Chapter 71: A Recruit for the Reserves
Most of the ürsi withdrew from sight or at least easy reach, back into the forests on the outskirts of the pastures that spread on either side of the river. Their domed huts rose quickly in small clusters, and smoke hazed the valley from the fires. They made no move to assault the walls. The pile of ladders lay untouched. Yorvig spent many hours atop the ridge tower, surveying the valleys and ridges using a spyglass crafted by the finest glass-makers and lens-grinders of Deep Cut, sent to him as a gift from Reamer. But there was no sign of One-Ear, though he heard from Thrushbeard that Ridge Wardens had seen the mark on some ürsi shields—the mark of a single ear.
Yorvig sometimes tried to believe it was a coincidence. Did the ürsi really know that the dwarves called him One-Ear? Was One-Ear even still alive? Was there another reason they had chosen the sigil? The mark had emerged decades ago, carried by raiding ürsi, and it was scratched into trees and rocks wherever they went. Did ürsi live so long? He had lost his ear to Sledgefist over forty years ago, but it was Yorvig who had trapped him and fed him in the darkness of the mine. The Last Rat, now become king, all thanks to Yorvig. The other owners had never spoken of releasing One-Ear in front of Yorvig, and he had heard no one else speak of it either.
But Yorvig knew.
“Brother,” Sledgefist said, stamping up the stairs to the high chamber of the tower. The great iron bell hung lifeless, its clapper wrapped in wool. Yorvig lowered his spyglass. “I don't know what you stare at for so long. They’re there. They haven’t left.”
“I’m looking for One-Ear.”
“Looking for one ürsi out of ten thousand is a difficult task,” Sledgefist said. “They’re all ugly.”
Yorvig wished there were only ten thousand. Yorvig had estimated four or five times higher in the first days, but now it was not easy to say. Many had scattered to raid and hunt. How many were left near at hand or in the next valleys? How did one drive off an enemy that could so easily disperse before a sally, only to descend again the moment they let the flocks loose?
The kulkur could move much faster than the dwarves, running for scores of miles while barely tiring. One-Ear would have his hunters spread out over thousands of square miles of the Ridges, bringing in game to those who remained, the meat preserved in their foul bile. An ürsi could out-hunt a dwarf any day or night, and while many of Yorvig's folk saw herding or farming as an unwelcome necessity, the foe lived only to hunt and gather roots, nuts, fish, and whatever rancid things could fill their gullets—and the gullets of their females. If Yorvig had such a pack of hunters in the early days, Glint's beginnings would have been far different. Yet if the male ürsi's purpose was to scavenge and carry food across long distances for the she-ürsi, surely the siege re-directed that effort. What consequence would it have for the dams? Such a siege, if it failed, might set the ürsi population back for years. If it succeeded, it would open up their hunting grounds. One-Ear took a great risk. Over the decades, Yorvig had come to grudgingly admire ürsi tenacity and drive. He still hated the kulkur, but One-Ear was more than a mindless brute to organize and rule such a host.
“So, what is your strategy this time?” Yorvig asked, thinking his brother was come to propose another sortie. It was easy for the dwarves to emerge out of the sheepfolds across the valley and on either side of the river. Sledgefist and Thrushbeard had carried out a number of raids, and a few dwarves had died. They found the ürsi were good at pin-pointing the tunnels the dwarves had used and watching them after. They even dug ditches and set up rows of sharpened stakes. Little of any real value had come from the sorties, and it went against Yorvig's instincts to risk dwarves without hope of decisive victory or advantage. The foe easily rebuilt the few burned huts. If anything, the ürsi seemed more excited by the emergence of the dwarves than fearful, and the Hammers and Wardens could not go far without hundreds of slingers encircling them. Dead dwarves meant fewer mouths to feed, but Yorvig felt appalled at himself for even thinking such a thing. Besides, they needed all their strength.
“Actually,” Sledgefist said, his forehead wrinkling. “I came to discuss Rightauger.”
“What? Why?”
Sledgefist had gilke and gilna of his own. His eldest was past rhundal and had apprenticed in Warmcoat’s cadre. Sledgefist might be Rightauger's uncle, but accounting for the owners’ children, there were over fifty gilna and gilke now.
“He came and spoke to me last night. Asked me to take him on as one of my Hammers.”
Yorvig sighed and shook his head. War all around them, and he had to be distracted by this.
“And what did you say?”
“I asked if he had spoken with you about joining me and he said no.”
“He is no liar, at least.”
“That he is not. And when I said I would not take him on without your permission he said he was rhundaela and could make his own choices."
Yorvig waited. Sledgefist took the silence for what it was and continued:
"I told him I would not go behind your back. He said it wasn't fair." Sledgefist laughed. "Do you remember the old mine master?"
Yorvig nodded.
"Ay, yes, I do." A mine is not about fair.
"He said that you would not listen, that you oppose him being a warrior, and some other choice descriptions for which I assure you I cuffed him upside the head." Sledgefist shrugged. “I promised to speak with you, though.”
“I consider myself spoken to,” Yorvig said. “He is rhundaela, though. You probably shouldn’t cuff him.”
“He’s still my nephew and stupid enough to speak so of the Irik-Rhûl. I don’t know where these gilke get their fire.”
The impetuosity may be hereditary, Yorvig thought but didn’t say. He stared out over the dell. It was so different now. There were wide flagstone steps leading down from the High Adit Tower all the way to the causeway over the tailings ponds, and the rest of the space was given to gardens and terraces. There were actual grapes and raspberries growing there. Sometimes he missed it as it was—wild.
“These gilke of ours,” Sledgefist continued, pretending to look out over the dell as well. “Their lives are nothing like ours were. I have wondered if they would have been better off. . . less well off.”
“Your eldest has a head on his shoulders.”
“It is not Rightauger’s fault his father is Rhûl. If he was no kin you would have put a spear in his hand at the first asking.”
“I cannot afford to play at games of fault,” Yorvig said. He did though. Constantly.
“No. Nor I. I never thought when I came to the Red Ridges that I would end a warrior, but.” Sledgefist lifted his arms and motioned to his gilded mail and plate. He went about in it everywhere, now. Yorvig wondered when the last time was that his brother had mined. There was little surprise in it, though. He’d gotten the name Sledgefist for a reason.
“Look, brother,” Sledgefist said. “Why not let him join the Wardens? He will be a rank apprentice. You could have Thrushbeard keep him busy for a year just burnishing arms in the hold.”
“And if he found out I had made it so?”
“How long did we shovel coal before they put picks in our hands?” Sledgefist asked. “We shouldn’t coddle them, either.”
That was a fair point, at any rate.
“I will consider this.”
Sledgefist nodded.
“Well. The duty of my uncle-hood is accomplished, then.” He grinned setting a hand on Yorvig’s shoulder. “At least we have our gilna.”
Yorvig chuckled.
“Ay, yes. At least we have them.”
For whatever reason, Peridot had the opposite effect on Yorvig as her brother. The same was true of Iolite, who had inherited her mother’s purple-rimmed eyes and dark hair. No dwarf complained about daughters—jewels each one. Yorvig didn’t worry they would do something foolish, though he hoped they wed decent dwarves and gave him grandbabes. Neither of them showed signs of wanting to be warriors, not that he would ever allow it.