The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder - Chapter 70: Thirty-One Years Later

Thirty-One Years Later

(Forty-eight years since the staking of the claim)

The bells rang up and down the Gold River Range for four days, but one by one they fell silent. At last, Yorvig called for the bells of Glint to cease as well. They had no purpose now.

Over seven hundred dwarves had fled to Glint from surrounding claims and holds, swelling their population beyond five thousand. Others, Yorvig knew, would be holed fast in their claims and mines, hoping that the hordes of ürsi would bypass them or that Glint would be victorious before their food stores ran out.

Yorvig was standing at the River Gate, awaiting his brother. Runners had brought word of the approach of Sledgefist’s party days ago. He had left the southern outpost—called Sledge Rock by all—when the ürsi first began pouring through the gaps in such numbers that the Ridge Wardens could do nothing but fly before them.

Sledgefist’s troop came into view around the riverbend. A few score dwarves arrayed in heavy armor and wielding spiked warhammers tramped on either side of a cluster of wifs and maids, gilna and gilke. Their shields bore the stone fist, the mark of Sledgefist’s Hammers. As Yorvig watched them approach, he saw a second group of dwarves coming a few hundred yards behind at a quicker pace—four Ridge Wardens.

Yorvig met Sledgefist inside the gate with a hug, though it was more a hug of Sledgefist’s armor than the dwarf, himself. The years had turned Yorvig’s brother into a formidable warrior, and he wore the finest faceted plate that gold could procure. “They have come as you predicted, brother” Sledgefist said, skipping other greetings. “They are without number. We barely stopped in our flight.”

Sledgefist’s face was unclouded by fear, but it was also unclouded by shame. That told Yorvig he had not even considered giving the foe battle. The year had come.

“Have you seen the mark?”

“I did not stay to watch for it.”

Yorvig nodded.

“Your hold is prepared for you, and your dwarves will be seen to with honor.”

Sledgefist hugged him again, then called to his column.

“Come!”

Of all the owners, Sledgefist had turned the most warlike in the fighting of the past decades. The ürsi had raided more and more fiercely, further and further into the ridges over the past twenty or so years, but until now, they had not approached Glint in mass. Sledgefist and his Hammers had held the southern gap with great slaughter against the ürsi for the past three autumns, so that his own name had gone out beyond the Red Ridges in song—”The Fist of Sledge Rock.” Some of Yorvig’s gold may have encouraged the composition of the song and its dissemination, but he would not tell Sledgefist that. His brother deserved it, regardless. Despite the victories, though, the toll in dwarven lives had been severe. It was hard to replace veteran warriors. Yorvig was glad Sledgefist had not attempted to hold the rock this time but had obeyed Yorvig’s order to fall back against hopeless odds.

Yorvig smiled and bowed as Sledgefist’s wif and children passed. There was no love for him in that wif, but she was kin. She didn’t look at him as she passed. Hopefully she and Onyx avoided each other.

Moments after Sledgefist’s column had gone, the Wardens came jogging in, breathing hard.

“Rhûl, they are no more than two miles behind.”

Yorvig turned to one of the runners who always trailed with him, now.

“Let sound the horn and bar all the gates and adits.”

He turned to a second runner.

“Bring me Crookleg. I will be at the top.”

He turned, heading to the tower on top of the ridge above the High Adit. He wanted to watch One-Ear’s arrival.

Of course, he didn’t go alone. More dwarves tailed him, waiting for orders. He hadn’t been alone in weeks. Thrushbeard caught up to him as he climbed the stair.

“Are they all in?” Yorvig asked.

“They are. The High Ridge Garrison just came down. The ürsi come from the east as well.”

Yorvig knew that a couple of the eastern watch posts had been overrun. Whether the Wardens had closed themselves in or been caught unawares, Yorvig did not know. Per orders, the Wardens were to shut fast their doors and wait if the ürsi came too quickly for escape. Their stock of food must hopefully last.

When Yorvig reached the top of his tower, leaning on Treadfoot and wincing at the pain in his leg, the ürsi were already streaming around the walls of Glint, circumventing the walls further up the east ridge. To the north, ürsi ranged over the valley in groups of twenties or thirties, sniffing at the closed sheep folds that had shut their doors of stone. A network of tunnels joined them to the claim. But sheep were no cave-dwellers. They belonged on the pastures. From this moment, the sums of fodder and store began to decline. Yorvig could almost feel the reverse in his gut.

“They have come from north, south, and east at once,” Thrushbeard said.

It was true, and it was not a good sign. That took coordination. It was not likely to be a happenstance.

“I need you at the High Adit Tower,” Yorvig said.

Thrushbeard nodded and left.

A few ürsi ventured too close to the walls, and Wardens fired scattered bolts. As the next hour passed, the greater part of the ürsi host came up along the river from the south. He tried to estimate, but it was difficult. There were too many. Thousands. . . Tens of thousands.

“Chargrim,” Crookleg said, climbing up the last of the stairs.

Crookleg was one dwarf who never called him Rhûl, and was one of the only dwarves who could get away with it.

“The flocks?”

“We estimate eleven thousand beneath the stone. They are crammed and will grow sick ere long.”

Two days ago, Yorvig had ordered the gathering and slaughter.

“How many in salt?”

“Nine hundred in salt. Perhaps three hundred more smoking. We ran out of salt.”

Cursed salt.

“And the latest on the fodder?” Yorvig had brought in a store of expensive human grains months ago, but the humans had made him bleed gold for it.

“The whole for about four months. Half we could see through to spring. We could not get a quarter through next year.”

This is what Yorvig and Crookleg had expected. They had consulted multiple times over the past month. It was the perpetual problem of living in these narrow mountain valleys. The dwarves could eat so long as they could graze the sheep and goats on the hillsides, but they could not survive for long if kept beneath the stone. The ürsi didn’t have to meet them in pitched battle in order to destroy them. All these years and only the sums had changed, not the principle. The more the dwarves established themselves and put pressure on the ürsi, the faster the beasts bred, throwing themselves at the dwarves with even more wanton abandon. Even hundreds of dwarven warriors could not patrol or protect thousands of square miles of rough country. And it took at least two kulhan miners, three head of livestock, and many other necessities to support the cost of a single warrior for the year. So the ürsi hunted the Red Ridges while the dwarves focused on guarding their flocks in a few narrow vales.

The promontory where One-Ear had set up his hut so many years ago was now within the walls of Glint, for the wall topped that opposing ridge. Yet it was impossible to enclose the great ridge to the east that rose thousands of feet. If the ürsi wanted higher ground, the dwarves could not stop them. The thirty-foot walls were enclosed with a sturdy roof above an enclosed hallway, with loopholes in the walls for crossbows. The roof was steep-sloped and covered with many iron spikes. Dwarves could patrol the walls out of the light in almost complete safety.

Yorvig watched throughout the afternoon as more and more ürsi flowed across the ridges and valleys. Wayward sheep and goats left wandering on the high ridges fled—looking like racing white and black specks as the ürsi hunted them down. There were many hundreds of sheep and goats still grazing the high ridge slopes. They could not herd them all down in time. Vast numbers of pigs rooted on the mast of the forest in the next valleys, waiting to be herded for slaughter, but this year their slaughter would come at the mercy of the ürsi.

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Yorvig was staring up at the high eastern ridge when a Ridge Warden runner spoke:

“Rhûl,” he said, pointing. Yorvig followed and saw a stream of ürsi coming up the river road. They carried tall trees, stripped of their branches and notched at close intervals. There were up to forty ürsi per tree, and Yorvig could already see five of the clusters moving toward the claim.

Ladders. Did One-Ear truly mean to stage an assault on their defenses? They had enough numbers to cross the curtain wall, but they would find death within, and they must take huge losses in order to actually breach any of the strong barred doors, if they could at all. Despite the yearly raids on the flocks, it had been forty-two years since One-Ear had last sieged Glint. The threat was never that One-Ear could actually storm the mine. It was simply that he could wait them out. It was always the same.

Evening was turning to night when Yorvig took the stairs down into the ridge, relying on Treadfoot to help him. Runners had come and gone from him throughout the day, carrying reports or taking orders. No ürsi had made an assault, though a pile of notched ladder-trees beyond crossbow range now numbered at least thirty. They could have kept them out of sight, but instead they were piled in plain sight near the river’s edge. Thrushbeard had already sent to Yorvig, asking if he could sally to burn them. Yorvig had refused. They might be nothing more than bait. Over the years of waiting for One-Ear, Yorvig had often wondered just how clever the ürsi had grown. Certainly, his raids over the years had instilled an almost supernatural fear in many of the dwarves of the Red Ridges. Many had died.

When Yorvig stepped into his hold, Onyx was waiting for him in the greeting chamber. She stepped to him and grabbed his arms. She was once again great with child—their seventh, now. Somehow she continued to ply her trade for much of each day. Her gold lace and chain had grown so fine—it was highly prized by dwarf-maids and wifs of Deep Cut, who wore it as hair nets. Many of the wealthiest now wore golden mesh draped over their heads and faces in place of veils. A yothe of gold in Onyx’s hands was now worth seven. Already, she was teaching their two gilna the trade.

Onyx walked with Yorvig into the feasting hall of the hold, where food had cooled on the table. It was the only part of their hold where the floor was not covered in thick rugs, but bright tapestries still hung on the walls, some all the way from Deep Cut. Onyx had commissioned one hanging that depicted the view of the dell from the cliff terraces—a fond place for them. It hung on the far side of the feasting hall.

Yorvig’s older children, Rightauger and Peridot, were sitting at the table. Rightauger burnished his warhammer, and Peridot was drinking tea. They rose as he entered.

“Father,” they said. Peridot sat back down but Rightauger remained standing, clutching his thrice-polished warhammer with its gold filigree and burnished head.

“I wish to join the Ridge Wardens, now. I know we said two years if I still wished it, but the siege is now.”

“Not now,” Yorvig said, walking to the head of the table where the food awaited. He noticed the samovar steaming. “But you can get me some tea. Or better, hot mead.”

“When else if not now?” Rightauger asked, but he was moving to the samovar. “This is tea,” he said, looking inside.

“I mean let’s not talk about it now.”

“Peridot,” Onyx said, sitting next to Yorvig. “Heat some mead for your father.”

Peridot rose without a word.

“No,” Yorvig said, lifting his hand to Peridot. “Have Rightauger go. I asked him first.”

“Rightauger has been waiting to speak with you,” Onyx said. “Go ahead, Peridot.”

Peridot made to move once more.

“No,” Yorvig said. “I’ll have tea.”

“You will not,” Onyx said. Peridot had given up and just headed to the larder. Yorvig sighed. He would have preferred to not have to listen to Rightauger at the moment, but it seemed Onyx was intent on it. Perhaps she had simply tired of it, herself.

“I am past rhundal,” Rightauger said. “By rights I am free to choose my trade.”

“You are free to seek any apprenticeship you choose,” Yorvig corrected.

“But you are Irik-Rhûl and no one will give me apprenticeship except by your leave.”

Yorvig had to admit, his son was keeping his voice calmer than usual.

“You may apprentice with one of Shineboot’s masters, or Hobblefoot’s engineers, or any of the trades within the mountain.”

“I wish to join the Ridge Wardens.”

Yorvig knew that Rightauger had become fast friends with Thrushbeard’s gilke, both rhundaela now. Thrushbeard’s son had joined the Ridge Wardens last year, though Yorvig couldn’t comprehend why Thrushbeard had given his blessing to it.

“Well,” Yorvig said. “The Ridge Wardens have no time to train right now. After the siege there may be—”

“Not after the siege!” Rightauger said. “You were not a trained warrior when you faced the ürsi for the first time.”

“There wasn’t a trained warrior for three hundred miles,” Yorvig said. “And I am in pain every day for it.”

Peridot returned carrying a second pot for the top of the samovar. She switched it with the pot that contained the tea, opened the slide and blew upon the coals. Then, taking one look at Rightauger and Yorvig, she pressed her lips and left the chamber.

“I was also ten years older than you,” Yorvig added.

“And no one limited you. There was no one here to give you commands.”

“No,” Yorvig said. “There was not. There was also no one to give me food and clothing and gold when I wanted, or to arrange for an apprenticeship in any trade with any master. There was nothing but rock and death. If you want that, there is still a wide world!” Yorvig stood up. He knew he was losing his temper.

“Chargrim,” Onyx said, but he ignored her.

“If you want to go off and start your own claim like we did, go ahead. I just recommend you wait until the horde of ürsi is gone.”

Yorvig left, heading toward his private chamber, more irritated because he had not gotten to drink any of the mead, but he had no intention of going back out for it now. He hated getting angry at Rightauger, but this pestering had continued for months, and whoever thought now was the time. . .

“See,” Rightauger said in a low tone, presumably to Onyx, as Yorvig was closing the door. It was nearly enough to send him back out, but he didn’t. Over the decades, he had grown used to respect and fear. He did not want his children to see him angry, but this pestering was making his own hold a burden. Now Onyx was assisting in it.

All these years, and yet she still seemed like a mystery. He had learned to move and speak and act around her, for the most part, but he would never truly know what she was experiencing. Not like he might know what his brother thought of a poorly cut stope, for example. It wasn’t that she was inconsistent; he could anticipate much. Yet there was something so other about her. It was a big part of what drew him to her, and yet added an edge of fear. At first, he thought the feeling might dissipate in time. It hadn’t. Not entirely.

Yorvig leaned Treadfoot against the wall and lay down on the lambskins of his sleeping alcove, stretching his leg out. He sighed. He was still hungry, and now he was in his chamber. Getting away from them had been more important in the moment, but his mind was too busy for sleep and his stomach too empty for comfort.

It was not long before Onyx entered the chamber, carrying a platter of food and a tall tankard. She set them down on the little stone table carved into the wall.

“Thank you,” Yorvig said, slowly turning his legs out and standing up.

At least she waited until he had seated and begun to eat and drink before she started:

“The more you say no, the more he will want it and the more bitter it will become.”

“Ay, it’s true,” Yorvig said, trying to keep his voice calm.

“I know you do not want him in danger—”

“It’s more than that.” Yorvig turned toward her. “I have to command the Ridge Wardens. I have to send them to their deaths if need be. I already know many of them. I cannot be wondering where he is, or if he will be with this cadre or that. I will not give the order that kills my son. It is bad enough I have killed many other sons.”

“You have not killed them.”

“Have I not? I took that responsibility, and with it the authority. I will not be questioned on this.”

Onyx looked at him for a time with that irritating expression in which Yorvig saw pity.

“I will try to encourage his patience until after the siege, but it will be hard for him.”

“It was hard for us,” Yorvig answered. “Should I pity him for having to wait with his needs met?” He did not speak what else was on his mind—that whether or not there was an after seemed to depend entirely on One-Ear’s patience. He had sent a runner west as soon as it became clear that this year’s invasion was no simple start to the hunting and raiding season.

Onyx came close and pressed her forehead to his, and then she left. All this had been argued before. Yorvig sat for a time neglecting his food and drink. His thoughts had flown to the runner he’d sent west—to Deep Cut and to Reamer. Standing, he walked across the small chamber to a cubby shelf, uncapped one of the drilled holes, and drew out parchments stuffed within. These he kept in his own private chamber, not in his reception chamber with the charts and lists and ledgers of the mine. Returning to the table, Yorvig moved aside his platter and unrolled the parchments. After so long, and so much of his life spent with runes, it seemed strange he had ever not been able to read them.

The earliest letters dated back to when Reamer was still rinlen. Then, seventeen or eighteen years ago, the Jackal rinlen had become Jackal Lord and took a seat on the Deep Cut Council. Yorvig liked to think that was in no small part to Yorvig’s considerable and frequent contributions to the prior Jackal Lord, though Reamer was a capable sort by all accounts, and perhaps less of a zealot than some Jackals. Yorvig had learned all he could about their ways.

For years, he had feared the Jackals would return and depose him or murder him in his sleep. So Yorvig made sure that course of actions would have made the Jackal leaders poorer. In the end, though, One-Ear had saved him from that fear, oddly enough. The raids had grown so severe they had finally reached East Spire. Yorvig had sent warnings, but the Council Rhûl there did almost nothing without approval from Deep Cut, and the Council had been siphoning food back to Deep Cut. East Spire was simply not prepared to bring their flocks inside. The ürsi did not assault the mines, but they hunted until spring, carrying off whole flocks. The ürsi were too many in number even for the Jackals to clear out when they finally came. Starvation had already taken a toll. That spring, when the last of the ürsi returned to the plain, half the population of East Spire fled west, and the rest—many of them the poorest—suffered again each following year. That was ten years ago, and Yorvig did not fear the Jackals like he used to.

There it was, the letter he was looking for, dated five years ago from the hand of Reamer. He scanned down the runes crossing the page.

Yorvig picked up his now lukewarm mead and drank it down. If he failed, then the lives of over five thousand dwarves, wifs, maids, gilke and gilna were to his account. What a deposit that would be into the hoard of his forebeards! Rightauger should be joining the Named of Strength and not the Ridge Wardens, so that he could start over.

“Brother!” Sledgefist yelled from out in the feasting chamber. “Come out brother! It is time for a council of war!”

Yorvig sighed, resting his head in his hands. It had been a long day. It would be a long night.