The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Peridot had never attended an Owners’ council before. Growing up, the Owners Chamber had felt like a sacred place, used only in moments of great import. Most of the business of the mine was conducted in her father’s holt. Meetings with more than two or three Owners were rarely necessary, but upon his return, Chargrim had called all the Owners together.

The table was full, every chair occupied except Savvyarm’s; that chair was left perpetually empty as a memorial and a warning. That chair felt sacred above all else in that space. The walls were smoothed to a polished shine that reflected the light of red Miner’s Eye and oil lamps. The surface of the nine-sidedtable was polished to a reflective sheen. There was no ornament in the place, in keeping with her father’s tastes, but no chisel mark could be seen, and every line and curve was exact, giving the space a feeling of rightness. Artifice would have spoiled it. It was a good reminder to Peridot that ornament was of value only when perfectly married to skill.

To her father’s rightwas Savvyarm’s emtpy chair, and to his left was Onyx. Continuing around the table were Khlif, Sledgefist, Warmcoat, Hobblefoot, Greal and Shineboot. Peridot stood near the wall, dressed in the modest attire that she wore in the Owners Drift. Rightauger stood near the other wall, as did Farhear and Thrushbeard. Since the table dominated most of the chamber, they almost appeared like table-servers at a meal.

The center of the table was spread with maps, but directly in front of her father lay the piece of rabbit hide that had instigated the council.Her father had already deciphered it to her, and she knew that each soul in the chamber was likewise apprised of its contents ahead of time. Nevertheless, her father had opened the meeting with a fresh rendition.

There were still questions about all its contents. It was written in a jumble of cave runes in one hand and human script in another, but the human script was of a strange dialect, and Farhear had struggled with a few words. The cave runes consisted of rudimentary directions, but most strikingly, one combination of runes at the bottom of the pelt, drawn larger and more boldly than the rest, could be interpreted only as Stone and Foot. As close as Farhear could make out, the human script read:

Message to the dour coal of Spark. Tread north the ridges. They are Grashal-Indal. These are same. North. Rothe Foot of rocks gives these speakings.

Dour coal of Spark, Farhear was certain, was an attempt at Chargrim of Glint, and while there was no known spellings for Grashal-Indal in the human script, Farhear was certain the sounds were a transliteration. This was aided by two cave runes written above the sounds indicating Fractured and Mountain. Grashal-Indal meant Jagged Mountains, but there was no better cave rune. As for Rothe, it was another transliteration, but “foot of rocks” could hardly be misunderstood.

After Chargrim had finished reading the message again, all remained silent for a time. No one appeared eager to break the silence, but it was her uncle Sledgefist who at last shrugged and spoke:

“Well, now we know what became of the Stonefoot fellow. Went gallivanting in the north.”

“Should we notify Reamer of Deep Cut?” Hobblefoot asked.

Chargrim frowned.

“Rothe Stonefoot did us great service,” he said. “He can report to Reamer if he wishes.”

“I am not convinced it is reliable,” Uncle Greal said. “Who could go so far alone in ürsi territory, and live?”

“The dwarf made it to Glint alone in the middle of the siege,” Sledgefist replied. “And he lived through Tonkil’s Rock.” Whether Sledgefist meant it or not, Peridot sensed offense in his tone. She knew that in Sledgefist’s estimation, those who had fought at Tonkil’s Rock, or Sledge Rock, or any of the great battles, should never be taken lightly.

Greal raised his palms.

“But are the Grashal-Indal even real? He does not say how he knows they are the same. The message is brief, and the writer did not come to us. It could be a supposition, and a wrong one, or some mischief even.”

“We have no reason to believe the Grashal-Indal are false, and this reason and more to believe they true,” Chargrim said. “We know from Auntie Tourmaline and Uncle Salt that the Kara-Indal are true, to say nothing of the human maps. Why should the Grashal-Indal be false?”

“And so?” Greal asked. “What does it matter? Why call a council?”

“It is not every day that we hear that the Red Ridges may be the same range as the Grashal-Indal,” her father answered.

“He could be mistaken. It does not say how he knows they are the same.”

Chargrim motioned to a map. “So far as we can tell, the Grashal-Indal should be somewhere north of the Red Ridges.”

There was another pause as a few at the table craned their necks to stare at a mostly empty space on the map.

“Certainly there is more to it than speculation about maps,” Greal asked. “You wouldn’t have called us here, otherwise. Do not keep us in suspense.”

“We need to find out,” Rightauger said. The Owners across from Rightauger looked up at him, and those with their backs to him turned their heads. Peridot had never attended such a meeting before, and she did not know if it was shocking for her brother to speak or not. She wouldn’t have presumed to interject uninvited.

“And why is that?” Sledgefist asked. Peridot was not surprised he would ask Rightauger’s opinion; her brother had fought at Tonkil’s Rock, after all.

“Are not the old mountains said to be greater?” Rightauger asked. “Think of the claims that may be found.”

“Beware your ambition doesn’t wind you up in some gully with an ürsi javelin in your back,” Greal answered. “Take Rothe’s word for it or don’t. I’ll not be convinced that curiosity is worth dwarven blood.”

“Speculation,” Rightauger replied. “The veins of the Red Ridges will run out one day. Already we have dug deep in Glint. Shineboot, is not the third vein exhausted? We are dwarves. We must prospect. We must spread and stake new claims.”

“We have barely started in the Red Ridges,” Greal answered. “There are plenty of unstaked claims in the north and west.”

“And what happens when there are no more claims to stake?”

“It will take hundreds of years to work those already found, and even then, who knows what has not yet weathered out of these ridges?”

“The day will come,” Rightauger said. “We are builders and prospectors.” He turned toward their father. “Is this not the way of the dhar, the way of Auntie Tourmaline, the way of the Crippled King you speak so much about?”

The more her brother spoke, the less sense the argument made to her. She had not intended to speak in this council; she would rather listen. But in the wake of her brother’s boldness, she overcame her reticence and lifted her voice:

“Let’s suppose they are there, and that they are the same mountains from the songs and stories. That means our folk dwelt there for thousands of years. Would they not be mined out even more than here?” She looked around the chamber, but no one was quick to respond. Her father kept his face stern, giving her no sign of approval or rebuke. In contrast, Rightauger appeared unbalanced by her question, his mouth open and brow furrowed. Had he truly not thought of it? It felt like an obvious point. “Is that not why you care?” she asked him. “You wish to find a new range to mine?”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Or he wishes to make a name for himself,” Uncle Greal said, turning more in his chair so he could look Rightauger in the face “Nephew, you have made a name for yourself already. It is not worth throwing your life away.”

Peridot did not fail to see the look of appreciation that crossed Onyx’s face. Though Rightauger managed to master his face again, he rubbed the first finger of his right hand with his thumb. He’d done it ever since he was a little gilke, and it never failed to reveal when he was in turmoil.

“If the stories are true, then would the holds not yet contain the wealth of the ancients?” he asked.

“I find it hard to believe that it has not been plundered, by ürsi if not the dragon,” Greal said.

“The dwarves of old made doors that no ürsi could pass, not in a thousand years.”

“So say old tales, but we have underestimated ürsi too often.”

“Why did you call us together?” Shineboot asked Chargrim. “What purpose would you have in the Grashal-Indal, if not to mine?”

“To start, I wish to know the lay of the world, and where mountains may be found,” Chargrim said, nodding toward his maps. “There is still much on this continent that is unknown.”

“Why know if not to mine?” Warmcoat asked. “And why seek to mine where our folk mined for millennia?”

“They are adjacent to the Kara-Indal, and those were never mined out,” Chargrim answered.

“There are beasts in the Kara-Indal that make the ürsi appear as gnats, if Auntie Tourmaline’s tales are to be believed,” Greal said, “and it seems we are believing everything we hear.”

“And the Kara-Indal would be even farther. A thousand miles, it is told,”Warmcoat said.

“The Kara-Indal are another matter, ay yes,” Chargrim acknowledged. “But we are talking of the Grashal-Indal.”

“But not to mine?” Warmcoat asked, a brow arced.

“It is not our duty to die for the halls of our forebeards,” Greal said, “but to dig new halls.”

“Spoken like a Named of Strength,” Sledgefist said.

“Which I am,” Greal replied, “and you know it well.”

Warmcoat leaned across the table and pointed at another of the maps. “You have spoken before of these hills to the south. They are untouched. Better to go there, if we must go somewhere.”

“It is an option,” Chargrim said, nodding. “And one we should consider.”

“I still do not understand why we would risk such a thing,” Greal said. “We have had enough trouble from ürsi in the Ridges, without needing to send expeditions through open country. The south plains are called the Ürsi Steppe for a reason.” He looked at Sledgefist. “You are a warrior. Would you lead your hammers through the steppe?”

Sledgefist squinted but did not reply. He may have been to proud to admit the risk, but his silence spoke clearly enough.

“It is too soon,” Greal said. He looked to Rightauger. “It may be in your time, or our grandsons’ time, that the Red Ridges are delved and you must look to the southern mountains. But let us mine what we have, and grow in strength and numbers.”

“There is much that we can build yet here,” Hobblefoot said. “Things we have not even begun.”

“I agree,” Warmcoat added. “Do not get me wrong, Chargrim. I too love the old tales, and I would dearly love to think we dwell in the same range as the Grashal-Indal.” He shrugged and held up his palms.

Hobblefoot leaned forward and placed both hands on the table.

“What we should be talking about is how to lay a foundation for our future. The Black Fire is now proven to speed mining two- and threefold. If we put it in wide use, and if we begin surface blasting for prospecting, then we must establish efficient trade. Engines—”

“The Black Fire cannot be used in quantity, and certainly not for surface blasting,” Chargrim interrupted, raising his hand to stop Hobblefoot. “We have discussed this before, and nothing has changed.”

“But we are all here, now,” Hobblefoot said. “I would hear what the other Owners say!”

“The humans cannot be allowed the secret of Black Fire, but the more we make, the more it is used, the more widespread its knowledge becomes.”

“We do not even know if they are clever enough,” Hobblefoot said.

Peridot saw a spasm of horror cross Farhear’s old visage, but the translator did not interject in the council. Chargrim did interject, also glancing at the translator.

“The humans are more than clever enough,” he said. “It may already be a matter of time.”

“If it is only a matter of time, then we should put it to as much as use as we can, now.”

“We need all the time we have,” Chargrim replied.

“We will only thrive by being more cunning than ürsi or human,” Hobblefoot said. “We must develop our trade and connections within the colonies. We need my engines.”

“I do not think he is wrong,” Greal said. “Increased trade will only aid us.”

“And cut paths straight to us for any to follow.”

“Sledgefist has held passes against tens of thousands,” Hobblefoot said.

“Tens of thousands of ürsi, not men.”

“The men have learned a lesson at Deep Cut. It will be long before they venture again. Maybe they never will.”

“I hope you are correct,” Chargrim answered. “But the numbers they lost at Deep Cut are nothing. By the time our maids reach rhundal, the human females have born ten children, and as many of them are females as males. Sometimes more. Already they have pushed deep into the Long Downs, and they expand north toward the foothills of the Kara-Indal. They fill the entirety of the western coast. Reamer gave them a wound, and our wealth is salt in it. They will respond.”

“The humans may be plentiful, but they war with each other,” Sledgefist said. “All the centuries our folk hid in Deep Cut, they slaughtered their fellows and spilled their neighbor’s blood.”

Chargrim shifted in his seat to stretcht out one of his legs under the table. Peridot could only see it because she stood against the wall. She knew he was in pain. She also suspected he was remembering how nearly Deep Cut and Glint had come to the shedding each other’s blood not many years ago.

“They do not stay the same long,” Chargrim answered. “They are ever unstable. Now we have—” he hesitated before continuing: “—Serapath to contend with.” It was a difficult name to pronounce.

“Is he real?” Sledgefist asked.

“He is,” Chargrim said. “He has unified the merchants.”

“Unified?” Greal asked. “I heard he slaughtered the half of them.”

“The rest appear unified,” Chargrim answered.

“I dare say.”

“By all accounts he is a man of great charisma.”

“The worst kind of man,” Farhear muttered from the wall. All in the chamber turned toward him, and the old dwarf appeared to regret that he had spoken at all.

“Is this news that your translator has brought?” Greal asked Chargrim.

“You know his qualifications,” Chargrim said. “But no. Reamer of Deep Cut has kept us well informed of the movements of the humans, so far as he knows them.”

“He wants us to protect him, and so he speaks into your—our ears that the humans pose a threat to us,” Hobblefoot said. “But we cannot cower from threats that may never be. Like as not, will never be.”

Warmcoat pursed his lips together, and uncle Khlif even nodded, which was akin to a shout from him.

“If mustered, the humans could bring unfathomable numbers against us,” Chargrim said.

“It is more profitable for them to trade with us than kill us,” Hobblefoot said. “Wasn’t this Serapath one of the merchants. Should not he know that?”

“They call him a merchant-king,” Greal said.

“Ay yes, but are you comfortable to trust the wisdom of humans?” Chargrim asked. “Serapath was one of the merchants who helped to host the assault on Deep Cut. His own honor is besmirched.”

“Are they so stupid to let vanity win over profit?” Hobblefoot asked.

“I suspect more than one dwarf has done the same,” Chargrim replied.

Warmcoat snorted at that, and Sledgefist grinned.

“I say that the ambition of the Lowpleat hold will help,” Hobblefoot said. “If we truly fear this Serapath, then let us make him rich, so that war would threaten his wealth. Did you not do the same to Reamer of Deep Cut and the Council?”

“And now we rule East Spire,” Sledgefist added. “They are weakened, and we have grown stronger.”

“And the council is gone,” Greal said.

“Many are determined to trade,” Hobblefoot said. “There are not enough in East Spire and Deep Cut who can pay for the treasures of Glint. Let spices and barley and corn flow in from Laith.”

“Reamer will take it hard,” Chargrim said.

“Reamer needs us more than we need him,” Sledgefist answered.

“Do not believe that. As vile as the Jackals are, the humans fear them, and the Waste is a buffer to us.”

“It will go poorly if you forbid trade,” Onyx said. “There is no law to restrict a free dwarf’s trade.” It was the first time Peridot’s mother had spoken in the council, and perhaps because of it her words felt weighty.

“It is true,” Chargrim said. “We cannot restrain the foolishness of the folk entire. Not without a breach of claim law.”

“So there will be trade,” she said, “it is better to rule it, direct it, and profit by it.”

Chargrim nodded and glanced at Farhear. The old dwarf was clearly worried, his forehead even more wrinkled than usual beneath the grey plume of his hair.

“We should speak Serapath,” Greal said, looking at his sister.

“Ay, yes,” Hobblefoot agreed.

“When word reaches us about the Lowpleatpack train, if the humans do not pillage it, then I will send an emissary with a message to Serapath,” Chargrim answered.

“And what will that message be?” Hobblefoot asked.

“We will open trade for grains,” Chargrim said. “If we must tempt the humans with our wealth, then we must prepare for a siege.”

“Rail and engine will transport far more grain than pack train,” Hobblefoot said. “If we build a rail to Deep Cut, then it would not provide the humans a path to us except Deep Cut fall.”

“And then Deep Cut controls the trade,” Greal said.

Hobblefoot frowned.

Chargrim put his hands on the table and rose to his feet.

“I thank you all for attending this council,” he said, “We will discuss the matter of routes and engines more once we learn of the fate of the pack train, but there is hot mead, cave bread, and lamb in my hold. Please, let us go and eat.”

Peridot could see from the shared glances of Greal and Hobblefoot that they were pleased with their progress during the council. Rightauger left ahead of the rest without saying a word. A number of conversations sprang up about engines, passes, and human foolishness as the group headed into the Owners Drift and toward the hold. Peridot tailed behind, wondering at many things.