Chapter 11: Smoke and Blood

He had come a bit further than he remembered, and the terrain was rough, game trail or no, but he turned into the opening of the dell in little more than his estimated hour. Nothing had changed. Bent over his knees breathing hard, he finally stood before the adit. Water bubbled out of the ground and he took another long drink, which only made him start sweating again. The sounds of mining below reached him as soon as he stepped into the adit. The larger spur gear of the lift mechanism spun alone, the rest of the mechanism disconnected, which meant Shineboot was likely below loading. He continued to the ladder and climbed down. Shineboot saw him first.

“Chargrim!” he said. “Glad to see you.” The dwarf looked haggard. His skin was covered in more than one day’s grit and dust, which was unusual, as dwarf miners tended to bathe religiously, in their case out in the tailings pond. Shineboot's eyes looked unusually luminous in his face. “Did you find any food?”

“Ay, yes,” Yorvig answered. The relief on his friend's face was clear. “I have brought down two beasts of some size. There are hundreds of pounds of meat smoking not far.

“Hammer and tongs, that’s good news,” Shineboot said.

“It won’t be ready for some time, but if you all come, we could remove a piece from the smoke hive for you to eat.”

Shineboot looked over his shoulder at the two drifts, one running along a downward slope and one jutting off at an upward angle. They had dug far already.

“Has ought changed here?”

“Nothing of great purpose. Listen, Chargrim, if you supported Hobblefoot—”

Yorvig raised his hand.

“I am supporting you all. There is meat, and I will be gone to tend it for weeks. But when I am done, if all goes well, it will give us a foundation for the winter.”

Shineboot stared at Yorvig, not responding.

“I have little time,” Yorvig went on. “I must return to tend the fires. Follow the river upstream, and within three miles you will find me. Follow your nose. We can risk opening the smoke hive for a moment. You must all eat. With just a few fish between you, working like this, you will collapse soon.”

“We will go and speak with them.”

“You must speak with them,” Yorvig said. “I’ve no time. I must return.”

“They don’t listen to me.”

“If they don’t, tell them where to go and come alone and eat. Let them shovel their ore if they are so stubborn. But I think stomachs may win out by now.” Yorvig had already started to climb back up the ladder. He drank again from the stream flowing out of the adit and started back at a jog. Since he’d gorged the night before, he felt a great resurgence of strength, and at times, a woozy lightheadedness.

The few miles slipped by. The day was cool, and the air felt clear and fresh. There really was nothing like mountain air, laden with the clean scent of limestone, sandstone, and a thousand other minerals and fragrances. Deep Cut smelled always of coal and salt and fish and steam. Yorvig hadn’t ever known what he was missing.

The breeze was at his back, blowing upstream, so he didn’t smell the smoke and meat until he was nearly back. He recognized the trail. Coming through a low stand of young birch, he saw his pit trap ahead, still broken apart. He angled through some tall river grasses, cutting across to his smoke hives. He stopped in his tracks just five feet away from the boulder. His stomach clenched, and a horrid tingling traveled up and down his spine, even before his mind could catch up.

The two creatures stared at him with bulbous eyes. One crouched on top of the boulder above the smoke hives, and the other was on the ground. It had been prodding at the shale slab over the opening of the smoke hive with a short javelin, but when Yorvig burst through the tall grass, they both froze. A few dreadful heartbeats passed and no one moved. Something smelled vile. No clear thought moved in Yorvig, but his mind took in the situation in quick bursts. He’d never seen one before, but millennia of dwarven lore ensured he’d know them—ürsi.

The creature atop the boulder sprang like a frog, jutting its javelin at Yorvig’s chest. Yorvig stepped to the side, raised a hand to push aside the blade, and grasped behind his back for his dagger with the other. The javelin blade sliced across his palm and tore into the side of his ribs, but he managed to catch the ürsi by the throat with his torn hand as the second ürsi rushed him. Yorvig turned, putting the struggling ürsi in his grasp between him and the other ürsi, even as he freed his dagger and plunged it into the creature’s gut two times. The second ürsi jabbed low, beneath its companion. The thin, narrow blade parted Yorvig’s calf muscle from his shin as it pierced. Yorvig felt himself weaken at once, and before his grip failed, he pushed the ürsi back into its companion and bowled forward after him, stabbing frantically with his dagger. He felt the resistance of leather give way beneath the force of one of his blows. He struggled to push himself up with his slashed hand. Both ürsi were below him, and he stabbed and stabbed again, even as his vision seemed to darken, and specks of white light burst before him like sparks from hot scale at the forge.

He rolled away, trying to distance himself from the creatures, but they did not rise. He heard ragged breaths, but was not sure at first if it was his own or one of the beasts'. There had been no cries, no sounds during the fight that he heard. It had been nothing like battles in song. It was over in moments, leaving his heart beating and blood pouring from his wounds.

As he lay on his back, he felt like his strength fled, and his head lolled to one side, but the fit passed after a moment and he looked up. The ürsi were still not moving, those creatures of horror from old stories. Yorvig didn’t think the ürsi had ever seen a dwarf before, either, and that short delay of uncertainty had likely saved his life. He’d blundered into them with no sense of danger.

As his wits returned, and his thoughts began to jumbled together in something of a line, he knew he had to act. He was bleeding badly. Where was his dagger? It was still in his hand, covered in dark blood. There was a horrid stench, unlike anything he’d ever encountered. He gagged and wiped the blade on the mossy ground, but the blood was all over his hands as well.

“Oh, and take clean cloth for bandages and patches,” the old prospector had said. Yorvig looked over. The creatures had rifled through his pack and dumped it. His tools were in a pile, but he saw the roll of wool cloth he’d kept at the bottom of the pack lying in the dirt a few feet away. He dragged himself toward it on his fists and one knee.

He tore away the leg of his pant, then wrapped the wound, staining the dressing with his own flowing blood. He tied it off as tight as he could. Using one hand, he pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as he did so. The slice along his ribs had hit the bone, but it hadn’t penetrated between the ribs or hit his lung. It stung fiercely, but it wasn’t bleeding like his leg. He wrapped it as best he could, tying the strip of cloth over his chest. His hand throbbed and burned, and he wrapped it and used his teeth to tie the bandage along with his good hand. It was only then that he realized he was gasping for breath, and tears of pain and other inexpressible emotion were running down his face. He lay back and tried to get control of his breathing. If he had felt lightheaded before, now the sky seemed to spin.

It was the horrific stench that brought him back to the present at last. The sun was behind the ridges, and he lay in shadow. The first thing he knew was that the fires were low, maybe already out. He sat up slowly, feeling his body complain. The toes below his injured leg felt numb and cold, but oddly enough the greatest pain came from his hand. He’d stacked wood next to the smoke hives before going back to the claim. In that moment, all he could manage to care about was saving the meat. He crawled over and yanked the shale slab from the front of the first hive. There was still some heat in the coals. He stacked some birch atop the embers, then maple atop that.

There was more heat in the second smoke hive, the charred ends of some of the greenwood still smoldering. He added more fuel. He felt exhausted and lay on his unhurt side for some time, feeling nauseous. If there were more ürsi about, they would be able to kill him with ease. He glanced at the foul, motionless bodies. He was worth two, at least. Isn't that what it said in the old story? A dwarf must be worth many, for the foe is many, but a dwarf is strong. The stench was awful. Saliva filled his mouth from the nausea. He should throw the bodies in the river, but he was many yards away. He would do it as soon as he regained his strength.