The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

The thaw strengthened the next day. Over the sheet of ice on the tailings pond, the water deepened. Birds sang with greater courage. Yorvig had lost count of the calendar.

“What is the month and day?” he asked.

The others squinted as they did sums.

“The second and twenty-one,” Hobblefoot said.

“I have the second and twenty-two,” Sledgefist said. The months had other names, but dwarves found numbers to be suitably plain and simple for daily use.

“As do I. Twenty-two," Shineboot said, not looking at his brother.

That was close to what Yorvig thought.

“Then we will say twenty-two and be corrected when the others arrive,” Yorvig said.

Hobblefoot stayed quiet, and Yorvig continued. “This may be a true spring thaw, or not. I don't know. When did the winter begin to break last year?”

“I. . . I was mining,” Sledgefist said hesitantly.

“It was not far. I do not recall for sure, but the end of the second or start of the third, ay," Shineboot said.

“Then it is time to tap the trees.”

Sledgefist heaved his shoulders in a sigh.

“We come to these mountains to mine, not to play at cultivation.”

“I know well your feelings. But there is great energy in the sap of birch and maple. And when the others come, such labors can be spread out among more hands.”

“And. . .” Shineboot said, with a smirk.

“And it would be nice to taste a drink other than water,” Hobblefoot conceded reluctantly.

“It may be worth the effort,” Sledgefist said, “did we have the equipment. What will we use to boil? What to ferment?”

“I will forge us a kettle,” Yorvig said. “How close are you to finishing the tower and bridge.”

“It will be done tomorrow if we work today.”

“Fine, then work today and finish tomorrow. Shineboot and I will carve tree-taps of charred wood today, and we will use the empty honey ewers to gather.”

Along with mead, the birch and maple beers made from Red Ridges sap had become a staple of life in Deep Cut. Though there was ample water in the caverns below the canyon, it did not move or flow, and still water could not always be trusted. With so many thousands of dwarves living there, any fermented drink was perhaps the safest choice, especially for the young or old. Some even liked the thicker boiled sap to dress their food.

Two days later, they all went together to tap the trees. They went together for safety, not because it was difficult labor. The taps were just a pointed piece of wood with a channel carved into it, hammered into the sapwood of the trees. There were a handful of scorched old maple trees in the dell that they tapped a few times each, but no birch survived the blaze. They had to go down to the river and a little southward to find a grove of birch to tap. They had carved more wooden vessels, smaller than those they'd made for the honey, and they placed one underneath each tap. The sap dripped out at first, but after two more days of warmer weather it flowed from the taps like so many springs.

Hobblefoot and Sledgefist had finished the tower and bridge at the High Adit, and now they went in and out by it instead, able to survey the whole dell before climbing down the ladder. They reinforced the Low Adit with extra bracings of wood, since they no longer needed to use it regularly. Shineboot had requested he be the one to forge the kettle while Yorvig watched for ürsi, and so it was that they smelted another bloom of ore, and then Shineboot forged it out. Shineboot worked with vigor, sweating at the fire hammer in hand. The effort did not produce terrible results. It wasn’t easy to get the metal thinned and regular on the stone anvil, but Shineboot managed and even affixed a hanger handle to suspend it above the fire. Soon, the sugary smell of foaming, boiling sap filled the dell as they stirred with a long cedar branch. The smell became another constant companion. They took turns in pairs, two watching over the kettle and the dell and two beginning to break into the seam of ore in the High Adit, much to Sledgefist’s relief—though only after they finished a set of barrels using some of the bloomery iron for bands. So, the first batches of sap were poured into new cedar barrels and stirred for a time to catch the natural yeasts from the air before being sealed with a hammered-down lid and placed in the adit.

And then on a sunny day, when the smell of thawing loam was strong, the four dwarves walked down to the river to change out the catch-vessels for the sap. The river ice had melted, and spring rivulets poured into it all up and down its length. The water flowed with great force, so deep and dark that the remains of the weir could not be seen. The rushing water threatened to rise above the banks and spread amongst the tree trunks alongside. The weir would need to be reconstructed after the flooding. They headed along the trail they had already beaten through the trees along the river to the birch grove. Sledgefist and Shineboot were chatting about making new boot-soles from leftover leather they had tanned from the wild pig, as their own boots were wearing gravely thin despite their best efforts at repairs and hobnailing.

“Sh!” Yorvig hissed, raising his arm with his cedar walking staff with the beak-like rootball on top. The others snapped into readiness, gripping axe or pick that they never left behind. Ahead, they could see the first two tapped birch trees in the grove, but the wooden vessels lay smashed apart on the ground. They scanned the area, but they saw no movement, and there was little undergrowth there to hide in at that time of year.

Yorvig advanced to the birch trees, flanked by the others. As they stepped into the grove, they smelled it.

“Ugh,” Sledgefist said, and cursed.

“Well, they’re still around,” Hobblefoot said. The other vessels had been broken as well, and the taps cut from the trees. Many of the trees themselves were brutally hacked and slashed, leaking already-congealing sap from the wounds.

“I think we get no more birch sap,” Yorvig said. “It’s not worth remaking if we can’t keep them from doing it again.” The sap only ran for a matter of weeks, anyway, from what he knew. He looked down at the ground. There were impressions in the damp moss and old leaves, but the dwarves had thoroughly trampled the area in their comings and goings, already. There were one or two prints that Yorvig was sure were from the ürsi, but he did not have the skill to know how many, or anything he couldn’t tell from the signs of destruction.

Sledgefist had a more sensible approach than reading the ground:

“This tree was chopped with a short blade,” he said. “And these were slashed with knives, I think.”

“And this was stabbed, but with an irregular blade. Nothing forged with any consistency.” Shineboot pointed at the bleeding tree.

All in all, they suspected at least three weapons had been used in the marring of the trees. But then, one ürsi could have three such weapons. Yorvig thought back.

“Did the ürsi we’ve killed carry more than one weapon?”

“The ones you killed had knives of flint in belts,” Shineboot said.

“Flint?” Hobblefoot asked. “I have not seen flint in these valleys.”

“Nor I.” Sledgefist folded his arms.

That was concerning. It meant that the ürsi either traveled far or there was communication and trade between them. And the ürsi who had done this damage meant for it to be found by the dwarves. They were not hiding their presence. Yorvig looked around, wondering if they lurked nearby.

“Those we killed at the adit had knives, but those were iron,” Shineboot added.

“We should have kept their metal,” Yorvig said.

Sledgefist frowned.

“Foul things best given to the river.”

It didn’t matter, now.

“Let’s get back,” Yorvig said.

“We should check the pit trap while we’re here,” Hobblefoot suggested.

Yorvig’s stomach fell.

Sure enough, when they reached the pit trap, they found it uncovered, the ground torn, and the sharpened stakes cut down or pulled from the ground and missing. Worse was the smell.

“They shit in it,” Sledgefist said. “The kulkur shit in it.”

He was right. There was filth smeared all around the edges of the pit and the ground nearby. Yorvig sighed, then gagged at the taste of the air. The dwarves didn’t bother to stay and try to repair the trap. No animal would walk there unwary for a long time. Not with that smell.

How did the ürsi hunt, anyway? Surely the beasts could smell them for a great distance. Maybe they could smell the dwarves, too. Yorvig wondered at that.

They ate slices of fried pork that night, sitting in the mouth of the High Adit around a fire. Sledgefist and Hobblefoot had used some of their precious rope to devise a winch mechanism, anchored in stone, that let them raise and lower the narrow bridge, but they had left the bridge down to ventilate the fire. Nothing could approach or climb the ladder without them knowing, and when the bridge was up, it covered the mouth of the adit. Hobblefoot had devised a clever slat opening in the bridge that would allow them to see out even when the bridge was raised.

“There can’t be many of them, or else they would attack in force,” Hobblefoot said. “I think we are dealing with few.”

“They must have some kind of camp. How else could they survive?” Shineboot asked.

“What worries me is if they could go get more. . . maybe a bigger tribe?” Sledgefist said.

Yorvig noticed that they were watching for his reaction as they spoke. That had been happening more and more. In truth, nothing they said was new to him; he’d thought the same things again and again. He’d even considered whether they could take the fight to the ürsi. Yet that would mean going out into the wilderness with no clear idea where the ürsi might be found, and with everything to lose. The ürsi were likely to be far more familiar with the Red Ridges than they were. Must they accept that the ürsi were an unavoidable presence? They could never grow lazy or careless. The ürsi might come in greater numbers. The odds that they could take the mine by force, except with great surprise, was low. But hunger was ever the truest danger. The thin, pallid-looking faces of the others kept that in his mind.

Yorvig realized Sledgefist was still staring at him, waiting.

“I’m afraid you aren’t going to like it,” he said.

“Let me guess. We won’t be mining ore.”

Yorvig grinned.

“Maybe when the smithy is done.”

Striper, who had finally ventured up to the High Adit, rubbed against Yorvig’s leg while one of her kittens, now a full grown tabby, nestled into Shineboot’s lap. Shineboot stroked the Mine Runner’s fur.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he muttered. “I’d eat you before the end.”

Hobblefoot snorted.

“I hope Warmcoat brings the Hill-Smoke I asked for,” Sledgefist said, his hand twisted as if he held his pipe.