The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

During a heavy snowfall, long before they had finished the last drift, let alone dug out the chambers for the workshops and storerooms, Onyx came running down the drift to where the others were mining. She’d been sharpening and re-quenching picks at the forge. Now, her eyes were wide with alarm.

“The gate!” she shouted. “Something’s at the gate!”

They ran. Crossbows and spears were prepared behind the stone door, a precaution they had taken after the siege. They were armed as soon as they pounded up. Something thumped against the wood of the bridge outside. Yorvig peered through the small opening in the stone door, just as a second thump sounded as snow hit the edge of the wooden slat. Snow sprayed his face and beard. He blew it away from his lips and looked again. He saw nothing but the snowy ridge in the distance. Then, Sledgefist appeared as if he'd just straightened up, his head framed through the second slat as he stood atop the tower platform. He was looking down, and then he drew back his arm and threw another snowball at the wooden bridge.

“What is it?” Hobblefoot said.

“It’s my. . .” Yorvig restrained himself from adding fool of a and just said “brother.”

“What?”

“Sledgefist is on the tower.”

There was another thump of a snowball. Yorvig heard voices outside. They pulled the bolts and opened the door, and Yorvig moved to the slat in the wooden gate-bridge. Sledgefist saw the movement, then.

“Oi!” he said. “Is that you Chargrim? Lower the gate.”

Yorvig stepped back so Hobblefoot could look out.

“What’s he doing back?”

“Lower the gate for him,” Yorvig said, looking back to the others. Soon, the gate touched down on the platform. Yorvig thumped out to meet Sledgefist, but as he did, he glanced down. Dozens of dwarves stood below in the snow, and among them were many sleds laden with wrapped burdens. They stared up at him as he crossed the bridge. Yorvig faltered.

“Eh, little brother,” Sledgefist said, grinning. “I’ve brought your company.”

“Already?”

“I’ll explain,” Sledgefist said. “But we’ve had a long cold journey. Let’s get these dwarves warm inside and fill their bellies. I’ve told them of the Great Horn. Finer meat you couldn’t find in all Deep Cut.” Sledgefist walked forward as he said this, and then in a quieter voice, he asked, “there’s some left isn’t there?”

Yorvig gaped down at the dwarves and stammered. He hadn’t expected them for months—at least four months, maybe five, by his reckoning. They hadn’t finished their preparations. Where were they to go?

“Come on up!” Sledgefist shouted. “No, no. You five with Frykiln in the front bring ropes. We’ll need to hoist. Then you lot, form a chain on the ladder. We’ll have this up in no time.”

“Sledgefist,” Yorvig said.

“Let’s get this done, and then we can talk,” he said in a lower tone. “There’s a lot to say.” Sledgefist glanced at Yorvig, and a furrow came to his brow. “By the way,” he asked. "What did you do to the bridge?”

The underside of the bridge was still hacked and scored. They’d reinforced a few planks, but the marks left by the ürsi assault could be clearly seen when the bridge was up. Sledgefist could not have missed the signs when he’d been throwing snowballs.

“Later,” Yorvig said. Sledgefist nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line.

The storeroom was overflowing and bundles of supplies wrapped in wool blankets lined the High Adit drift. The stope-turned-meeting-hall was full of dwarves eating smoked meat warmed over the forge fire. Sledgefist had carried in the first basket of greasy meat himself, and the dwarves had cheered him as he came down the steps. Yorvig held back, still feeling flummoxed.

“I’m sorry bannik for the lack of drink,” Sledgefist said in his booming baritone. Bannik meant companions or drinking friends, a common term in the stew halls. “But hey, that’s why we brought you, Masher, eh!”

Yorvig counted. There were fifty-three strangers. His mind was awhirl with sums. Most of all, he was disturbed that there were no flocks or herds. These looked like miners. Many already wore their tool harnesses.

“Sledgefist, we need to talk,” Yorvig said as his brother approached.

“I know, I know.”

“Follow me."

“Eat up!” Sledgefist called back over his shoulder. There was a surprisingly hearty cheer. Snow and ice were melting out of the dwarves’ beards. They were happy to be underground and eating warm food. Hobblefoot, Warmcoat, Greal, and Onyx moved to follow Sledgefist and Yorvig to the steps out of the meeting hall. More than a few eyes followed Onyx’s movements. It irritated Yorvig, but there was nothing he could do about that. He pushed it from his mind as best he could.

He led them to his new small chamber, just enough room for them to stand in a circle. Striper fled as they arrived, her hair out at all the commotion. He hadn’t invited Warmcoat, Greal, Hobblefoot or Onyx, but they had a right to be there as shared owners of the claim, he supposed.

“Where are the flocks?” Yorvig asked.

"Where is my brother?" Hobblefoot cut in.

“Still in Deep Cut—both. They can’t come until the spring.”

“Why?” Warmcoat asked.

“That’s what the herders kept saying. Said the beasts had to graze on their way. It’ll take them through the summer to get here. Shineboot will lead them.”

“What of Khlif?” Greal asked.

“Well, one of them had to lead the herders. But both stayed. They wished to spend a bit more time in the stew hall, I think. They’ll be coming as soon as there’s something growing in the ridges.”

“Couldn't they just bring fodder for the beasts? Grain?” Hobblefoot asked.

“I asked, but they said it wasn’t possible, not without roads and wagons. . . they were full of reasons.”

Grain also came from the human lands, Yorvig knew. It was likely too expensive, even with the gold they'd sent back.

“We will need a road anyway,” Yorvig said.

“I know we will,” Sledgefist answered. “So I hired a few dwarves to go with the herders and clear a way. It won’t be a wagon road, though.” He looked at Yorvig, as if trying to read his approval. It was an odd thing. But there was a frown on Yorvig’s face, and his forehead was furrowed. The route they knew to Deep Cut was far too rugged for wagons. A couple places would be a challenge for herds, he suspected. But that wasn’t what he was troubled by.

“We have to feed this lot until next fall, then?” Yorvig said.

They were all quiet for a moment, but Sledgefist shrugged.

“I knew you’d be able to figure it out, Chargrim. Think about how many more you can send hunting, now.”

“Thanks for your confidence,” he said with an edge.

“Why didn’t you come with the herds when the weather turned? It must have been a misery to get here,” Hobblefoot asked. Yorvig was thankful for the question. He’d meant to ask the same, but his mind had run ahead to a hundred other problems.

“Others were already setting out before us and more passed us on the way. They are coming to prospect.”

“In the middle of the winter?”

“There will be even more come spring.”

“I expected some, but this is. . . that is foolish,” Hobblefoot said.

“As soon as they saw the gold. You’d have thought we were kings. We barely had any peace the entire time. Even the council sent an inspector to ask us questions. It'll be a rush, and we're at its heart.”

“If we were not here—” Warmcoat said, thinking aloud.

“Then we would have come now, as a certainty. Oh!” Sledgefist said. “A couple of the gardeners that came with me have families that will come later with the herders, but they said they needed to be here for the spring. And two of the herders have families.” Sledgefist touched his nose and leaned toward Warmcoat and Greal. “I understand there are two maids who will reach rhundal this year or next.”

“How do we know that all these intend to stay on, and not desert once they get the lay of the rock?” Hobblefoot asked.

“We could never be sure,” Sledgefist said. “Most seem like good sorts, but we could never be sure.”

Yorvig frowned. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe they had bitten off more than they could chew. There was a fear in him that somehow their claim would be wrested from their grasp. And when he’d sent Sledgefist and the others, it was before the ürsi siege. How many dwarves would be wandering these mountains now?

“May they find safety and not ürsi,” he said.

“Did you see any ürsi?” Warmcoat asked.

“None.”

“Even if the host that attacked before came again, we could deal with them openly, now,” Hobblefoot said.

“What’s this?” Sledgefist said. “A host?”

“It’s why the bridge is scarred,” Yorvig said. He was thinking of what Hobblefoot had said about the host. He didn’t feel like recounting the siege, so he let the others do it. Even Onyx chimed in, and Sledgefist listened to her with rapt attention. When they reached the part about releasing the trapped ürsi, he shouted in exasperation, but the others hushed him and finished the tale. At the end, he whistled a low note.

“Well, brother. From apprentice to rinlen to warrior. Father would be proud.”

“Father would be pissed,” Yorvig said. “There’s a reason you didn’t set out while he was alive. ‘Keep your nose to the stone and out of the wind.’”

Sledgefist chuckled.

"Tell us more of what happened in Deep Cut," Greal demanded.

As it turned out, Sledgefist was exactly the right person to send back to Deep Cut. His boisterous boasts might have meant little enough on their own, but he and Khlif and Shineboot had the gold and crystals to prove it true. By his own account, Sledgefist had hardly slept back home. Instead, he'd talked. He’d even given little time to eating he said—though he admitted he could talk and drink at the same time, and in fact, considered that a boon to his powers of persuasion.

“We’d best get back to our guests,” Onyx said as Sledgefist yawled on.

“Guests? They’re our kulhan," Hobblefoot said.

“Let them be guests for tonight,” Yorvig interjected. “Otherwise they’ve already eaten more than their ration.”