The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Rightauger was still sweating when he reached the door of the Rhûl’s Holt and greeted the guards. He’d been training with the wardens throughout the day, drilling accuracy with a spear at full extension. Lines were chalked on the stone. At one line, a warden held a long spearhaft, with a small clump of packed wool wrapped in twine on the end. The clump was smaller than a balled fist. On the other line, a dwarf with a spear would stand and attempt to impale the wool. The dwarves could only move sideways along the line, not forward or back. It was a well-liked exercise, often involving some friendly wagers as one dwarf did his best to skewer the wool and the other did his best to evade. When the wool was skewered, the roles switched. Score of thrusts was kept, which determined who would face each other next.

“Who won?” Shimhow asked.

“Tinsnips,”Rightauger said.

“Eh.” Shimhow shook his head. “I had an ounce of copper on Highface.”

“Next time bet on Tinsnips,” Rightauger said with a grin, and reached for the carved handhold in the door, but Crimphollow, the second dwarf, stepped in the way and shook his head. Crimphollow was one of the older Ridge Wardens.

“Lower your hand,” Crimphollow said.

“Friend—“ Rightauger began, but the dwarf interrupted:

“Lower it!”

Rightauger sighed. There was little use in arguing with an elder, especially one determined to stand on formality. He lowered his hand, pressing his lips together. Crimphollow nodded, stepped aside, and opened the door for Rightauger, himself, inclining his head as he did so. Shimhow also turned and inclined his head.

Growing up, Rightauger had wanted to be a Ridge Warden, to be one of their brotherhood, not an outsider. He had finally reached rhundal and fought beside them in the siege and at Tonkil’s Rock, but he had come to understand that he would never be one of them, not entirely. Even if he swore as kulhan, they would not treat him as any other dwarf. They never had. He stepped into the chamber where his father stood near the wall of carven shelves holding an open book in his arms.

“Son,” Chargrim said, carrying the book back to the table and sitting down. Rightauger noted the stiffness of his gait. Some days, his father’s old wound appeared to bother him more than others. “Take a seat.”

Rightauger obeyed, sitting across from his father. He was thirsty and leaned forward to glance in the pitcher, but it was empty.

“Ah,” Chargrim said. “I have sent Peridot and Fivepouch to the Warehall today to review the inventory ahead of the trading season.”

Rightauger frowned.

“Was there trouble? Fivepouch and the clerks normally do that alone.”

“Ay, yes. They do it alone, now. But first, I did it, and she should learn how, and be seen by the folk.”

“What are you doing with her?”

“Teaching my daughter.”

“You never taught me such things.” Rightauger knew it was a petulant question, and he regretted asking it.

“Do you wish to learn such things?” Chargrim asked. “They are not yet done.”

Rightauger had no interest in his father’s ledgers. He had learned to read only because his father forced him to spend time with a tutor for years. Yet he did not know what to make of his sister lately, and something about it irritated him. He had said more than once that he did not want to take over his father’s responsibilities as Irik-Rhûl, but the idea that his father might consider Peridot. . . He shrugged.

“I wanted to speak to you about the expedition,” Chargrim said. “I have decided not to delay.”

“I wish to go,” Rightauger answered. His father nodded.

“I knew you would.”

“I—”

Chargrim raised his hand to stop him. An old familiar anger rose, but Rightauger held his words.

“The number must be selected carefully,” his father continued. “I intend that no kulhan will be forced to go. It will be voluntary, with promise of payment, including to kin in the case of. . . in the case they don’t return. We will need miners to dig, but also Hammers and Ridge Wardens. Do you think many will be convinced?”

“I think you will have more than enough.”

“Truly?”

Rightauger nodded. After Tonkil’s Rock, the press of ürsi had lessened dramatically. Sledge Rock had not been threatened since, and only small hunting bands slipped over the ridges, harassing isolated claims but otherwise staying away from the Gold River. The flocks around Glint feared more from wild boars and the occasional wolf than from ürsi, now. Some of the Ridge Wardens had grown restless, as had even more of the Hammers. Not to mention, many dwarves who had come to the ridges expecting that Glint was just the first of many gold strikes had been disappointed.

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“Truly,” Rightauger said. “You will likely have to choose between them.”

“I could use your help on that point.”

Rightauger squinted.

“Shouldn’t Thrushbeard and Sledgefist choose which they will take?”

“Thrushbeard and Sledgefist won’t be going.”

“What?”

“I need them in the Ridges. We must prepare defenses in the west and north.”

“Then who will lead the expedition?”

“You will.”

Rightauger gaped at his father.

“You said you wished to go?” Chargrim asked.

“Ay, yes, but. . .”

“You know the Ridge Wardens and the Hammers, and more than that, they esteem you.”

“You would let me go?”

“If I forbid you, how long before you seek some other danger?”

Rightauger did not respond. He had prepared himself to argue that he should go on the expedition, but he had assumed his father would appoint another leader even if his argument was successful.

“I would be superseding rinlen.”

“Nevertheless, I think they would heed you. And not all rinlen would be permitted to go. The choices must be made carefully.”

Rightauger sat silently for a time, trying to consider the ramifications.

Chargrim leaned back, rubbing the palm of one hand with the other.

“I wish I could go,” he said. “To see new mountains again. There is no feeling like it, you know, to see strange hills for the first time. The Grashal-Indal are not new to our folk, but it has been a millennia and more. Who is to say what might be found there?”

“Does mother know I will go?”

“You can tell her.” Chargrim locked eyes with him. “It is dangerous. There may be nothing but death out there. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Do you understand why I am doing this? If you are to lead, I need you to understand.”

“I think I do.”

“And yet you would rather go south.”

“Do you really think Glint could fall to the humans?”

“With Farhear’said, I have read some of the human histories.” He tapped the book in front of him. “This is one of them in translation. The lands of Laith, Senland, Torich, and even the Long Downs were once part of a single human kingdom, but more than a kingdom. The humans have a word for it, though we don’t. It is when a king rules over lesser kings and more than one land. They even had a colony across the sea, and their ships ranged the world. Southern lands were forced to pay tribute or be wiped out, for they say that the armies of the great kings were like forests of spears moving upon the face of the ground, like locusts upon the land.”

“But they are no longer united, nor were they in the days of Auntie Tourmaline and the caravans.”

“That is true. The great kings had no more enemies to fight, and their owners grew fat. When drought struck, civil war erupted. The histories say that the bones of whole cities were left desolate beneath the sky, bleached in the sun.”

Rightauger grimaced. Such a thing was a curse, for bones to lie exposed beneath the sun. His father laid a hand on the back of the book. “Serapathnow rules Laith, Senland and holds tribute from Torich, andFarhear tells me that no human kingdom has ever survived without an enemy outside of itself. The humans do not even speak one language. They hardly see each other as a folk. They seek foes like a dwarf seeks a claim.”

“Surely, this king is not so foolish to think war more profitable than trade.”

“It is not Serapath’sfoolishness that I dread, but his cleverness.” Chargrim leaned forward again. “To my knowledge, our folk exist only here. Here and the Waste. I have found no records of dhar elsewhere in the world. If we were to fall. . .” He shook his head.

Rightauger took a deep breath and ran his hand through his beard. He thought he caught a glimpse of what his father feared.

“The expedition is not about wealth,” Rightauger said.

“It is not.”

Rightauger nodded.

“I will lead them, father. I will find your fortresses.”

Chargrim leaned back, a deep frown on his face, as if he had not entirely hoped for this outcome.

Rightauger grinned.

“There is one condition.”

“What?”

“You must tell mother.”

Chargrim snorted and reached for his pipe.

“Maybe we should rethink this,” he said, joining Rightauger’s grin. A Mine Runner leapt up onto the table top, and Chargrim scooped it into his lap. “And Mine Runners. You’ll have Mine Runners.”

After pouring over details of the expedition for some hours with his father, Rightauger finally left the Rhûl’s Holt by the main drift. Heintended to head to the Warden’s Hold, but just as he stepped into the drift, Sledgefist, Tinsnips, and Thrushbeard emerged from the Owners Drift.

His uncle’s face brightened.

“Ah, Rightauger! We had looked for you. We are going to the stewhall.”

Sledgefist was the only one of the Owners who still liked to eat and drink in the common stewhall. He liked the bustle and the song, he said; it made the place feel like home. Rightauger realized he was more than hungry enough, and thirsty enough, too, and soon they were seated in the stewhall with raddish stew filling bowls of old crusty bread and mugs of weak but warm mead before them. They could have had better fare in their own holds, but it did feel good to be in a stewhall. Rightauger used to slip out of the Owner’s Drift as a gilke and come sit there just to hear the talk of the dwarves who frequented the long, smoky narrow hall. There was usually a match or two of Ingots in progress, and now a group of dwarves stood around one end of the table to see the results of a particularly high wager.

“You look wan, nephew,” Sledgefist said. “How long were you stuck in Chargrim’s holt?”

Rightauger leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“We were discussing the expedition,” he said.

“Ah.” Sledgefist shook his head. “A right dangerous undertaking.”

“Those who seek security above all rarely find it, but those who risk wisely often find themselves secure,” Thrushbeard said. “Is that not in the sayings of the wise? Who is a greater example of that than the Irik-Rhûl?”

“Ah,” Sledgefist answered, waving a spoon. “But where’s the life in security? Chargrim is secure, Glint established, the ürsi scattered, but he is not the dwarf he once was. Oh, he hasn’t lost his cunning, but I see it in his eyes. He misses the danger. You’re never so alive as when you’re nearly dead, I say. If it weren’t for his leg, he’d lead the expedition, himself.”

“Chargrim lives for the folk,” Thrushbeard said.

“The sorry fool.”

“You ought not speak thus of the Irik-Rhûl,” Tinsnips said, his eyebrows raised. Rightauger knew his friend was fiercely loyal; he had grown up in Glint among the Ridge Wardens, owing his father’s position and his hold’s wealth to Chargrim Gold-giver.

“Oh, settle down, young one. He’s my brother. I’ll call him whatever I well please and still love him more than you.”

“Easy, dwarves. We’re all friends here,” Rightauger said. “I’m sure no one meant offense.”

Sledgefist shrugged.

“What offense?” he asked.

“I am not so certain your brother feels any want of danger,” Thrushbeard said. “There are still the humans.”

“It’s different when you’re not staring them down,” Sledgefist answered, patting the hammer in his belt.

“Let’s be thankful that the Rhûl does have a bad leg,” Thrushbeard said. “We could not spare him.”

“Ay, yes.” Sledgefist raised his mug. “And it leaves the fun to us poor fools.”

“To us poor fools,” Thrushbeard answered, lifting his own, and they all drank.