The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

The terraces were finished, the dwarves were moving soil into the terrace beds, and Onyx had harvested seeds from radish and turnip. They had to build a bigger barrel for fish oil. No new sign of ürsi was seen. As Yorvig hauled a basket of soil toward the spiral stair, he saw Striper ahead, staring down the long sloping drift toward the hatch, her tail twitching and her ruff standing. Dark thoughts and dark questions lay that way. He turned to the stair.

That night, they went to sleep with new crops of radishes and turnips planted in the terrace beds.

In the weeks to come, they cut a new storeroom behind the smithy. Yorvig divvied out stone for each of them to have a hold of fifty down the new drift that Onyx had begun if they wished to cut new alcoves, but the dwarves were not as eager for that as for digging ore. Greal began the cutting of amethysts. From the drift, the miners began a stope, cutting away a wide swath of rock around the ore vein as it branched off in gold-bearing arms in multiple directions. To speed their process, they drilled holes in the rock, testing the chips and dust for gold and ores to ensure they were moving in the best direction. They stuffed those drill-holes with wood shavings, tamped them hard, then put plugs of rock into the ends of the drill holes with a groove cut into the caps. Through the groove, they poured water, letting the wood absorb it and expand. If done correctly, the expanding wood would shatter the rock around the drill-hole, making it much easier to mine. Of course, there was always the risk that the cap would shoot out of the end of the hole like a crossbow bolt and ricochet off the wall of the stope, so they leaned a slab of rock against it once they’d poured the water.

Greal cut amethyst after amethyst, varying the angles and facets according to his judgment of the stone. Yorvig was impressed by his work. He’d never seen any of Greal’s stonecutting before, but he did the crystals some justice. The color was so dark and pure, they would fetch a fine price back in Deep Cut. But that wealth paled in comparison to the gold ore that Onyx had begun to smelt into small ingots. Already, she had taken a portion of gold to work into lace and fine wire that shone with a red luster. The red meant there was copper in it, alloying the gold. Yorvig wasn’t surprised by that. It could always be assayed and purified, burning off other metals or separating them. But for purposes of crafting, a little copper in the gold gave it fire.

Nearly every day, Yorvig sent hunting parties out, often going himself.

The stope they dug followed the vein. Lodes in rock rarely chose perfect angles and level paths. The stope they dug that summer was wide and deep, following as the vein dove down, passing beneath the area where the sloping drift had met the High Adit. It was an irregular delving. They had left pillars at even intervals to hold up the stope-back. Sometime later, they might smooth out the walls and use the space for some purpose, if the ore held true long enough to warrant more permanence. Yorvig thought it would. They were merely scratching the surface.

And so, in the late summer, he gathered them all into the workshop to discuss what had grown in his mind. The smithy had so far served as their meeting place.

“We all know there is gold even on the far side of this ridge,” Yorvig said. “And the ore just in this lode branches and forks into the mountain. Already we have smelted. . . well, Onyx, how much is it after today?”

“Seven pounds eight yothe, as of the last smelt, but there is more ore every day. I can’t keep up.”

“That’s just the best ore, Sledgefist said. “If we crushed and sluiced the rest. . . there’s no telling. And we’ve only begun to mine.”

“That’s why I’m sending three of us back,” Yorvig said.

“What?” Hobblefoot asked.

“Three, carrying all the gold and cut amethysts so far.”

“One of us could carry it all,” Sledgefist said.

“I will not send one alone. We know it is not safe.”

“There have been no ürsi.”

“Not in this dell. But we don’t know what might be five miles downriver.”

“I don’t want to leave the claim,” Hobblefoot said.

“I’ve left and returned already,” Warmcoat muttered.

Yorvig raised his hand, asking for quiet.

“We need to bring back laborers. And herds.”

“Why? We can mine it as we wish and go back to trade for supplies when we will. The smoke closet is full. We are doing it!” Sledgefist said.

“For now. But the beasts will grow fewer and fewer, I fear,” Yorvig said. “And even with the cloth brought this spring, our clothes wear thin. Will we travel for supplies every spring? It takes months.”

“What do you wish to bring back?”

“We need goatherds with flocks. A cultivator. More than one. A skilled smelter. A mine smith, if one can be convinced. More miners.”

“You wish to make this a company?”

“This claim can sustain it and more. We could take on fifty laborers and still grow rich beyond our hopes. And we do not know how deep this goes. We are merely on the surface. What lies below us?”

“Or into the mountain itself,” Onyx said. Yorvig looked at her. The expression of her eyes seemed far away, as if she looked beyond them and deep into the stone. She caught his gaze, and he looked away.

“We would all keep owner's shares of the mine,” Yorvig said. “And pay the rest wages as agreed.”

“We will have to be generous to lure them so far,” Warmcoat said.

“With this kind of gold,” Hobblefoot added, “whole families may come.”

There was a pause as they thought of the possibility.

“Whoever goes should. . .” Sledgefist glanced at Onyx, and he seemed flustered for a moment. “We will be mine owners by rights,” he went on. “There may be families that would consider. . . us.”

Warmcoat grinned.

“And bring us maids!” he said, and laughed. Yorvig was surprised by Warmcoat’s free talk in front of Onyx, but she just snorted and shook her head, looking more amused than offended.

“It would be welcome,” Hobblefoot said. “I thought we’d have to mine here for years and go back to Deep Cut in search, but it may be otherwise. At least for some,” he added with a nod to Shineboot, followed by a flicker of a glance in Onyx’s direction.

Why were Hobblefoot and Sledgefist talking about maids from Deep Cut? He looked at Sledgefist’s blush, and Hobblefoot's squint, and back to Onyx's stare into distant rock. . .

What did Hobblefoot mean by “at least some.” Had they made their proposals and been denied? Or accepted? How had Yorvig known nothing of it? But then, he was often occupied, and nothing of that sort would have been done for an audience. Had she so rebutted their hopes that they looked elsewhere, or was something else afoot?

“So what is the plan? We just go back and. . . show folk the gold?” Shineboot asked, bringing Yorvig back to the present. He felt his face flushing, but the awareness of it only made it worse.

“I. . . eh. I suppose show it to folk in the stew-halls. They will spread word for us. Enlist the aid of as many as are willing. Bring a brewer, a tanner, a clothier, whoever, but most importantly we need flocks and herds and cultivators. Perhaps bee keepers.”

“Do you honestly think bee keepers will come?” Hobblefoot asked. "And would clothiers and tanners be necessary?"

Yorvig knew it might just be a flight of fancy.

“I wouldn’t mind a taste of mead,” Sledgefist said.

“Are you volunteering to go back to Deepcut?” Warmcoat asked. “Because I have already gone once.”

“I will have you choose stones,” Yorvig said, “but not Warmcoat.”

Warmcoat visibly relaxed.

“And not you?” Hobblefoot asked.

Thankfully, Shineboot spoke up for Yorvig, even to his own brother:

“The rinlen should not go.”

No one carried the argument further.

“We have meat smoked for a month,” Yorvig said. “Portions of it will carry those who go far on their way, at least to the claims in the western ridges where they can trade for more supplies. That will let them make speed without having to forage.”

“So when do we choose for who goes?” Sledgefist asked.

“I have the stones prepared.”

Yorvig walked to the worktable, picked up a bowl full of small pebbles, and stirred them with his fingers before lifting the bowl over his head. “Choose now.”

No one moved at first. Then Onyx stepped up.

“Not you,” Yorvig said. He’d been hoping she would exclude herself. He should have known better by now.

“Why not me?”

“Because you are staying to work the garden.” Thankfully, Yorvig had thought of this answer in advance.

“I should draw like everyone else.”

“Do not argue,” Yorvig said flatly, trying to return her gaze. He could see a twitch at the corner of her left eye, and her forehead was flushed as red as he felt his own must be.

The others were silent as Onyx stepped away. Her hands were clenched at her sides.

Then Greal stepped up, and Khlif followed. They reach reached and took a stone, as did the others. Sledgefist was last, and slid the final stone from the bowl. Warmcoat remained where he was standing, arms folded.

“If you have a jasper, you go,” Yorvig said. They all opened their palms and looked down.

“Knew it the moment I took it,” Khlif said with a sigh. The other two jaspers belonged to Shineboot and Sledgefist, whose scowl only deepened as the moments passed.

“We could work the mine ourselves,” he said, though his weak tone made it clear that he did not expect to carry the argument. “I slew the great beast in the river. We have meat aplenty.”

Yorvig had been thinking long on this, and honestly he had expected more resistance than they gave.

“Think of it, brother,” he said. “Once we return to Deep Cut to make use of this gold, word will spread like fire that such can be found here in the east. Others will come anyway, but not to help us. They will divvy up this whole range into claims. We will have to go back at some point, unless we wish to wear rags and animal hides and never have a pipe or a bit of salt again."

"We could trade with the amethysts," Sledgefist said. "And we don't have to tell where our claim is."

"The amethyst might last for a time," Yorvig acknowledge. "But we cannot hope to carry enough supplies on just a few backs over such distance."

“That is no option,” Hobblefoot muttered. "It is too far. We cannot go back every year."

“So we expect more prospectors. We expect them to come. Wouldn't we for gold? And when they come, they will find themselves in the same troubles that we have had so far from Deep Cut. They will lack clothing, and food, and salt, and ale, and hill-smoke, and all the rest.”

Hobblefoot’s eyes darted up. He may have warmed to the idea since he was not chosen to go, but now he caught Yorvig’s true drift.

“Unless there is a trading depot,” he said. “You want us to bring all these back to establish a trading depot?”

“A mining company and a trading depot. With a company we can claim this mountain by rights, the ridge from valley to valley, pass to pass, but by trade we could have wealth from the entire range.”

“We don’t even know where the next pass north is.”

“No, but there are many miles of ridges here, and many peaks and valleys. The claims will spring up, and they will need food, clothes. . .”

“And we will be rich.” Hobblefoot laughed and clapped his hands together. “When do they go?”

“Greal has said he will finish the last of the amethysts tomorrow,” Yorvig said. “The next day, then.”

“So be it,” Shineboot said, his affect flat. Then he perked up for a moment. “I can’t say as I couldn’t use a proper Deep Cut draft.”

“Or three,” Khlif said with a grin. “For starters.”

After a couple more details of business were settled, they filed out of the workshop. As Yorvig was leaving, Onyx called after him.

“Chargrim, I would speak with you.”

He sighed. This was not a confrontation he wanted, and he'd hoped she would let it go. This maid’s presence occupied his mind, and yet more and more he wanted to avoid her. He wished it weren’t so. At the same time, he wanted to sit in her presence and watch everything she did. But he had an oath on him to not pursue her, and he had no right of kindred to be in her private presence. What was worse, every time they interacted it seemed he must grow fouler in her sight. Stepping beside the door, he waited. Khlif glanced back at him but left the smithy and headed down the drift.

“You have no right to exclude me from the perils and duties of this claim,” Onyx said.

Yorvig smirked. He couldn’t help it. No one who had once worked in a Deep Cut mine under the strict, unbending authority of a rinlen could have said such a foolish thing. A rinlen could not order death or injury, but so long as a dwarf remained pledged to a mine as apprentice or rightful miner, the rinlen could command waking and sleeping, eating and drinking, labor and rest, and endure no disagreement. Yorvig had to remember that Onyx was no miner and had never apprenticed.

“I have every right to exclude you in whatever way I see fit. I heard you swear the rinlen oath with the rest.”

“I have an owner's stake in this mine by rights,” she said. “As much as my brothers. I will have my portion.”

“No one is denying you your portion, and if they tried I would support you. But you have no right to choose your duties here so long as you remain to work the claim. You are always free to sell your stake.”

“You know I won’t do that.”

“I know it. Or at least I suspect it.”

“It is not right to coddle me because I am a maid.”

“I am not coddling you,” Yorvig said. “It’s about the claim. It’s about letting us have peace of mind that we did not put a maid in danger.”

“Put a maid in danger?” Onyx laughed. “Was Tourmaline not in danger when she led our folk from captivity? My brothers tricked me here.”

“There are dangers that can be helped and those that cannot. But did you not know you were coming to the Red Ridges?”

“I did not know we were coming so far. There are mines and outposts in the Ridges established for a hundred years. But we are many scores of miles from them.”

“You could have stayed in Deep Cut.”

She was silent, but her eyes narrowed.

“Without kin?”

“You could have had kin for the asking, nor do you seem close to those you have. You did not choose to apprentice. Yet you did not marry. Do not blame your brothers for that.”

“You are an insufferable dwarf,” Onyx snapped.

“It is not my task to cater to the feelings of a maid who would have her way!” Yorvig shouted, and then regretted it. Any hope. . . but he had no hope. He never did. This was about running the claim, not vying for a maid. Maybe he should have sent her away with the others to Deep Cut. At least to be rid of the constant nagging of her presence for a time.

She stared at him. It was clear she was trying to control her breathing, and she shuddered. He tried to think of something to soften that last blow. He remembered the worn and lined face of his mining master during his apprenticeship back in Deep Cut. He had been assigned to a drudgery for months, hauling broken rock and not once swinging a pick. Like a fool, he had complained to his master.

“I could haul it faster and better,” his master said. “And complain less. Why should you get to do more?”

“I am the only apprentice who has been assigned this so long.”

“Is it not fair?” his master asked, raising an eyebrow. “Good! In the meantime, load your carts with the weight balanced over the axles. Pay attention. You can improve even this.”

“I see how it is,” Onyx said, bringing Yorvig back to the present. She started to move past him toward the door.

“Each one in this claim is different,” Yorvig offered with a quieter tone. “Greal has mined the least, instead cutting gems. You have smelted. I have sent Sledgefist and Shineboot hunting most because they are best with the crossbows. My leg will not support the weight it should, not like it used to, so I swing a pick more than I haul. You are the only maid here. Why do you think I allowed you to spend time digging a chamber for yourself, rather than sleeping in the drifts like the rest? And I let your brother help you. I would not have permitted the others to spend their days in that labor. We are not alike. You are alone here, and for that I am sorry. But you cannot change what you are any more than I can fix my leg. Accept it or grow bitter. But do not clamor for fair. Mines are not about fair.”

“Then I will know not to ask for it,” she said, her shoulders tight. At that, she left the chamber.

It had taken Yorvig a long time during his apprenticeship to understand his old master, if understand him he did. They were not easy lessons, purchased with sweat and a little blood and many patched knees in his trousers. He'd been so eager to finish his apprenticeship. Now, he wished he could talk to his old master again.

This rinlen business was another kind of trouble, entirely.