles to the cove against the near side of the lower ridge. There they camped.

“Why are we stopping already?” Reamer asked after approaching Yorvig. “We could make more time today.”

“You and I will climb to the crest in the morning before light. We have a fastness there where we will have a view. Bring a few of your Jackals if you wish for witnesses.”

Reamer looked past Yorvig to where Thrushbeard was setting sentries in place around the edges of the cove—far more sentries than they had the night before. Besides that, Ridge Wardens were securing leashed cats around the perimeter.

"Cats?" Reamer asked.

"Cats," Yorvig replied with a smirk. "They are good watchers."

“You fear something.”

“Because there is something to fear. Let us keep quiet and burn no fires tonight.”

Behind the mask, it was difficult to guess at Reamer’s reaction, but he nodded and returned to his dwarves.

They spent a dark night with cold drink and dry rations, and two hours before daylight, Yorvig approached the circle of Jackals with Thrushbeard at his side. Reamer had posted his own sentries around his own dwarves, and one of the Jackal sentries hailed them as they approached.

“It’s time,” Yorvig said.

Reamer stood up and approached before the sentry could call for him.

“Go get me Mender, Smokeface, and Ironfile.”

They waited in silence as the sentry woke three of the Jackals. It seemed all the Jackals needed was a low word and they rose as if they had been lying awake. They’d worn their masks even in sleep, and each mask was different. Yorvig was sure the Jackals could distinguish who was who by mask and carriage, but to an outsider, they were merely variations of a single principle.

“Lead the way,” Reamer said, his tone flat.

Yorvig took only Thrushbeard with him. The four Jackals followed behind as they climbed the steep cutbacks up the river, leaving the encampment in the cove below. The moon was only two days from its zenith, and it was plenty bright for their eyes to see color at close distances.

It was less than a thousand feet from where they’d camped to the top of the ridge, but just before they reached the peak, they came to exposed rock. Thrushbeard led the way in between two shelves. There, hidden from wind and nearly rain was a carved stone door just wide enough to allow a dwarf to pass without turning sideways.

Thrushbeard knocked on the door. The Ridge Wardens at the post already knew of their coming. The door swung inward without challenge. They passed beneath the stone, beyond a Ridge Warden standing in an alcove beside the door. A drift stretched straight east into the ridge, and a few doors led to side chambers. Thrushbeard ignored the chambers and continued far down the drift, through the ridge, to another door at the end. This time, he pulled the door open himself.

The brighter pre-dawn darkness beyond flowed through the door. Beyond the door was a curious chamber carved beneath the rock. On its eastern wall was a gap six inches high with intermittent support pillars of dressed stone. A Ridge Warden stood near the wall, looking out the gap. They had passed straight through the ridge crest. From the lookout, the whole eastern slope of the ridge and beyond could be surveyed. Yorvig motioned for Reamer to follow him to the gap. The opening was at head height, allowing them to stare out easily.

The ridge sloping down toward the plain was unremarkable. It was what lay beyond that could not fail to capture Reamer’s attention. A narrow plain, perhaps twenty-five miles wide extended to a great dark swath that Yorvig knew to be a sea. It was that sea that had reflected the sunlight like metal from the higher peak they had crossed in the afternoon. Between that sea and the ridge hundreds of fires burned, their points of light distinct in the darkness. The fires were scattered across the plain from shore to near the ridge itself, and they continued north and south. Yorvig waited for Reamer to survey the scene. The other Jackals lined up to look out of the gap as well. The Ridge Warden sentry backed away to give them space. Thrushbeard held back at the door.

“Many fires,” Reamer said.

“I wanted you to see it in the dark first,” Yorvig said. “We will watch until light. Thrushbeard, perhaps your Wardens will prepare our guests some breakfast.”

Thrushbeard barely nodded and the sentry disappeared into the drift.

Already, the sky was paling in the east above the sea horizon. Yorvig had watched the sunrise from this ridge before, though it had been years. Such a strange thing, a sea. So much water, so much wasted space. He would have felt differently about it if he could have set up a salt operation there, boiling or evaporating the water. He knew humans did the same in the far west, for what salt the dwarves didn’t supply them. It would have been easier than bringing pack trains from Deep Cut.

As dawn came, they sat cross-legged and ate a warm mash of root vegetables and tubers and drank hot tea brewed in a communal kettle. It was a silent meal. Twice Yorvig caught one or the other Jackals regarding him, but they looked away when he tried to meet their gaze. There was little to no likelihood that any would speak apart from Reamer. One of the outpost cats walked in, brushed against one of the Jackals, and flopped down on its side, swishing its tail.

“Well, I think the light is strong enough,” Yorvig said. They rose and stepped back up to the observation gap. He let Reamer take in the sight. After a first glance, Yorvig watched Reamer rather than the landscape, trying to gauge any reaction. After a while, the Jackal spoke:

“I see ruins of villages. But there are fires within. Rising smoke from many ruins. They are like the human villages near the borders of Laith. There are also many small domes, and much movement. What is this that you find so important?”

“Five years ago,” Yorvig said, “the humans who made those villages came to us. Those who could escape, at any rate. Women, children, and some men, hungry and destitute. We let them shelter behind the walls, fed them, and sent them west above the Brown Hills to their own folk. Some seemed too weak to make the journey, but they went. They distrusted us as much as we them."

"As well you should. I heard reports that came from prospectors on the north side of the Brown Hills of some small bands of humans migrating, but they were few and gone when we arrived.”

"A few of them spoke the Laithan tongue, as did two of our own traders. From them we learned. They were weak, mostly fisher folk on the sea, with small farms between the ridges and the water. The land is rocky and the soil shallow. The ürsi who hunted in the mountains would sometimes raid their cattle. So the humans would drive a few swine up into the ridges each fall, hoping to appease them. But we came, and the ürsi could not hunt as freely in the ridges anymore. They came upon the humans without warning, led by a chieftain we call One-Ear. He ravaged the plains and drove the humans out."

“Does he stay in the plain?”

“He sends raiders and hunters into the ridges each fall. We believe they hunt southward in the springtime, into the steppes, maybe to the Long Downs. One day he will come back to the ridges in force. He has before."

"Glint has walls."

"How many do you think are in the plain, now?" Yorvig asked.

Reamer stared out, considering. The sun was rising higher above the water, and he squinted down.

"A human camp, with that many fires." He shrugged. "Thousands."

"These ridges were their hunting grounds, once. We drove them into the human plain, but they have filled it, now. There is nowhere left to drive them. He will come with tens of thousands. If we fall, the Red Ridges fall. They will drive Deep Cut's herds from the western slopes, and then what?"

“Tens of thousands?" Reamer asked, sounding skeptical. "Can there be so many?”

“Near the fires dwell the she-ürsi. Fiercer and stronger than their males, with rows of teats like a sow. Each dam nurses a litter in the spring. The ürsi hunters go far in search of game, and they spit out their bile upon the meat to preserve it and bring it back to feed the young. It is that which stinks, but the meat lasts long. This much we have learned, though it cost us. ”

“Surely they cannot feed their tens of thousands by hunting alone.”

“The males are sent to hunt, and those who fail die. We have found them starved or frozen in the ridges, but even if half starve, their number grows.”

Reamer shook his head. “I have heard of hordes in the north, beyond the heathlands. I had no idea they had such numbers so far south.”

“They have been driven east by Laith and Senland for centuries. They overtook the Long Downs.”

“This I know.” Reamer turned to the other Jackals. “And now the Sennish covet the Long Downs for grazing their cattle." He turned to his dwarves. "Ironfile, you and the others go into the drift until I call.”

The three Jackals moved away from the gap and into the drift without question. When Reamer spoke next, it was with a lower tone:

“I cannot believe you wanted me to see this merely for my education. And I am not inclined to believe this threat is as grave as you make it out to be.”

"Tell me, why are there only two hundred Jackals?”

“In truth, warriors eat but produce nothing but killing. That is my thought on the matter.”

“That is a wise answer,” Yorvig said. “I have faced that difficulty as well. Yet we, a small hold compared to Deep Cut’s tens of thousands, field as many warriors, and more train monthly as reserves. We pay the Ridge Wardens thrice the kulhan price, and the reserves are also compensated. We feed them. We pay them. This does not grow our hoard. Why do we do it?”

“Because you live next to that,” Reamer said.

“That is right. And if we didn’t, that would live next to you. It may yet, sooner or later, should we fail. One-Ear will attack us again. Will your Council protect the Red Ridges? Can they? They did not keep the Long Downs. Will you hold the ridges?”

Reamer did not reply for some time.

“The human merchants gain more and more power in Laith and Senland, and they don't want to pay our prices," he said at last, his voice only a little above a whisper. "They field their own soldiers. Deep Cut cannot feed itself or withstand a long siege. The Council needs food or the wealth to buy it in great store. Without Deep Cut between you and the humans, how long do you think the Ridges would last?"

"Then it seems Deep Cut and Glint must agree to depend on each other."

“I am a cadre rinlen. I do not sit on the Council.”

“Your Jackal Lord does.”

“He is an old dwarf, and a greedy one. He has not walked the Waste in many years, and he relies on us to lead the Jackals in any true duties.”

“Are you in charge of this expedition to East Spire and Glint?”

“Ay, yes.”

“Then you must be highly esteemed. Or the opposite. Which is it?”

“I was trusted with this mission. I have the Jackal Lord’s favor, for what it’s worth. But failing to take Glint. . .”

"We have built something in these ridges, not with the Council’s help, but with our blood and the blood of our friends and kin. We are not accustomed to the bondage you offer. As I told you, I will send you back with gold. Some for the Council as a gift for peace. But more for your Jackal Lord. I will write a letter to go with it. Will you deliver it?”

“I will. I am not sure it will make a difference."

“You said yourself that your Jackal lord is old and greedy." Yorvig paused for a moment, trying to choose his next words carefully. "I could offer you gold, Reamer. But I have learned that gold is a greater weapon than a spear, and I do not wish to wield it against you,” Yorvig watched Reamer’s eyes carefully—the only part of his face he could see. “With your help, I will wield that weapon against the Council and your Jackal Lord.”

Reamer stared at Yorvig hard. “Of course,” Yorvig added. “I will not be in Deep Cut to count it when it arrives.”

“Stop,” Reamer said, holding up his hand. “Shit on you.”

“Is that a sentiment?” Yorvig asked.

“It will be a history if you don't let me think!”

Yorvig smirked.

A few minutes passed as they stared out to the east, watching a multitude of thin grey smoke-trails rise into the clear sky over the plains.

"You might believe you can stay free of Deep Cut for now, but the world is going to change. Deep Cut may fear a siege, but there are secrets there that won't be hidden forever. Do not think the Council has no power. And no gold will buy that knowledge, not even from the Jackal Lord."

"When the Council and its secrets are ready to deal with that—" Yorvig motioned to the plain "—let me know. I'll invite them."

"Some day, what is in Deep Cut will alter this world, and neither ürsi nor human will stop it."

Yorvig squinted. Were these veiled words mere artifice to put him off balance?

"Until then, I will look to the defense of my folk."

The Jackal met Yorvig's gaze and held it.

“Mender, Smokeface, Ironfile,” Reamer called in a tone of command loud enough to carry into the drift. There were hurried footsteps, and the other Jackals appeared.

“Ay, rinlen,” they responded in unison.

“You have seen nothing here today. Not unless the Jackal Lord himself questions you. Understood?”

“Ay, yes.”

“Since you had such hospitality from Chargrim during your captivity in Glint, he is graciously paying you restitution in the amount of twenty yothe of gold each. You will also be carrying a great burden of gold back to Deep Cut for the Jackal Lord and the Council. You will say nothing of it, or else you will lose your twenty yothe. Understood?”

“Ay, yes.”

Reamer turned back. Yorvig couldn’t help but smile. Extortion or not, he smelled cooperation. Reamer was quick to wield the weapon, too, it seemed.

“No reason to linger, I think,” Yorvig said.

“None.”

Talking and buying. This had been Yorvig’s life for years. At least this time he had an excuse to leave the claim. Even when he left his ledgers and went down to the lower workings to join the miners in breaking stone, they fell silent at his approach. From Shineboot, he could still feel some comradery, but it was not like in the early days when the few did all things together.

Two days later, the Jackals took their way south laden with gold, and Yorvig walked up the dell toward the High Adit.

“Do you think that’s it?” Thrushbeard asked as they climbed the tower, Yorvig leaning on Treadfoot.

“No,” Yorvig said. “That isn’t it. Tomorrow might change all. Who knows? In the meantime, let us keep our guard and interview all newcomers.”

“We won’t be able to keep them out if they grow clever in their stories. All it would take is one actual miner with loyalties to the council.”

“Then we hope.”

“You mean wait?”

“Hope and prepare,” Yorvig corrected. They parted ways in the drift. There was more than one way that the Deep Cut Council could strike at him. Did he pay Thrushbeard enough? The other Ridge Wardens? He hoped so. The other owners had long complained. He knew of no rinlen or kulhan who could boast of more anywhere else. Thrushbeard and many of the Wardens had married from it. Reamer spoke truth about the Jackals eating and not producing, but he spoke as the belly and not the hand. Yorvig had come to realize that warriors were a liability and an asset both. He had never thought of it as a young dwarf in Deep Cut, only concerned with the next meal and dreams of wealth, but the reason the Council divided their warriors between Guards and Jackals under different lords could not be from expediency. There was fear there. They divided their own strength so that no single dwarf commanded them, just like Yorvig had named a different rinlen over the reserves.

Yorvig heard the voices of laughter and a familiar drinking song as he entered the Owners Drift. Warmcoat's baritone carried the melody.

It brought a smile to Yorvig’s face. He reached the door to Hobblefoot’s hold and thought of knocking, but he was tired and his leg was aching so that he wanted to lie down. It was the furthest he had gone in years. With a sigh, he kept on to his own hold.

The samovar was lit. That was unusual. The smell of mulled mint tea filled the air. Instead of proceeding straight to their private chamber, Yorvig stopped at Onyx’s workshop. She was sitting in a tall chair with her feet up on a stool, and old Striper was nestled on her lap.

“I’m back,” he said.

She smiled at him, holding a stone mug with both hands and letting the steam drift to her face.

“I would stand, but I just sat. Come here.”

Yorvig approached and pressed his forehead to hers for some time. Striper rubbed her head against Onyx’s belly and meowed.

“Striper the traitor.”

“Traitor?” Onyx asked.

“I had a cat once. Now my wif has a cat.”

“She is old and does not like to roam. We feed her too well.”

“Oh is that all?"

“Fine. I cannot help that she loves me more. Besides, I need a good midwif now, and she has born many.”

“She has not had a litter since. . .” Yorvig paused.

Onyx’s smile slowly widened as she watched his expression change.

“I was going to see how long it took you to notice, but I am impatient.”

When next the time of deeds usurped the time of words, it would find Yorvig with more to fight for than ever.