The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Icevein: Chapter 17

The Needle claim was kind to yowgan, for they shared their stew at the mid-shift meal. The stew was made of dried beans, onions, and salt-packed smoked squirrel, all staples that could be kept in the cool of the underground for long periods. It only wanted for mushrooms for taste, but Gretti would breathe no word against generosity.Gretti sat with his back to the footwall of the drift, one leg extended out in front of him. He held the bowl mere inches from his mouth and chewed a bite, staring at the toe of his boot. It had opened up again, and the leather was badly frayed. He would need to purchase new boots soon. If his memory served, there was a bootmaker in East Spire.

“I feel that we are nearing a strike. This lode will widen,” one of the claim kulhan said. Gretti had been hearing this in various forms since he started piece work in the claim.

“You always feel that,” another said, echoing Gretti’s own sentiment.

“Since I was a gilke, I knew that I would make a great strike,” the first kulhan replied. “It is why I came to the Red Ridges.”

“We came for gold.”

“There is something greater than gold.”

“Don’t start with that again.”

“The Living Steel.”

“It is a lie.”

“You are calling Auntie Tourmaline a liar?”

“Auntie Tourmaline did what she must to save our folk.”

“It isn’t a lie,” Gretti said, his tone firm. He rarely participated in their talk, and now the other dwarves looked at him with surprise.

“How would know?” the second dwarf asked.

“I have seen it. On the Day of Deliverance.”

“You were drawn in the lottery?” the first dwarf asked.

“My father was chosen,” Gretti said, “but he gave it to me.”

The Living Steel, the Hammer and Medallion brought back from Ice-Cloak by Auntie Tourmaline and Uncle Salt, was kept in a vault in the heart of Deep Cut near the Council Chamber and the Eyeless Cavern.The Deep Cut Guard kept watch over the Living Steel without ceasing, but even they were not trusted; it was kept in a sealed granite gallery with only narrow viewing slits. Once a year, a small number of the folk of Deep Cut were drawn by lottery and permitted to view the Living Steel under the strict watch of the guards. The line of marveling dwarves shuffled past. The guards kept them moving so that others might have their brief glimpse and none could linger. They were the fortunate ones. Many never got the opportunity to see the Living Steel at all.

Gretti had not understood when his father returned to the hold and handed him the bone chit that would allow him access to the vault. He thought his father was merely showing it to him, displaying his good fortune. Gretti stared at the chit for a time before trying to hand it back.

“No,” his father said, a rare smile turning the corners of his mouth. “It is for you.”

Gretti still hadn’t understood. He had older brothers. They should have superseded him. His father must have seen Gretti’s confusion, for he explained:

“Fullbelt will inherit the hold, and if we can strike, Rendhaft may even have a bride price. Your other brothers might have apprenticeships. But this—” his father reached out and tapped the bone chit in Gretti’s open hand “—this is for you.”

Gretti had never forgotten that moment, for in it he learned that he truly mattered to his father, even if there was no hope of apprenticeship, bride, or inheritance for a fourth-born gilke. And he had never forgotten the Living Steel.

“My cousin had a friend who was drawn,” said the second kulhan. “He saw it and still didn’t believe. Said it was some trick.”

“Then he is a fool,” Gretti answered. “I saw it with my own eyes. There is nothing else like it beneath the stone.” He had tried to describe the luster to his father and brothers, but how could it be described? It was as if it took the glow of the Miner’s Eye into itself.

“Then why don’t they let more see it? Or handle it? It’s sealed away and you can’t even get close to it.”

“Ay yes,” said the first dwarf. “Maybe they could let you keep it for a while until you’re satisfied.”

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“Shit on the second dwarf said.

“Enough,” the rinlen cut in, standing. “Eat or work.”

After two more shifts in the Needle Claim and a few hours of sleep in an abandoned drift, Gretti awoke with hunger and piece-work pay. He kept Sledgefist’s gold in an inner pocket of his shirt hidden behind his beard. He made the climb back up to the Great Stope and the stewhall. The proprietor served him a bowl of stew and a flagon of light beer, same as always.

“Salt,” Gretti said. “And hill-smoke.” He handed the dwarf a clip from a Deep Cut bronze disc, and soon he had a pinch of salt and a wad of hill-smoke. The smell of salt always made Gretti homesick for Deep Cut, as odd as it was. Deep Cut was no Kara-Indal, but salt was plentiful there. Even the poorest holds ate it regularly. The smell of it hung in the air, even near the lakes and the coal workings.

He dashed the salt atop his stew and after stirring took one of the communal long-stemmed clay pipes from the center of the table and snapped off the last inch of the stem. He tossed the fragment into a dish of other pieces at the center of the table. He packed the bowl with hill-smoke. From the brazier he lit one of the thin shavings of wood kept for the purpose, transferring the flame to the hill-smoke. After a few starting puffs, he loosed a long stream of smoke into the aromatic haze that already filled the stewhall. He let his shoulders relax.

Gretti liked to smoke when he was disgruntled, but he could rarely indulge in hill-smoke over the past few years. With piece-work wages in his pocket and Sledgefist’s hidden gold untouched, he allowed himself the indulgence. He needed to clear his mind and come up with some sort of plan. He had always been able to fight his way through by dint of determination, strength, and ferocity. With the skill added by his time with the Hammers, he was not afraid of a brawl unless badly outnumbered. But he had told Sledgefist he was a spy. To avenge blood, he must kill the Highlodes, but he had to them first. And as for Sledgefist’s dwarf, how was he to do anything? He should have refused Sledgefist and tried to flee, though that would have merely traded foolishness for foolishness. Now, his word and honor were bound up in an impossible task. Gretti had lived in shame for so many years after the slaughter, watching his mother waste away unavenged. It was excruciating, but he had tolerated it so that his mother would not be left destitute and alone. Opposing duties were one of the great cruelties of the world.

Gretti ate, but his mind dwelt more on the past than on any solution to his present obstacles. So many days beneath the stone of East Spire, and he had accomplished little except increase his risk. He was considering asking for a second bowl of stew and another flagon of beer when the low hum of conversation around him lapsed into to silence and the smoke swirled on a fresh draft. Gretti turned to look down the long table, and his stomach sank.

Three dwarves stood inside the door, their faces covered in rusted, gnarled iron masks depicting the wild fantastical visages of beasts. They clearly wore armor, but it was covered in leather, and their clothes were of the drab tawny colors of the Waste.Handaxes and punch-daggers they held comfortably in their hands.

As a son of Deep Cut, Gretti knew exactly what they were. Jackals of the Waste. And to his horror, peering through the door behind them was the grim dwarf who had found Gretti snooping in the Defthand claim. Gretti lowered his head toward his stew, his heart beating.

It was useless. They came right for him.

“You,” one of the jackals said, tapping him on the shoulder with the side of his axehead. Gretti looked up into the grizzly mask, noting the golden-hued eyes within. He tried to look confused.

“Ay, yes?” he asked.

“You are the one they call Icevein, of the stonehold of the Low Colliers of Deep Cut.”

“I am called Ironleg,” Gretti answered.

“Oh?” said the Defthand dwarf. He had followed the jackals and stood behind them. “The other day you called yourself Greenholt. Which is it?”

Gretti inwardly cursed at the blunder, trying to keep his expression confused.

“Come,” the jackal said, “play no games with us.”

Gretti sighed.

“What is it you want of me?”

“You know.”

“What charge do you bring against me?”

“Murder. ”

“And who has determined this guilt? I have stood before no arbitration.”

“Do not worry. The Irik-Rhûl of East Spire will be pleased to enforce the Council’s will upon you.”

Gretti tensed. His axe was tucked into his belt.

“Do not,” the jackal said. “You will be dead before it is free.”

Gretti knew the jackal spoke the truth. Gretti might be a brawler, but the Jackals of the Waste had no trade but killing. A hundred years of nothing but fighting made a fearsome warrior, and they did not care for honor. They were the terror of humans, but they had little enough care for dwarves who crossed them. There might be only a score of the masked beasts in East Spire, but it was enough to subjugate the colony to the will of the Deep Cut Council.

Gretti had little choice. He stood slowly and nodded.

“Chain him,” the foremost jackal said to the others.

“You have no right to bind me.”

“A nice ,” the jackal said. He held his punch-dagger ready at his side in a strong but relaxed grip. Gretti knew the dwarf could strike him like a snake, and so he did not resist as the other two jackals clasped shackles on his hands and ankles. Gretti met the eyes of the dwarf from the Defthand claim who watched with a faint smile.

“I do not know you,” Gretti said. “Who are you?”

“That is none of your concern,” the dwarf answered.

“Do you not know, or is it that you are ashamed? Did your mother remarry, and you cannot tell your father?”

The dwarf’s nose wrinkled in anger, but he did not let Gretti goad him into an unlawful strike.

“mother did not die of shame,” he said. Now it was Gretti’s turn to restrain himself.

“Enough,” the jackal commanded. He turned to the Defthand dwarf. “Return. Your part here is finished.”

“I want to see him imprisoned.”

“I don’t give shit for what you Do as I command.”

The Defthand dwarf’s eyes narrowed, but he stood aside as the jackals led Gretti shuffling to the door of the stew hall, accompanied by the jangle of chains. The dwarves of the stewhall watched in silence. The proprietor stood aside, and Gretti gave him a slight nod as they passed. If the proprietor hadn’t recognized Gretti before, he always would, now.