The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder - Chapter 71: A Recruit for the Reserves
Most of the ürsi withdrew from sight or at least easy reach, back into the forests on the outskirts of the pastures that spread on either side of the river. Their domed huts rose quickly in small clusters, and smoke hazed the valley from the fires. They made no move to assault the walls. The pile of ladders lay untouched. Yorvig spent many hours atop the ridge tower, surveying the valleys and ridges using a spyglass crafted by the finest glass-makers and lens-grinders of Deep Cut, sent to him as a gift from Reamer. But there was no sign of One-Ear, though he heard from Thrushbeard that Ridge Wardens had seen the mark on some ürsi shields—the mark of a single ear.
Yorvig sometimes tried to believe it was a coincidence. Did the ürsi really know that the dwarves called him One-Ear? Was One-Ear even still alive? Was there another reason they had chosen the sigil? The mark had emerged decades ago, carried by raiding ürsi, and it was scratched into trees and rocks wherever they went. Did ürsi live so long? He had lost his ear to Sledgefist over forty years ago, but it was Yorvig who had trapped him and fed him in the darkness of the mine. The Last Rat, now become king, all thanks to Yorvig. The other owners had never spoken of releasing One-Ear in front of Yorvig, and he had heard no one else speak of it either.
But Yorvig knew.
“Brother,” Sledgefist said, stamping up the stairs to the high chamber of the tower. The great iron bell hung lifeless, its clapper wrapped in wool. Yorvig lowered his spyglass. “I don’t know what you stare at for so long. They’re there. They haven’t left.”
“I’m looking for One-Ear.”
“Looking for one ürsi out of ten thousand is a difficult task,” Sledgefist said. “They’re all ugly.”
Yorvig wished there were only ten thousand. Yorvig had estimated four or five times higher in the first days, but now it was not easy to say. Many had scattered to raid and hunt. How many were left near at hand or in the next valleys? How did one drive off an enemy that could so easily disperse before a sally, only to descend again the moment they let the flocks loose?
The kulkur could move much faster than the dwarves, running for scores of miles while barely tiring. One-Ear would have his hunters spread out over thousands of square miles of the Ridges, bringing in game to those who remained, the meat preserved in their foul bile. An ürsi could out-hunt a dwarf any day or night, and while many of Yorvig’s folk saw herding or farming as an unwelcome necessity, the foe lived only to hunt and gather roots, nuts, fish, and whatever rancid things could fill their gullets—and the gullets of their females. If Yorvig had such a pack of hunters in the early days, Glint’s beginnings would have been far different. Yet if the male ürsi’s purpose was to scavenge and carry food across long distances for the she-ürsi, surely the siege re-directed that effort. What consequence would it have for the dams? Such a siege, if it failed, might set the ürsi population back for years. If it succeeded, it would open up their hunting grounds. One-Ear took a great risk. Over the decades, Yorvig had come to grudgingly admire ürsi tenacity and drive. He still hated the kulkur, but One-Ear was more than a mindless brute to organize and rule such a host.
“So, what is your strategy this time?” Yorvig asked, thinking his brother was come to propose another sortie. It was easy for the dwarves to emerge out of the sheepfolds across the valley and on either side of the river. Sledgefist and Thrushbeard had carried out a number of raids, and a few dwarves had died. They found the ürsi were good at pin-pointing the tunnels the dwarves had used and watching them after. They even dug ditches and set up rows of sharpened stakes. Little of any real value had come from the sorties, and it went against Yorvig’s instincts to risk dwarves without hope of decisive victory or advantage. The foe easily rebuilt the few burned huts. If anything, the ürsi seemed more excited by the emergence of the dwarves than fearful, and the Hammers and Wardens could not go far without hundreds of slingers encircling them. Dead dwarves meant fewer mouths to feed, but Yorvig felt appalled at himself for even thinking such a thing. Besides, they needed all their strength.
“Actually,” Sledgefist said, his forehead wrinkling. “I came to discuss Rightauger.”
“What? Why?”
Sledgefist had gilke and gilna of his own. His eldest was past rhundal and had apprenticed in Warmcoat’s cadre. Sledgefist might be Rightauger’s uncle, but accounting for the owners’ children, there were over fifty gilna and gilke now.
“He came and spoke to me last night. Asked me to take him on as one of my Hammers.”
Yorvig sighed and shook his head. War all around them, and he had to be distracted by this.
“And what did you say?”
“I asked if he had spoken with you about joining me and he said no.”
“He is no liar, at least.”
“That he is not. And when I said I would not take him on without your permission he said he was rhundaela and could make his own choices.”
Yorvig waited. Sledgefist took the silence for what it was and continued:
“I told him I would not go behind your back. He said it wasn’t fair.” Sledgefist laughed. “Do you remember the old mine master?”
Yorvig nodded.
“Ay, yes, I do.” A mine is not about fair.
“He said that you would not listen, that you oppose him being a warrior, and some other choice descriptions for which I assure you I cuffed him upside the head.” Sledgefist shrugged. “I promised to speak with you, though.”
“I consider myself spoken to,” Yorvig said. “He is rhundaela, though. You probably shouldn’t cuff him.”
“He’s still my nephew and stupid enough to speak so of the Irik-Rhûl. I don’t know where these gilke get their fire.”
The impetuosity may be hereditary, Yorvig thought but didn’t say. He stared out over the dell. It was so different now. There were wide flagstone steps leading down from the High Adit Tower all the way to the causeway over the tailings ponds, and the rest of the space was given to gardens and terraces. There were actual grapes and raspberries growing there. Sometimes he missed it as it was—wild.
“These gilke of ours,” Sledgefist continued, pretending to look out over the dell as well. “Their lives are nothing like ours were. I have wondered if they would have been better off. . . less well off.”
“Your eldest has a head on his shoulders.”
“It is not Rightauger’s fault his father is Rhûl. If he was no kin you would have put a spear in his hand at the first asking.”
“I cannot afford to play at games of fault,” Yorvig said. He did though. Constantly.
“No. Nor I. I never thought when I came to the Red Ridges that I would end a warrior, but.” Sledgefist lifted his arms and motioned to his gilded mail and plate. He went about in it everywhere, now. Yorvig wondered when the last time was that his brother had mined. There was little surprise in it, though. He’d gotten the name Sledgefist for a reason.
“Look, brother,” Sledgefist said. “Why not let him join the Wardens? He will be a rank apprentice. You could have Thrushbeard keep him busy for a year just burnishing arms in the hold.”
“And if he found out I had made it so?”
“How long did we shovel coal before they put picks in our hands?” Sledgefist asked. “We shouldn’t coddle them, either.”
That was a fair point, at any rate.
“I will consider this.”
Sledgefist nodded.
“Well. The duty of my uncle-hood is accomplished, then.” He grinned setting a hand on Yorvig’s shoulder. “At least we have our gilna.”
Yorvig chuckled.
“Ay, yes. At least we have them.”
For whatever reason, Peridot had the opposite effect on Yorvig as her brother. The same was true of Iolite, who had inherited her mother’s purple-rimmed eyes and dark hair. No dwarf complained about daughters—jewels each one. Yorvig didn’t worry they would do something foolish, though he hoped they wed decent dwarves and gave him grandbabes. Neither of them showed signs of wanting to be warriors, not that he would ever allow it.
Yorvig sat down at the table in his family’s feasting chamber. His littlest gilke sat on a stool eating mashed radish, his bristly face smeared with something dark and sticky. The others were there eating as well, except for Iolite and Peridot who were preparing him a platter and flagon. Yorvig had offered to hire kulhan for such tasks, but Onyx refused to have “strangers in the hold.” He assured her they would not stay strangers, but he’d gotten nowhere. Despite that, their wealth and power meant she had more time to devote to her craft than most wifs ever got. She did not have to worry about sewing clothing, or cultivating her own cave bread, or many other tasks that they merely had supplied for them. So, her skill had increased with her dedication.
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Iolite and Peridot set his fare before him and then returned to their seats.
“Where is Rightauger?” Yorvig asked.
“I have not seen him since yesterday,” Onyx said, raising her eyebrows a bit. It was an expression that meant he should consider himself somehow at fault—he’d learned that over the years.
“Does anyone know where he might be?”
Peridot shook her head. The others continued to eat without response, except for the littlest, who was twirling his spoon in the mashed radish. They ate the rest of their meal in relative silence. It was plain fare—even they would ration, now. Afterward, he went to the sentries outside of the Owners Drift. All was awash in the upper delvings with the glow of Miner’s Eye, and the Owners Drift even glowed with hints of orange and red.
“Find my son Rightauger,” he said to them. One of the Wardens saluted and headed down the tunnel toward Wardenhold—probably to relate his order to Thrushbeard or one of the lesser rinlen.
It took four hours before a different Ridge Warden found Yorvig in his reception chamber.
“We have found Rightauger, Rhûl.”
“Where is he?”
“He is sitting by the River Gate and he refuses to move. We would have brought him by force, but. . .”
But he’s the Irik-Rhûl’s son, Yorvig filled in silently. He sighed and rose from his chair, taking Treadfoot in hand. The Ridge Warden followed him down the High Adit drift, down the tower stairs, and down the long flagstone steps.
“Wait here,” Yorvig said, and proceeded alone. When he approached the River Gate, at first he didn’t see his son and figured that Rightauger had left once he knew he was discovered, but then he saw him sitting cross-legged in the corner between the tower and the wall. He had a shield leaning across his knees. Rightauger’s brow furrowed as Yorvig approached, but he met his father’s gaze and held it.
Well, he is no coward at least. Though his willingness to challenge might have more to do with his elevated birth than with true courage. How was Yorvig to know? The shield leaning against his knees was still unpainted—no device of allegiance to show. Across his lap lay the same warhammer he had been doting on the other night.
“Where did you get that hammer, anyway?” Yorvig asked as he approached.
“I made it.”
“Did you?” That was a bit of a surprise. It was finer work than Yorvig would have managed, but he had ensured his gilke received instruction in the forge—far more than he ever had. Even if Yorvig took his gold and spent the rest of his life trying to become a master smith, he would never surpass those who had apprenticed after rhundal. He had lost too many years. He would never even be a master miner though he had apprenticed. And here was his son who could choose any craft, and he wanted to be a warrior and get himself killed.
“Why don’t you do that?” he asked. “Smithing is a noble craft.”
Rightauger didn’t reply.
“What are you doing out here?” Yorvig asked.
“Waiting for an attack.”
“The ürsi may get over the walls, but they will not get into them. It would be a death trap out here for them and you.”
“The Wardens wouldn’t let me inside. I will stay and be of use if they attack.”
“Why don’t you come and eat?” Many things were running through Yorvig’s head. He could starve Rightauger out of this terrible idea easily. Or the Wardens could drag him inside on his command, if he wished. He could also ignore him entirely.
None of these choices would endear Rightauger to his father. Nor did Yorvig wish to lose in a battle of wills. The first lesson any dwarf needed to learn was to submit or strike on one’s own. Neither was ignoble. What favor would he be showing his son if he couldn’t even teach him that? What was ignoble was allowing disrespect to stand.
“I will not be fat and useless,” Rightauger said.
Many useful dwarves had died obeying Yorvig’s commands over the years. Others were maimed. Yorvig understood why marriage was so discouraged among the Jackals. Younger sons they were, as a rule, with little to mourn and few to mourn them.
Yorvig had never given great consideration to whether he would pass on the position of Irik-Rhûl and to whom. There were few precedents, and part of Yorvig had never fully believed the claim would truly last. Maybe this was all for nothing. Maybe they were doomed already.
“I will put you in the reserves during the siege,” Yorvig said. “They are training. The Ridge Wardens are too busy to train you, now, and without training you would only be in the way.”
“I want more than to be in the reserves.”
“If you cannot handle the reserves, you cannot handle the Ridge Wardens. Do well, and after the siege, you can apprentice with the Wardens or with Sledgefist’s Hammers. I suggest you accept this, or else I will have you dragged beneath the stone and punished for insubordination like any other dwarf of the claim.”
“I could keep up with them,” Rightauger said.
“No, you couldn’t. You would learn that quickly, if you did apprentice.” Regardless of the craft, the first thing every apprentice learned was their own ignorance. All are born not knowing. “Now will you obey or will I have you dragged?”
Rightauger looked at the stone wall beside him.
“Fine,” he said.
“I will send ahead. Report to Hookear.”
An hour later, Hookear the reserve rinlen announced himself at the door of Yorvig’s reception chamber. Yorvig was in a meeting with Second Spinel and Crookleg about the rate of ration consumption as well as settling a matter of the division of charcoal between the smithies and the smoke-chambers.
“You wished to see me?” Hookear asked.
“Ay, yes,” Yorvig said, looking up from the lists before him. “My son Rightauger is coming to join the reserves. I expect it not to go easy for him. Keep him busy. Menial tasks. Drudgery. Hard lessons and hard knocks.”
“As you say, Rhûl.”
“I am trusting you with this, Hookear.”
“Do you wish him excluded from watches?”
“Let such duties depend on seniority and training,” Yorvig said. “Those who are not ready are not ready.”
Hookear nodded.
“Thank you,” Yorvig said, nodding. Hookear turned and left.
“We were on the dispensations, yes?” Yorvig asked, returning to his list.
“He will know what you are about,” Crookleg said. Yorvig looked up. The older dwarf regarded him astutely. His beard had turned grey over the years, but his eyes were still keen, and he was not yet old for a dwarf.
“So be it,” Yorvig said. “Is it our duty as fathers to be liked by our children, or do we have greater responsibilities?”
Crookleg held up his palms.
“Who am I to say?” he asked. “My eldest left the claim twenty years ago.”
“There is no shame in that.”
“No. No shame.”
The winter snows came. The ürsi encampments grew and joined and swelled to something of a town. Despite the cold, the air outside was foul, and the stench of the ürsi worked it’s way into the mine through the vents, so that walking through the drifts wafts of the stink served as a reminder of the siege. Sledgefist begged to attack, but Yorvig could not see evidence of where One-Ear might be, or if it wasn’t One-Ear, where the chief of the ürsi hid himself. He feared that any serious attack into that encampment, even given a blizzard, would merely result in the deaths of hundreds of dwarves and no change.
The ürsi had been raiding the Red Ridges with greater and greater numbers for years, coming in their thousands but spreading out to hunt or harry flocks. Just the previous year, Glint had to bring in flocks twice and send out cadres of Ridge Wardens to skirmish with ürsi who drew near to the edges of the claim, but the kulkur had not forced a siege. The ürsi had not even encamped all together, rather making small villages scattered here and there across scores of miles that the Wardens burned when they could.
This year, something was holding these ürsi here. A will held and directed them. It was that will which Yorvig felt as he stared out over the surrounding country from the tower. If they could not strike the will, then any attack would merely send dwarves into the open country where the ürsi could shower stones and darts upon them like hail.
Yorvig had thought much about will. It was no supernatural thing, but there was something ineffable about his own rule over the mine. He’d realized long ago that if once the Ridge Wardens wanted to depose him, they could have taken him and tossed him from the cliff at their leisure. But they hadn’t. There was stability. Folk continued to follow his commands.
It was something of a mystery. And whatever did that, whether custom or fear or the familiarity of order, the same must be true for One-Ear and the horde of ürsi. It was strange to feel any sense of kinship with that foul beast, but he did.
He did.
The horde of ürsi were held there. If that will did not waver, and if the dwarves could not strike it, then they would die. The dwarves did not have the numbers to eradicate the ürsi. Maybe if they could lure them into pitched battle, and every dwarf in the mountain slew five or ten. . . But they had learned that the ürsi were more than able to withdraw before the dwarves, circling and pelting with rocks and befouled javelins. Or they could disperse when the dwarves sallied out, only to return when they left the surface. They could not defeat a foe who would not stand against them.
As the months wore on, Yorvig kept the miners mining, making sure that everything beneath the stone went on as much as possible as it always had. They mined ore. They smelted it. The fine craft-dwarves fashioned it for trade to Deep Cut, whether or not trade would return. There were never pack trains in the winter, anyway. Apart from the Wardens who watched from towers and walls with unending vigilance, it was the flocks and herders who knew the most disturbance to their ways. Instead of gathering fodder from river reeds and rotation-grazing the sheep and goats on fields of turnips, radishes, and mangelwurzels planted for winter forage, they slowly slaughtered the older ewes, trying to preserve the best of the flocks with what stored fodder and expensive grains they had laid in store.
Yorvig had always tried to ensure that the flocks and gardens were expanding, but more dwarves kept coming. Now, a generation was reaching rhundal that had been born in Glint and knew no other home. Perhaps in the fertile human lands where they grew bread-grains it was possible to store enough food to survive a whole growing season without planting, but not in the narrow rocky valleys of the Red Ridges. There was deep enough soil right along the river, but on the slopes the loam was thin upon bedrock, and it had to be scraped together to grow root vegetables. Glint had grown, but the ürsi had grown faster.
Springtime would tell. . . If no opportunity presented itself, then in springtime they would know how dire their plight was, and whether they must take desperate action. The ürsi normally left the Red Ridges in the spring, heading south or returning to the plains and their summer lodgings. If they didn’t go, then Glint would collapse. The dwarves could not bring the flocks to the surface to graze, plant crops along the river, or trade via pack trains. . . Already the ürsi had cut down most of the sap maple and birch groves for spite or firewood. The land was clear for a mile up and down both riversides. The exposed folds of rock were hidden beneath crusted snow, and the bottomland fields were trodden by ürsi.
Rightauger did not return much to the family hold, though Yorvig received reports from the reserves on his activity. He ensured that Hookear kept a watch on him from dwarves not among Rightauger’s peers and comrades. A few times Rightauger stood watch with others on the walls, but little more. The reserves trained regularly, but they worked other jobs within the mine for the bulk of the days, but those not working trained now constantly. Their primary purpose was to be prepared and to give the Ridge Wardens relief from time to time. Training gave them just enough discipline not to be an unwieldy rabble in case of need. Rightauger most often stayed with companions. It grieved Onyx, but she did not trouble Yorvig about it much, at least.
On hands and knees, as was custom, she birthed their seventh—a gilke—late in the winter, just when the sap would have started to run. Yorvig smiled as he held the babe, but all the while he wondered what the spring would bring, and if this babe could live. When he stood upon the tower, he could smell the hint of soil and thaw in the air, befouled by the rot of the foe. There was no sign of the ürsi breaking camp.
