The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Yorvig had the walls of the dell expanded all the way down to the river some years before, and now there was a gatehouse that lead out onto the bridge on one side and up and down the river road on two others. Anyone approaching the dell would know immediately that this was not just a claim, it was a fortress.

Only three Jackals approached the river gate the next day. Word had already reached Yorvig that the rest of the Jackals had halted and taken up a position on the very same rockslide stones where they had rescued the Hardfells and Warmcoat many years before. They were being watched, there.

The three that approached the gate were fully armed, wearing brown clothing and leather-covered armor. Any metal they carried—spear-heads, bucklers, axe-blades, knife-hilts—were blued, and their warmasks were like the rusted visages of twisted beasts. These were the Jackals of the Waste who hunted the human bandits that preyed upon caravans and kept the borders of Deep Cut. They had never been known so far from home.

Arrayed on the gate house and along the wall were enough Ridge Wardens with crossbows to ensure the Jackals would bleed like sieves in the space of a breath. Carrying only his walking hammer, Yorvig ordered the gate open and stepped out, Thrushbeard beside him.

“Who is it that approaches Glint?” Thrushbeard asked. Whereas Yorvig was dressed in trousers and long-shirt, Thrushbeard wore hauberk, breastplate, greaves, vambraces, and helm. He bore his axe and shield as well. Thrushbeard's kit was enameled and gilt with gold, as befitted a rinlen of the richest claim of the dwarves. Despite this, and though he would never have said it to Thrushbeard, Yorvig was certain any of the three Jackals standing there could have killed Thrushbeard with little trouble. These were dwarves who had trained at nothing else for decades.

“I am Reamer, rinlen of the third cadre, Jackal of the Waste.” It was the center Jackal who spoke, and Yorvig was surprised at the voice. It was neither angry nor haughty. If anything, it sounded tired.

“Greetings, Reamer, rinlen of the third cadre, Jackal of the Waste. And what brings you to Glint?”

The Jackal glanced to the side, but not at anything in particular. It was impossible to see an expression.

“You know why I’m here.” A return of the head showed that the Jackal now regarded Yorvig. “I take it you are Chargrim.”

“I am.”

“I do not know your intent, but I am here for my Jackals.”

“I know why you’re here. I was asking to be polite," Yorvig said, smirking. The Jackal tilted his head. Yorvig continued: “There are traditions of courtesy, you know. I want you to eat with me. I am sure my fare is better than what you’ve had on the road.”

“You want to add to your hostages?”

“I could have you killed right now if I wanted, or captured, though I know you would put up a fight. I’m surprised you brought so few.”

“I promise only that if you harm a Jackal, the Jackals will harm you. If not today, then some day. No siege would be necessary.”

“I expect no less,” Yorvig said. “And that’s why you should eat with me and trust your safety. I would speak with you in private. Maybe there was a message from Deep Cut they meant you to give me. I in turn have a proposition. If you eat with me, and we talk, you may leave with all your dwarves. If you will not, you may leave with these two you brought.”

Yorvig led the Jackal up the High Adit tower and across the bridge. There was nothing the Jackal rinlen could see in the claim that he couldn’t learn from speaking with a thousand dwarves. Secrecy had never been part of their concern at Glint. They had always focused their defenses on ürsi, not dwarves.

Because theirs were some of the first holds dug in the claim, the owners holds were close to the adit, as was Yorvig’s reception chamber. The reception chamber now served for a meal with the Jackal rinlen. Everything had been prepared in advance. When Yorvig opened the door, the smells of roast honeyed lamb poured out. Inside, the manuscripts and ledgers had been moved from the table, and it was laden with pitchers and platters and two settings of utensils.

“Please sit,” Yorvig said, motioning to one of the chairs. Reamer waited and sat in unison with Yorvig. Steam still rose off the food and drink. He’d have to thank Second Cyprine for her timing. Picking up his flagon, Yorvig took a long drink of the mulled mead.

“Please forgive me,” Yorvig said, taking his knife in one hand and tearing into the shank in front of him. “I’m hungry, and it’s honest food.” He really was hungry. There were days when he got so caught up in his work that he didn’t eat. Sometimes, Onyx would bring him food and sit with him until he ate it, but other times she was too engrossed in her own work. The gold was valuable, but a pound of her golden lace or chain was worth many times the value of the gold alone. Wifs and maids in Deep Cut wore it over their skirts and veils, glinting in the miner’s eye.

After watching Yorvig for a few moments, Reamer seemed to come to a decision. He reached up, undid two buckles, and slid his warmask and helm off in a smooth motion. Picking up the knife next to his plate, he started to eat, and for a time there was silence.

Yorvig had cleared most of his own plate before he leaned back, picked up his flagon, and drank again. Reamer saw the movement and set his own knife down. It was difficult to gauge Reamer’s age. He was certainly older than Yorvig, but by how many decades? If he had to guess, Yorvig thought he must be around eighty or ninety. His beard was still deep brown. Heavy pouches hung beneath otherwise clear eyes, and his forehead was lined prematurely. By his bearing and posture, he looked like a fit and active dwarf whose heaviest burdens were immaterial. Yorvig felt he'd gotten rather good at judging such burdens.

“Why do you trust for your safety?” Reamer asked. “We are alone. I could kill you now. I do not need a weapon.”

“I don’t believe you are unarmed just because I cannot see a blade. Yet just because you could kill me doesn’t mean you could escape. Do Jackals not care for their lives?”

“Not like some.”

“And do Jackals show so little respect for hospitality as to murder their host?”

“Such things are sentiment.”

“Many of the best things are.”

Reamer did not respond to that, taking another drink of his mead instead. His eyes flickered to the golden liquid as he set the flagon down.

“The honey is better here, I think," Yorvig said. "More wildflowers, maybe, I don’t know. But it’s better."

“Are you trying to irritate me?” Reamer asked. “I have no desire to be your friend. I am here for my Jackals only.”

Yorvig grinned. It was hard not to like the dwarf in some ways, honestly.

“Given the situation, I think the best I can hope is that you’re a dwarf who follows orders even when those orders are objectionable, but that you are also a dwarf who values life—at least the lives of your own.”

Reamer tilted his head a little to the side and let out a deep breath. His face showed the resignation of one bound to listen to tedium. Kindness was not going to mean anything to this dwarf.

“You should have known we would search for your spies as soon as we heard what you’d done at East Spire. It was stupid of you. I’ve been wondering why such stumbling and ineptitude from the famed Jackals of the Waste. I’m no warrior. I’m a miner by apprenticeship. No rinlen in a mine would accept such poor planning.”

A muscle on the side of Reamer’s face flexed, and he pressed his teeth together. Perhaps wearing a mask all the time made him unused to hiding expressions, or maybe he didn't care.

“I was following orders. Council orders. East Spire. . . was not supposed to happen like that. The Council thought Hardeye would capitulate. We were supposed to proceed here directly, but. . . it was not so easy.”

Yorvig laughed. “That just shows they didn’t know Hardeye. I’m glad to hear that the incompetence cannot be laid at your feet."

“We took his wif,” Reamer said, shaking his head. “But he still wouldn’t.”

Now it was Yorvig’s turn to feel a rush of rage. It was tainted with fear.

“Now I see you wear your masks to reflect your true nature and not to hide it.”

“Sentiment is a hindrance. My lord commanded me to succeed.”

“Sentiment? Is that what you call a sense of honor? Of duty to your folk?”

“Our duty is to preserve the safety of Deep Cut.”

"And here I thought it was greed. What endangers Deep Cut?"

"Our folk are always in danger."

“Our folk are greater than Deep Cut, now.”

Reamer narrowed his eyes.

“How many of the Council do you think have ever left Deep Cut?”

“Then they are wicked and ignorant, and you know it and serve them.”

“I had never left the Waste, either. I did not know these Red Ridges folk. Not like I do, now." The Jackal waved his hand. "It doesn't matter. You are worried about Glint. The Council is worried about all our folk."

Yorvig wondered if perhaps the Jackals had encountered more trouble in East Spire since Hobblefoot’s departure. Certainly news of what had taken place must reach them eventually. He leaned back again in his chair.

“That is merely an excuse for what you know to be wrong.”

“I am not here to be right or wrong. I am here to accomplish my task. And you should capitulate. Go along with the Council and you can remain here as their representative. We know. . .” Reamer hesitated, then steeled himself. “We know you also have a wif. You have kin.”

Yorvig tried to control his breathing, to not clutch the arms of the chair. For a heartbeat, he considered shouting an order and having the Jackals skinned like the vermin they were. Reaching to his flagon, he forced himself to take a drink. There was no way Reamer had not seen the effect his words had, but he couldn’t let his anger take over and destroy his plan. Somehow, he had to get through to this dwarf.

“We would not need to harm them, though,” Reamer said. “You cannot remain on guard for long. You depend on caravans from Deep Cut. Dwarves come and go throughout the year. It would only take one Jackal.”

“Did you know, when you became a Jackal, what you would become?” Yorvig asked. “I wonder what some sorry rhundaela thinks it will be. When I was young, I sometimes imagined joining the Guard or the Jackals. . . Becoming a warrior. I never imagined something like this.”

“I am wearied by your moralisms.”

“And I by. . . you. So I will make my offer. I am a dwarf of some honor, regardless of my enemies. You will leave here safe with your Jackals. My proposal is this. Come on a journey with us thirty miles to the east.”

“What?”

“Come with us thirty miles east.”

“Why?”

“I want to show you something.”

“Show us what?”

“Something interesting,” Yorvig said. “It’s only thirty miles. Bring your dwarves with you. I will bring mine. We will march together for two days, and then we can part ways.”

“What would we be going to see?”

“I will obviously be risking my neck going anywhere with you,” Yorvig said. “But I will have far more dwarves with me, so even if you could win, it would be ugly. So we politely go together, see what I have to show you, and then you do whatever it is you do with that knowledge.”

“What are we going to see!” Reamer snapped, slapping his hand on the table.

“I’m not going to tell you, only show you.”

“You are an irritating dwarf.”

“So my wif says.”

“Why would I do anything of the sort. It could be a trap.”

“This meal was not a trap. I am going to let my hostages leave with you, even if you don’t agree. Like a fool I will do that. But you should come with me.”

Reamer stared at him with an intensity that Yorvig hoped he never had to face in combat.

“Or,” Yorvig said. “You could go back and report to your superior, either in East Spire or Deep Cut, and let them also wonder what I wanted to show you.”

“I could easily send scouts east without going myself.”

“I wouldn’t, for their safety.”

“Are you threatening now?”

“No. My Wardens could waylay them, certainly. They know the terrain. But that’s not why.”

“And you’re not going to tell me at all. I’d be a fool to go.”

“Alright,” Yorvig said. “I didn’t want to do this, but. . . I will send you with five hundred yothe of gold as tribute to Deep Cut if you come with me.”

“You. . . five hundred?”

“Oh ay,” Yorvig said. “Just for marching thirty miles. But only if you come with me. Would your masters care if you left it on the table for the sake of so short a walk?”

Reamer was squinting.

“They didn’t tell me you were mad.”

Yorvig smiled.

“I’m glad to hear my wif is no informant.”