The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Rightauger walked clear of the camp. He had never seen so much sky before. Overhead it was blue with drifting clouds, but as it spread to distant horizons, it faded to a dull grey. Behind him, the ridges stretched forward like the fingers of a monstrous hand, and ahead, rolling foothills descended, sheltering trees in low vales as tall grasses billowed on the upper slopes. Sunlight slanted across the hills from the west, casting the eastern slopes in shadow. In the far north, he saw higher ridges, but they did not appear to match the Red Ridges behind him.

Standing on the edge of a stone, he untied his trousers and relieved himself onto the grass, staring at the view.

Pissing in a new land.

The thought struck him as funny, and he grinned. The north, so far as anyone knew, was a cold place full of ürsi and worse, but from where he stood, he felt no danger.

Finishing his necessity, he belted himself again and turned to head back, but dark shapes on a distant slope caught his eye. Even from afar, it was clear the shapes were massive. One moved, lifting a great horned head high. Rightauger drew breath to call the camp, but he saw Shalebiter approaching.

“What whitens your eyes, Rightauger?” the warden asked.

Rightauger pointed at the slope, and Shalebiter squinted a moment, his forehead wrinkled.

“Ah,” he said. “Glad they are far.”

“What are they?”

“Auruchs, they are,” Shalebiter said. “Sometimes come down among the Brown Hills when there is rain, but there are more in those plains.”

“I did not know beasts could grow to such a size,” Rightauger said. He had heard of aurochs, but even at a distance the truth surpassed the image his mind had formed. The beasts were grazing on the grassy slope. At the shoulder they were far taller than a dwarf, massive bull-like creatures with horns extending a yard and more to either side, curled and vicious. Their necks were thick and crested, and Rightauger had no doubt that mail would never withstand a blow from the tips of those horns. The slope where the beasts grazed was hidden from view from the camp, itself.

“Are they aggressive?” Rightauger asked.

“We don’t want to be close,” Shalebiter said, “but they shouldn’t bother us.”

“You have seen them before?”

“Ay, yes. Last time we were here.” Shalebiter passed beyond Rightauger, clearly having come with the same purpose that had lured Rightauger. After staring out toward the aurochs a while longer, Rightauger made his way back up the slope toward the camp. He could hear the voices of the wardens as they prepared for evening. He should probably assist, though there were precious few tasks. At least, he could stack a few more stones on the wall. The campsite was known to the Ridge Wardens; it was the northernmost of the warden camps, rarely used. Wardens had stayed at this place twice or thrice before, only. It was not worth digging a hold, but at each visit they stacked a few more rocks in a drystone circular wall. Part of the wall had been knocked down since the last visit—possibly an aurochs, possibly ürsi.

Rightauger had never been there before, but three wardens on the patrol had. Their journey had been uneventful so far. It was five weekssince their departure, and they had spent most of that time surveying the approaches and passes near the Brown Hills, judging possible routes a human army might use and identifying defensible positions. The Ridges were strong, and Rightauger questioned whether his father’s fears were rationale. The idea of a human army successfully penetrating the ridges against a stalwart defense felt far fetched. And yet, the ürsi had done it. Though Rightauger had never seen a human, by all accounts they were far more clever and organized than the ürsi, and nearly as plentiful.

As he reached the ring of stones, Rightauger found that the wardens had already woken the old fire circle and a field-kettle of water was on to boil. The picketed donkeys chewed on mashed wurzel at the back of the ring. Wardens moved in the comfortable silence of those who had traveled hard and endured wind and rain for many weeks together. The water had begun to steam, and tea would soon be served as evening descended.

There was little left to make by way of camp; they each slept under a blanket or pelt carried rolled atop their packs, and they made no use of tents. It had been over two days since last they’d camped and rested, long even for dwarves who often slept for a mere four or five hours at a time, sometimes not resting again for more than a day and a night. Their waking and sleeping was not fixed upon the turning of the sun and moon, and night on the surface was bright enough for them to see clearly, though not at distance.

It was not good to be idle, and it was boring, so Rightauger joined a few of the wardens in repairing the collapsed portion of the wall. The grass beneath the fallen stones was yellow, but it had not decayed, meaning the wall could not have fallen more than a few weeks prior. Only one side had collapsed, and it would be the work of minutes to restore.

They had nearly completed the repair when Rightauger lifted a stone and stopped. Beneath the stone was a flat slab of chert. Its light color and knapped edges stood out among the darker shale. Atop it someone had chiseled a cave rune. It was the rune for “under.”

“What is it?” Tornleg asked, noticing that Rightauger had paused. Tornleg was rinlen of the patrol, a dwarf who led with a mixture of joviality and an attention to detail, and he had a fine eye for surveying.

Rightauger tossed the wall-stone aside and crouched, running his finger over the rune. The color of the mark was far lighter than the rest, the surface still rough. There was no dirt in the groove. The mark was of no great age. Tornleg approached and looked down at the cave rune. “Huh,” was all he said, and raised an eyebrow. Rightauger slid his fingers under the slate and lifted it away. In a little depression beneath lay a rolled-up piece of leather tied with a strip of rawhide. Lifting it out, he saw it was the dehaired skin of some animal— rabbit, by the look of it.

“Hey,” Tornleg called. “Rightauger’s found something.”

The other wardens stopped what they were doing and watched as Rightauger turned the leather in his hand. The rawhide was hard, and he snapped it with his fingers and unrolled the skin. The inside was covered in characters drawn in narrow file, both cave runes and something else. Rightauger recognized the script; it was human. He had seen enough of it on the maps in his father’s holt. But what human would use cave runes? There appeared to be two different hands in the making as well. The human script was precise, but the cave runes were bold and a tad messy.

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“What does it say?” asked Tornleg.

Rightauger ignored him, trying to make out what he could of the cave runes. Whoever had written had crammed as much onto the pelt as possible, and the dye was fading in the skin in a few places. He stood and turned, putting his back to the west and raising the skin to pick up the late rays of the westering sun. It was enough to make out the cave runes, and his face went slack.

“What?” Tornleg asked.

“I must take this to my father.” Rightauger said, his heart starting to race.

Hobblefoot rapped on the bronze knocker of Chargrim’s stonehold. It had been a long time since he had come to the stonehold unexpectedly. Normally, he simply spoke with Chargrim in the Rhûl’s Holt, but Chargrim was still in East Spire, and Hobblefoot was not there to speak with Chargrim. He had already tried that. Tucked under his arm was a long roll of paper.

The door swung outward, pushed by the hand of the gilna Iolite.

“Uncle Hobblefoot,” she said, surprised. “Guf anak.” Iolite was Hobblefoot’s first cousin once removed. Being from the older generation, it was customary for her to call him uncle in greeting as opposed to cousin.

“Ya anül guf,” Hobblefoot answered.

“Honor us to come in.” Iolite stood aside. “I will pour you some tea.”

“Blessings to the hold.” Hobblefoot entered. He had seen the inside of Chargrim’s hold many times before. The wall hangings were the only trappings that actually hinted at the hold’s stupendous wealth. Apart from that, the cushions in the sitting area were well-made but starting to show wear. The samovar, at least, was of solid silver,with tasteful engravings.

Iolite poured some mint-and-limestone tea from the samovar and handed Hobblefoot the ceramic mug as he sat cross-legged upon a cushion.

“I will let mother know you are here,” Iolite said, turning toward the workshop.

“Peridot,” Hobblefoot corrected. “It is Peridot I wish to see.”

Iolite glanced back at him, clearly wondering why, but she knew well enough not to ask. Instead, she changed course and headed down the inner passage, instead. It was not long before she returned, Peridot at her heels. Iolite smiled to Hobblefoot, but she looked relieved to flee back to the workshop.

“Guf anak, Uncle,” Peridot said. It was clear she was confused by the visit. He couldn’t blame her; he had never visited her before. She walked to the samovar and poured herself a cup of tea. If Iolite had remembered her manners better, she would have poured her sister a cup before returning to the workshop. Peridot brought her tea to a cushion across from Hobblefoot and sat upon folded knees. She did not wear her bejeweled attire. Her robe was a simple blue, with a grey over-mantle and a belt of braided cord. Her golden hair hung in one thick braid down her shoulder.

“How fares Spinel?” she asked. Spinelwas Hobblefoot’s wif, and she was in the middle of a pregnancy. He had no doubt that Peridot knew far better how she was doing than he did.

“She is well,” he said, now wondering if that was the case. He had never spoken with Spinel much about the pregnancies. They had been blessed now with five gilke and three gilna.

“I am glad to hear it. And to think she might be blessed with a fourth gilna.”

“Why do you say?” Hobblefoot asked, frowning. “It is yet months to delivery.” A fourth gilan would be a blessed ratio, indeed.

“Oh, I know,” Peridot asked. “But she carries heavy on the sides, more than on the front.”

Hobblefoot squinted. He did not like this line of conversation. He knew wifs had such beliefs, but he felt out of his depth in discussing them.

“I am here for a reason,” he said, cutting the pleasantries short. He wanted solid footing again.

“Then state it,” Peridot answered, and the flicker of a smile played at the corner of her mouth.

“I want you to speak to your father.”

Peridot wrinkled her brow.

“About what?”

“It is time to begin working for the future.”

“Are we not?”

“Not like we could be. I have designed an engine, one that would allow us to travel between colonies in days and haul far more than we do now, but I need iron and kulhan and wardens to make it happen. We could start with a route to East Spire.”

“Why don’t you speak with him, yourself? Or my mother?”

“I have. Spoken with Chargrim, I mean.” Hobblefoot did not speak with Onyx if he could avoid it. The awkwardness had never fully gone away. Besides, he knew that Peridot had her father’s ear, second to Onyx. “And I am going to speak with him again. I merely ask that you lend me support when I do.”

“I know nothing about this engine,” Peridot answered. “If my father does not wish to venture it, then he has his reasons.”

“Your father loves the past,” Hobblefoot said. “The future frightens him. He is cautious and wary.”

“And it has kept us all alive more than once. You of all dwarves should know that.”

“I do know it, and I have supported him and sworn my oaths. Do not think otherwise. But that does not mean we have no duty to advise.”

“And what is it you want me to advise, exactly?”

“The future,” Hobblefoot said, leaning forward. “You are the future of Glint, and Rightauger, and all the rest of our children. We must lay track for the future. We are not a numerous folk, but we are more clever than all the rest. It is that which will protect us, but only if we are bold to pursue it.” Hobblefoot slid the roll of paper across the floor to Peridot, and she took it.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Schematics and explanations.”

“I am no engineer.”

“You have a mind. Look it over. That is all I ask. Question me if you will.”

Peridot was not so ignorant of the schematics. It was clearly a steam engine. She knew the basic functions of a steam engine. Hobblefoots own sons had built small ones as toys, using candles or oil lamps. Peridot had often watched as a young gilna. Besides that, steam was often used in mining for hoists and lifts, even sometimes in Glint where coal was costly, but no one had ever done it on the scale Hobblefoot was clearly planning.

“Even if I agreed with you,” Peridot said, “I do not command my father.”

“No one commands your father,” Hobblefoot said, though he glanced toward the workshop. Mostly, he added to himself. He would not mention it to Peridot, but he had already spoken with Rightauger, had walked him through the designs, just as he had shown his brother, Shineboot, and all the other Owners save Onyx, to a mixed reception. Sledgefist supported him, though he wanted the engine for war.

It irritated Hobblefoot to have to rally support. He couldn’t understand why it was so hard for others to see how important this was, and it was aggravating to have to petition the children of Chargrim when Hobblefoot himself was an owner. It took effort to hide the frustration and keep it from his tone. He didn’t quite understand Peridot’s actions of late, but it was clear she sought influence. “Only look over my designs, and if opportunity arises, speak what it is that you believe.”

Peridot did not unroll the paper in front of him, but she inclined her head.

“I will look,” she said.

“Thank you.” Hobblefoot rose, leaving his mug of tea sitting on the rug untasted. “If you have questions, you may find me in my workshops. I have prepared a model there, to demonstrate its function. I have shown it to your father, but I beseech you to come and see it for yourself.”

Peridot rose and graciously saw him to the door, giving the customary farewell. He hurried down the Owner’s Drift, heading back to his vented workshop near the cliff face. There was still plenty of work to do. Whether Chargrim would give him the kulhan or not, Hobblefoot was wealthy enough to build the engine, himself. It would need assembled on the surface, but already most of the engine was cast or forged. When the time came, he would be ready.