The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

They hurried down the slope, circled the tailings pond, rushed down the adit and down the chute ladder, Yorvig first. He heard the excited voices of the other dwarves as he reached the bottom of the shaft.

“There’s my brother!” Sledgefist shouted. “Oi! Look at this!”

Sledgefist held up a deep, dark crystal to the smoky light of the rancid oil lamp. At first it looked black, but Yorvig’s eyes were quickly adjusting. In only another two heartbeats, he perceived the color. Dark, deep purple. It was a crystal amethyst point as long as Sledgefist’s forearm, the base still embedded in matrix that showed flecks of pyrite—and maybe a vein of hematite, too. Yorvig stepped up close, staring into the depths of the crystal. Yes, there was hematite in the matrix. The others had grown quiet, enjoying as Yorvig saw it for the first time.

“We struck a wider part of the igneous intrusion last night,” Sledgefist explained. “We hit pyrite and hematite. But now—” Sledgefist motioned Yorvig’s attention to the drift wall. There was more color there, whole crystal points embedded in matrix. He shook his head, lost for words. Sledgefist slapped his shoulder, sending dust flying.

“I told you. I told you!”

Yorvig had seen amethyst before and plenty of crystal points, but it was rare to find a pocket of such size and depth of color. Amethysts ranged from pale, with barely any color, to the rare deep hues that he saw before him. The pocket wouldn’t likely make them all wealthy—not unless it went far and deep—but these stones were valuable. Lapidarists, setters, jewelers, and purveyors back in Deep Cut would wage war with their bids for such fine specimens. They’d end up as pieces for the rich back in Deep Cut, set in headdresses, circlets, warhelms, necklaces, breast pieces. . .

“There’s a bit of jasper here, too,” Hobblefoot said, pointing at the drift wall. “Worth getting out as well.”

“We’ll have to separate it all out,” Sledgefist said. “We’ll need you, now,” he added in a lower tone to Yorvig. Yorvig nodded. He was happy, he truly was. He also couldn’t help but wonder what could be found where two similar seams crossed.

It took two weeks to reach the end of the pocket of amethyst. Whether it was because of distraction on the part of the foragers, or simply the approach of fall and over-hunting the area in and around the dell, they also ate poorly. Warmcoat brought down a wild turkey with a stone from his sling, and that was the best meal they ate in that time, but among six dwarves it did not go far. Yorvig sucked marrow out of a bone, all he had for a whole day. The mining distracted them—somewhat.

They had amassed a collection of fine amethyst crystal points, some clustered in multiples. They would need further cleaning and polishing, but it was astounding what clarity they already possessed. There were varying qualities, but many were of the deep purple color, others smoky. An abundance of smaller, gravel-like amethyst gems also filled a sack next to a pile of hematite ore in the storeroom. But the pocket ended, though the quartz lode split into two separate, somewhat smaller veins and diverted, one following a seam in the sandstone and heading upward and north, while the other filled an ancient igneous vent rising to their level from below.

“There will be more,” Sledgefist said, as they leaned on their picks and stared at the drift wall. They had expanded the drift into a small stope, twice the height of a dwarf and a few times as wide. They’d left a couple sandstone pillars on either side for support.

“I am weary to the bone,” Savvyarm said. “I think I haven’t slept in . . . a time and half a time.”

“Nor I,” Hobblefoot answered. “Let us take a short rest and then make our plans.”

The dwarves afforded themselves the luxury of roughly six hours of unbroken sleep before they gathered back together with empty stomachs. There was no food to break their fast, though by the light that entered the adit, it was late afternoon. The amethyst crystals lay in a triple line along the floor of the storeroom.

“Well, now the Hardfells should feel their necks itching,” Sledgefist said.

“They’ll feel right foolish when they don’t get the chance to cut them,” Hobblefoot said.

“What do you mean?” Sledgefist asked, his brows furrowing.

“When we sell them to the highest bidder.”

“We’re not going to sell them in the rough.”

Hobblefoot frowned.

“We need to send this lot back and trade them for supplies.”

“We’ll get half of what they’re worth if we sell them rough.”

“Even if we send someone back for the Hardfells now, they likely won’t return until spring, and it could take moons more to shape these.”

Yorvig saw the truth in what Hobblefoot said. They needed supplies to get through the winter.

“I could use some hill-smoke,” Shineboot said in obvious support of his brother Hobblefoot. “And salt. We need loads of salt, or else we can’t preserve anything.”

Yorvig had a craving for honey, but he didn’t mention it. He saw Sledgefist’s face growing red.

“Cut fine. . . this could be enough. . . this could be enough for a bride price,” Sledgefist said.

“Ay, maybe for one dwarf. Not for six,” Hobblefoot said.

“So you think we must wait until we have enough for all of us?”

“Obviously, we will start with the eldest.”

Sledgefist frowned, now. Hobblefoot was eldest by eleven months. “But this lot must be enough to keep the claim going.”

“It would be a rich claim to pay six bride prices,” Savvyarm said. He was older only than Yorvig.

“All the more reason to trade for the best price,” Sledgefist said.

“But if the Hardfells join, it’s eight dwarves.”

“It's obvious we will have to divide in shares,” Hobblefoot said. “But the eldest should receive a double portion, as is right, but so that there is peace, the eldest of each of the brothers, myself and Sledgefist, should both get a double portion. That way each family has hope of a bride price, to continue our legacy.”

Warmcoat and Savvyarm looked at each other. Yorvig saw it plain. Neither were related to the four cousins by blood. It was Savvyarm who broached the topic.

“Why should you and Sledgefist gain a greater portion than Warmcoat and I? We have shared the same labors.”

Hobblefoot stared as if surprised by the obvious question. “But this is the claim of the brothers, and I am eldest.”

“We are equal here,” Sledgefist said, but he was only speaking to Hobblefoot. “Both the first scions of our holds.”

Warmcoat crossed his arms.

“I did not come here to be a servant,” Savvyarm said. “That was never spoken.”

“Come now, friend,” Hobblefoot said, holding out his hands palm up. “Our intentions have always been clear. I and Sledgefist thought up this venture, and we invited you to join in. And as eldest, it makes sense that I should be rinlen.”

“We never agreed to that,” Sledgefist said. “This was a joint claim between cousin holds.”

“Which is why I say we each gain a double portion, but that is in the division, not in the operation of the mine. Everyone knows a mine needs a rinlen.”

Two are not better than one.

Yorvig had never told them about his conversation with the Hardfell brothers, just that they had backed out of the deal despite his pleading. He wasn’t sure they were wrong, and he was less sure they would come even presented with fine amethyst. That was yet to be seen.

“I will not work for a lesser portion, when my labor is free as a partner in this claim.” Savvyarm looked at Warmcoat for support. Warmcoat stood with his arms folded and his eyes down at the stone beneath their feet. He sighed.

“Nor I.”

“Surely, you are friends in the claim,” Hobblefoot said.

Yorvig caught Savvyarm watching him and Shineboot, trying to size up the feelings of the two younger brothers. Yorvig avoided his gaze, finding it difficult even to be in the same chamber as the rest. Sledgefist stood with his hands curled tight, his face red above his beard.

For a few moments, there was tense silence.

Yorvig spoke, trying to pacify the older cousins:

“Surely, we could send half back to Deep Cut, and trade for supplies, show some to the Hardfells, and retain the best to cut? We have enough to get necessities even by half, do we not?”

“The Hardfells will come when they see the crystal,” Sledgefist said, considering. “They can help bring back the supplies.”

Yorvig feared that it wasn’t true, or if they would come, they would wait until spring. There was no guarantee that they would make the slog in the winter.

The others considered Yorvig’s proposal for a time.

“So be it. Since Hobblefoot is eldest, he and Shineboot can take the half and go make the trades," Sledgefist pronounced.

“I will not leave the mine,” Hobblefoot said flatly. “Send Savvyarm. His uncle is a purveyor. And Chargrim can go with him.”

Savvyarm was already frowning, and he kept silent.

Yorvig sighed. He had only just arrived. Making the months-long trek back to Deep Cut was not an appealing prospect, especially as they would have to forage for food along the way. It would take even longer than the trip there.

“My brother will not go,” Sledgefist said.

“I will go,” Warmcoat said, and with that he walked out of the storeroom.

“That’s it, then,” Yorvig said. He left, too, wanting to get away from the others. The weir needed checked for fish, anyway. No doubt they were all as hungry as he.

“I’ll divide the halves, what to keep and what to send,”Hobblefoot said.

“We’ll do it together,” Sledgefist replied. “We should keep the finest pieces for cutting.”

“We have to send some fine, to prove the quality.”

Yorvig was gone before he heard any more.