Chapter 27: Rescue and Remorse

Yorvig stood up and backed away from the carcass. A bit of breeze came from the west, and he tested it again.

“I smell it too,” Shineboot said. Yorvig blew his nose onto the pine needles and sniffed again. Ay, yes. There it was. Smoke.

“Do ürsi make fires?” Sledgefist asked.

“They must. Right?” Shineboot said. “They have tools. They don't freeze in the winter.”

“They wouldn’t build a fire if they knew we were about,” Hobblefoot said. They were silent for a time, considering the implications.

“I say we owe them retribution,” Sledgefist said, a hard note in his voice.

“Ay,” Hobblefoot answered. “That we do.”

Yorvig couldn’t see westward, but he knew that the ridge would slope down toward the river. They had come perhaps two miles south. Why would the ürsi build a fire so close to their claim? Were they always so close?

“We could at least go see,” Sledgefist said. “Maybe we surprise them this time."

This time the others did not look to Yorvig for an answer; they stared down the western slope with a hungry look far removed from the pity with which they’d watched the fall of the beast.

Yorvig wasn’t sure what to do. He hated the ürsi, too. But what was more important? To ensure they returned to the claim safe with the meat, or to pursue a battle of unknown risk in the hopes of revenge.

“I think we—”

A long rich note sounded, rising up from the valley below.

“That’s a horn,” Shineboot said, shocked.

“A dwarven horn if I’ve heard one," Hobblefoot said.

“But why is it blown?”

They looked at each other.

No one with any sense would make such a sound in the wilds without need.

“Let’s go,” Yorvig said.

“Leave the meat?”

He hesitated. They didn't know what they were heading into or if they could easily return.

“We take it.” The horn sounded again, long and full, though Yorvig knew it came from some distance. They couldn’t abandon the meat. They needed it.

The slope down toward the river was not so steep and broken as the climb up the back of the dell. Still, Yorvig had difficulty going with speed, relying on his walking hammer with every step. Sledgefist and Hobblefoot had the pole between them, carrying it over their shoulders with one hand and their weapons in another. Shineboot had slung the raw pelt sack over his shoulder, and so they made their way downhill, dodging between trees and screes. To them, the progress felt painstaking, but they were aided in speed by downward momentum and the fact they had unintentionally drifted lower in elevation as they had come south, so that in truth they were only a thousand feet above the river valley.

The smell of the smoke grew stronger. Once more the horn sounded three clear blasts. Yorvig knew the guards of Deep Cut—there were only a few hundred retained by the council—could send signals and messages through horn blasts, but he did not know what they meant.

“Alright, leave it here,” Yorvig said in a strained whisper. Shineboot dropped the pelt sack onto a flat bit of exposed stone while Sledgefist and Hobblefoot suspended the pole between two branches to keep the meat off the ground. “Load,” Yorvig told his brother, but Sledgefist was already drawing the string back with both hands, bent over with his foot in the iron stirrup of the crossbow. It caught, and he pulled an iron-tipped bolt from his belt and fitted it. Hobblefoot’s grip tightened on his spear. Judging by the smell of the smoke, they were close, likely within a hundred yards. The trees thinned ahead, giving glimpses of open sky. Their elevation remained above the trees of the narrow valley, but not by much. There must be some exposed rock ahead, some area where the trees did not grow so thick.

As they crept forward, they found it to be true. There were jumbles of stone piled together, as if from an old landslide. Little or no loam covered the rock. Only short, straggly trees clung there with exposed roots, or dead husks that had grown too fast with too little nourishment. Down to their left, water flowed in a deep cut. They could see the smoke rising ahead, but the fire was hidden among rocks.

“There!” Hobblefoot strained a whisper, pointing with one hand even as he stopped and crouched.

They all lowered themselves.

An ürsi crawled across the flat top of the rock, pulling a javelin with him in one hand. It was facing away from them, obviously stalking something.

“Can you hit it?” Yorvig asked Shineboot. The dwarf bared his teeth, but shook his head.

“I need to get closer," he breathed, and crept forward in a crouch. Thankfully, there was little atop the rock to make a sound, and the soft hide slippers they had made to replace their worn boots were quiet. The ürsi’s attention was fixed forward, the breeze was light, and they were downwind. Yorvig wasn’t sure if he actually smelled the ürsi or if it was the memory of their stench that returned.

Shineboot closed the distance and took a knee on the rock, raising the crossbow to his shoulder. Time felt slow as Shineboot trained the bolt. The ürsi raised itself up to a crouch, trying to peer over the edge of a rock. At that moment, another ürsi clambered up the stone from the direction of the creek. It looked up and saw the dwarves. Even as it opened its mouth to screech, Shineboot released the catch and the bolt flew. At such a close distance, his aim was true enough; it caught the ürsi behind the ribs, sending the creature forward over the edge of the stone with a cry that mixed with the screech of the second ürsi. Yorvig, Sledgefist, and Hobblefoot rushed to join Shineboot even as he tried to fit another bolt.

Sledgefist ran right past Shineboot, heading for the second ürsi, but the creature fled back down the cut toward the creek. Yorvig cautiously moved to the edge of the rock where the ürsi had fallen. About twenty yards beyond and below them was a small promontory of mostly exposed stone jutting from the slope. Beyond the promontory, the trees rose high again, but between it and Yorvig, the old rockslide had buried the slope. It looked like the promontory had stopped the landslide. Atop it, in a jumble of broken stones and a few scraggly junipers, there were dwarves. Flames licked up one of the junipers, with lit wood piled at its base. Yorvig could see two dwarves clearly, and he recognized Greal Hardfell, the elder of the Hardfell brothers. The other had his back turned, but Yorvig thought it might be Warmcoat. Greal held a sling dangling from his hand, a stone fitted into the pouch. He saw Yorvig’s outline and twirled the sling around.

Yorvig held up his hands and shouted.

“Friends!”

Greal stopped his arm, the sling nearly spinning into his own head. The look of astonishment on his face gave way to one of joy, and he shouted unintelligibly. A few yards below Yorvig, the first ürsi lay sprawled in a hollow, a bolt in his back, but Greal could not have seen it from his position. The others stepped up to Yorvig’s side.

“Ürsi!” Greal shouted, mastering his excitement. The other dwarf turned. It was Warmcoat.

“How many?” Yorvig asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe eight, ten,” he said. “They're circling us.”

“Not anymore,” Sledgefist yelled.

“Should we go down to them?” Shineboot asked.

“Best if they come up,” Yorvig said, and then he saw movement on the right, amongst the edges of the scree and the trees. Ürsi, at least five—no, six. And one of them near the fore was missing an ear. It was crouched, sniffing at the air. The ürsi already saw the four dwarves standing on the rocks. They bared fangs at them. Sledgefist raised his crossbow, then lowered it. They were too far to waste a bolt. They only had a dozen bolts between Sledgefist and Shineboot when they’d set off. The ürsi grunted and guttered amongst themselves for a few moments, then turned and trotted into the shadows of the trees.

“Come,” Yorvig said. “We go down to them, now. I don’t think they’ll attack us with so few, but let’s hurry.”

They were able to slide down between two boulders and come to the level of the rock promontory. As they approached, Greal stretched out his arms.

“Where are the others?” Hobblefoot asked. They could only see Warmcoat and Greal.

“They’re here,” Greal said. “At least. . .” he paused, looking unsure, or upset, or both.

From between the junipers stepped Khlif, the younger Hardfell.

Behind him came a dwarf-maid.

It was obvious she was a dwarf-maid and not a wif, for her wraps were vibrant orange with blue lapis-dyed embroidery, and her half-veil was ornamented with threads of silver on yellow ochre-dyed cloth of fine weave. Her hair was covered and wrapped for travel, but as she looked at them, Yorvig saw that her piercing grey eyes had purple in them, as if the irises were ringed by a band of amethyst, as if the flame of a beeswax candle shone through agate. She held a long dagger, and her brow was furrowed.

They stared at her in shock.

“Your sister,” Sledgefist gasped.

Shit, Yorvig thought. Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Keep alert,” he snapped instead, anger in his tone. “We don’t know if they’re gone.”

“Where is Savvyarm?” Shineboot asked.

“He’s dead,” Greal said. “We saw two trailing us for days, but then. . ." He passed his hand over his forehead. "This morning. . . He was hit in the guts with a dart. Badly. He wouldn't get up.”

“You left him?” Sledgefist asked.

"We didn't have a choice," Greal snapped. "They started to close in. He wouldn't let me pull it out. He told us to go."

“Why did you come so far from the river?” Hobblefoot demanded.

“We haven’t!” Greal pointed. They followed his gesture. Between the trees beyond the promontory, they saw glints of flowing water not fifty yards away. Yorvig realized they had descended much further down the slope than he'd thought. The undergrowth had not yet filled out in full summer foliage. He had likely passed during the summer without seeing these rocks on his trip upriver.

He hadn’t expected the Hardfells to come for another month at least.

“They were throwing darts at us. We needed stone at our backs. High ground.”

“Enough talk,” Yorvig said, feeling a wave of fatigue. He could not. . . They could not stand there and share news or dwell on Savvyarm, not with ürsi near and the safety of the claim far. There would be time for that—time to regret he had done nothing more for Savvyarm. For now, action was needed, not remorse. He told himself this, even as his stomach fell like stone. “We need to get the meat from the hill, then we go back along the river. It will be quickest.”

Yorvig glanced back. They had left the meat out of sight. If the ürsi smelled it. . .

“What if the ürsi go back to the claim?” Shineboot asked.

“We’ll know to be careful,” Yorvig answered."We must hurry."

“Sledgefist and Shineboot can go get the meat,” Hobblefoot said. Sledgefist shot Hobblefoot a dirty look.

“No, we go get the meat all together.”

“I’m confused,” said Greal, looking from Yorvig to the others. “Why is. . . Why are you—”

“There’s no time for explanations,” Yorvig said, cutting him off. He turned and headed back toward the meat. He had noticed Greal, Khlif, and Warmcoat's confused expressions when he'd started giving orders. For a moment, he thought no one would follow, but Shineboot, Sledgefist, and Hobblefoot came behind him, perhaps as much from fear of losing food as obedience. The others, seeing their deference, came along.

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" Yorvig shouted as he climbed up over the rock. The meat was gone. The sack was gone. The pole they had hung it from lay discarded on the rock. Memory of the one-eared ürsi crouched and sniffing at the air filled his mind. This was Yorvig's fault. He had told them to set it down. He had risked it. The others cursed as they arrived. The smell of ürsi was thick. They should have eaten the meat raw like Hobblefoot had suggested. Their stomachs were empty. What a rinlen he was.

They could not trust to luck. Luck would betray them. How had the ürsi known? The dwarves had come from downwind. They had even snuck up on one of them. Shit! He scanned the trees near them, half expecting to see a one-eared ürsi lurking there. His heart pounded, and he bent over, clutching his knees.

"What is it?" Greal asked, seeing their distress.

"We left our meat here!" Sledgefist said.

"Can we trace them?" Shineboot asked, drawing his fingers through his beard.

They searched the ground and smelled at the breeze. There was smoke, and blood, and ürsi, and still the scent of meat. Yorvig considered it. There were at least six of the foe. They could have divided up the meat and still moved quickly.

"Which way?" Sledgefist asked. They looked at each other, unsure.

"We have some salt jerk," Khlif said. "Enough at least for tonight."

"We jerked and salted it three days ago," Greal said. "I think that's what brought the ürsi."

Yorvig highly doubted the ürsi needed the smell of meat or salt to know a group of dwarves was passing by. He straightened. They needed to keep moving.

“How far is Savvyarm’s. . . is Savvyarm?” he asked Greal.

“Maybe a hundred yards downstream,” Warmcoat said. “But. . . They started. . . I saw them. . . I don’t think. . . ” He couldn't finish.

Yorvig understood Warmcoat’s hesitation. He understood the value of meat; obviously the ürsi did, too.

“We will check the spot where Savvyarm was, just in case. Then we return.” Yorvig glanced at the dwarf-maid, hesitating. “I. . . I don’t know your name,” he said.

“I am Onyx Hardfell’s-Daughter.” He had expected a frightened voice, but it was not. If anything, she sounded annoyed. And he had expected a true name instead of a mine name, as her brothers kept to the Named of Strength sect.

“Are you well?”

“Are you?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Let’s go."