Chapter 5: A New Adit

The next day, Yorvig stepped out of the storeroom at the same moment that Sledgefist rolled out of his sleeping alcove. He looked up. Yorvig couldn’t make out his brother’s face, as it was still dark outside, and only a small amount of light made it this far into the adit.

“You are still sleeping in there?” Sledgefist asked. It was an unnecessary question. Sledgefist already knew the answer.

“I haven’t dug an alcove yet.”

“Where are you digging out there?”

“On the north rockface.”

Sledgefist nodded as he twisted the thick rawhide laces around his boots.

“Do the others mind?” Yorvig asked. His brother shrugged.

“No one has said anything. I’m sure they’d appreciate your efforts, but of course if you’re busy. . .”

It was a stinging rebuke from his brother. Yorvig grimaced, though Sledgefist couldn’t have seen it. Yet his brother must have felt the reaction. “The weir gave us fish for yesterday,” he added. The simple fact was as close to a compliment as could be expected.

“If I do not strike by the end of this week, I will join below.”

“So be it.”

Yorvig’s time of self-determination was running out. He knew Sledgefist wouldn’t be pleased with him taking another week away from the rhythms of the claim, but he couldn’t get the upper vein out of his thoughts. He wanted to look into it just a short distance further.

The brothers parted and Yorvig made his way back up the hillside. He’d been planning to dig a rude stepway into the rockface so he wouldn’t have to lower himself from the cliff again, but he wouldn’t have time, now. He’d use the rope alone, and if he found nothing this week, he’d forget about it, if he could. It was not in the nature of dwarves to forget a seam when they still believed it could pay.

By the time the sky had paled with the dawn, Yorvig was securing his rope above the rockface, checking it for any sign of fraying or wear. During the Day of Deliverance he had woven a thick pad of river grasses to keep the rope from damage where it held the weight against the edge of the rock face. As he stepped carefully backward, he made sure to position the pad as best he could.

Then, he was over the edge, walking backwards down to the seam. He reached it without incident. Fifty feet below, on the slope of the mountain, fresh-cut stakes of wood were set at close intervals in a half circle from the rockface, each carved with a mine rune, the symbol for falling rock. He’d carved a few more into trees nearby, just to be safe. The odds that one of the other dwarves would come up the hillside and not notice him mining above were slim, but such precautions had engraved into him through years of apprenticeship in the mines. Even far in the wilderness, he would have felt uneasy ignoring the precaution. In his first year as an apprentice in the salt mines, he’d watched a rinlen slap another apprentice across the face and hurl such speech that even Yorvig’s face was red at the end, even though he’d had nothing to do with the offense. It was over a forgotten mine rune. In dwarven society, such a strike to the face could have led to bloodshed, but no one would question it in such a case between a new apprentice and a rinlen. No one would forget the lesson, either.

Salt mining used the room-and-pillar method, or smaller stopings where the rock was not sufficiently safe. Large halls were dug out of the salt-laden rock, leaving pillars at intervals to support the overburden. That would not be the case here at the claim. They may stope some areas of the sandstone—in other words, dig out a pocket, resulting in a wide open space in the rock—but the primary work would be in sinking shafts and cutting drifts to follow veins until they payed out. If they hit a big enough pocket, they’d have to consider whether to pillar with stone or use square-set wood bracings for a stope. Wood bracing was sufficient when the intent was to abandon the working when it had paid out, or until permanent stone supports were built by masons.

But first things first. The strike of the pick shocked the dell out of early dawn stillness, the familiar sound of steel on quartz. A crow cawed in response. Yorvig struck again, and again. He had set himself aggressive goals for the day, beginning with dislodging a solid chunk of quartz with his pick. If it came out of the sandstone whole as he expected, it would give him angles to work more ably with his chisels. Flakes of matrix caught in his beard, and he struck on.

How far an experienced dwarf miner could dig in a single shift—dwarves did not reckon it as days, as they only loosely followed the turnings of sun and moon—depended on the tools, the methods, and most importantly, the rock itself. To dig through granite was many times slower than digging through sandstone. Where he may have expected to move two cubic yards of material in a sixteen hour stretch, he far exceeded it that day. Yorvig was aided by how easily the vein of quartz broke away from the sandstone seams. In addition, the rock simply fell away down the rockface, and even when he’d formed a foothold, he could simply slide the stone off the edge with his foot. There was no need to take turns between pick and shovel. He looked at the stone often enough as he dug, following the flecks of mineralization on the quartz, but he would give the ore below a more careful examination at a later time. The important thing to do was to make a landing in the rockface.

And he did. The sun had already set by the time he walked back up the cliff, but he had accomplished his goal and more.

The next day, Yorvig did not have to scale the mountainside and trek back down the arm-like ridge above the cliff. He had carved an anchor point at the top of his shallow adit fifty feet above the dell's slope, and he had secured the remaining length of his rope there before climbing back up. Thankfully, he had brought a 100 foot coil of rope, one of the best things to bring on a prospecting expedition, and the cliff itself stretched only 110 feet from slope to slope. Thankfully, he had dumped enough of the broken rock over the edge of the rockface that he was able to pile it as a footing for a fallen log and reach the hanging bottom of the rope. The rope was of woven fiber, capable of holding at least one ton, but relatively thin and light. Traveling dwarves often wore it wrapped around their torsos, as it served both for protection and an easy method of carrying.

It was still the dark of morning as Yorvig worked his way up, chiselling shallow footholds as he went. That would make it easier in future. Given more time, he would have carved a stair, but this would do for now. The sun had just risen by the time he reached the narrow adit in the cliff-face. He could have made the adit both narrower and lower, but he needed room to swing pick and hammer. As it was, he could now stand safely within, fifty feet above the slope of the dell. Soon, rock fell again, landing in the pile of broken stone beneath the opening. Some of it skipped and rolled down the slope, smashing into tree or boulder with a resounding clatter that echoed through the otherwise quiet dell. Even the crows grew tired of the racket and flew away.

The sun had ascended on high, though Yorvig was sheltered in his cut, when a voice called up from the dell below.

“Oi! Chargrim!”

Yorvig stopped and turned toward the opening. He squinted in the sunlight as he peered over the edge. It was Savvyarm, standing well back from the ring of stakes with the cave rune carvings. He had a big grin on his face.

“Come on! We’ve struck!” he yelled.

“What mineral?” Yorvig called down.

“Come see for yourself!”

He didn’t need telling twice. He secured his tools on his pack and harness and grabbed hold of the rope, making a quick descent, the rope sliding through his callused palms. He barely felt the heat. He landed on the pile of broken rock and ore. Pieces clattered away under his hobnail boots.

“Sure did pick an easy spot,” Savvyarm said, glancing back up at the adit above.

“I was just curious.”

Savvy shrugged, still looking up. Yorvig knew he was marking the confluence of the two seams.

“We saw that when we surveyed, but . . .” he trailed off. Then, he remembered his errand. “Come on!”