The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Icevein: Chapter 19

The jackals opened a thick bronze-bound door into a narrow drift and led Gretti inside. They were near the Great Stope, but they had climbed a level. Every step was an annoyance, as Gretti could not extend his legs to a full stride. At the far end of the narrow drift was another door, this time of plain stone, and it swung outward as they approached. A masked jackal stepped aside to let them pass. Inside, lamps burned bright, and they entered a wide reception chamber with low tables, rugs, and cushions for lounging. To one side, a samovar steamed and copper-banded casks sat on stands. Whatever the jackals ragged appearance, their hold was comfortable. Even the wall hangings were fine. Gretti wondered if it was their doing or if they had taken the hold from some well-to-do crafter.“You may sit,” the jackal leader said, motioning to one of the tables. There was no use fighting at this point, and Gretti lowered himself to a cross-legged position on one of the rugs. The smell of hot food filled the chamber, and even though he had just eaten in the stew hall, his mouth watered. To Gretti’s surprise, the jackals removed their masks, except for the one still guarding at the door. Gretti wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the jackals looked surprisingly normal without the masks. They filled mugs of tea and beer at the samovar and kegs and brought them to the table where Gretti sat. The leader—a gold-eyed and sandy-haired dwarf—actually set mugs of tea and maple beer in front of Gretti and went back to get more, returning to sit down beside him on the rug.

“Drink up,” the dwarf said. “Food is coming.” The jackals were cautious in the stew hall, but now they acted relaxed and unconcerned about Gretti. Outside the stewhall, the jackals had search him for weapons, finding Sledgefist’s gold as well. The manacles on his wrists and ankles restricted him, but he could have tackled the nearest dwarf and tried to pull the dagger from the jackal’s belt. No doubt, it would be one of the last things he did. Gretti reached out and took a long drink of the beer.

It was good, fermented from maple sap. It was the best brew he’d had since before he left Deep Cut, that was sure. Who wasted good drink on a prisoner? He was growing confused by the treatment he was receiving at the hands of the jackals.

“Food,” a dwarf said, carrying in a great ceramic pot using two scraps of leather. Aromatic steam rose from the dish as he set it down in the center of the table. Tucked under his arm was a bundle wrapped in cloth. He set it down as well and uncovered what turned out to be a stack of flat cavebread. If the dwarf who brought the food was a jackal, then there were now five at the table, not counting the one still standing near the door.

The lead jackal raised a mug.

“To the Waste.”

“To the Waste,” the other dwarves replied.

“Shit on it,” the lead dwarf said. And they all drank. Gretti drank too, so as not to insult them. The dwarves took pieces of cavebread and began scooping from the great mound of mashed raddish, mushrooms, and flecks of what smelled like pork fat.

“Go ahead and eat,” the jackal said to Gretti, motioning. Gretti could smell the salt. He reached out for a piece of bread and scooped a heap of the mashed dish. It was good, well-seasoned, and far better than the stewhall fare he had known for so long—when he was fortunate enough to be near a stew hall. Fish, wild eggs, squirrels, and rabbits had served in in the wilds of the ridges, and only when he was lucky.

They ate in silence for a time. It looked like companionable silence for the jackals, though Gretti could not make out what kind of a situation he had found himself in. The jackals were renowned, but for hospitality. He knew these were vicious killers, the first defense of Deep Cut against human and ürsi incursions.

The earnest edge of their appetites dulled. Gretti ate more than enough to be polite, and the platter thinned in its burden. At last, the jackal whom Gretti supposed was their leader turned to him:

“So you’re Icevein, eh? I have to say, you look like a brute, that’s sure.”

“Icevein?” Gretti asked, and then he remembered. He had never been called that to his face before, but he had heard the name used at Sledge Rock. “Ah,” he said, and shrugged.

“I admit, I was worried you would fight, by your reputation. I wanted to take you alive. I’m glad you had more sense.”

“I would happily give you a fair fight, if you would like the opportunity,” Gretti answered.

The jackal grinned.

“Fair? A fair fight is a fool’s fight. You should know that, judging by the stories I have heard. Yellowbelt Highlode did not get a fair fight, if the story I heard is correct.”

“Yellowbelt was blood guilty and deserved no fair fight. My vengeance was just.”

“Just, eh? A lovely sentiment, that. Let me tell you a little about justice. Your friend came to us two days ago and told us you were here, but of course he had no idea you were. We’ve been wanting to catch up to you since your last escapade in East Spire, of course, but he was eager to do the work for us. He waited around the Great Stope hoping to catch sight of you. And now, justice demands that we hand you over to our Irik-Rhûl. He will no doubt remand you to the justice of the Council, who have already ruled that the Highlodes carried no blood guilt. So you will be given over to them for death. Are you still so fond of justice?”

“That is not justice.”

The jackal shrugged.

“It is the justice that you will receive.” He lifted his mug and drank.

“At least I am not like Bronzemug Highlode, running to others to beg protection and playing spy.”

“Loafhide,” one of the jackals said, squinting.

“Loafhide,” Gretti repeated. So it was Loafhide after all. He hadn’t recognized him, but no matter; his ploy had paid off. Now, he would recognize the dwarf again. It meant all three of the Highlodes were likely in East Spire. It was possible that the other worker who had poked his head up from the chute was the younger brother, Bronzemug.

“You clever brute,” the jackal leader said, recognizing Gretti’s ruse. “But little good it will do.”

“You will have to get me back to Deep Cut,” Gretti said. “It is a long way.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“You’re right. We should kill you here and send your ugly head back as evidence.”

Gretti tensed.

“See?” the jackal leader said. “It is dangerous to be easily goaded and dangerous to goad.”

“We heard that you tossed a Ridge Warden down a mountainside,” one of the other jackals said, the youngest of the group. The leader glanced at him but did not reprimand.

Gretti was slow to respond. The comment seemed irrelevant. Now, he wondered if the warden had survived. It was possible. Then again, the water had careened down the slope. He did not like hurting the wardens, but they should not have interfered. “It was into a freshet.”

“I would have liked to see the face of Chargrim of Glint when he heard .”

“I think Chargrim of Glint would be most interested to see our guest. He is most protective of his Ridge Wifs.”

“I would have liked to kill a few when first we went to Glint,” one jackal said. It was a grey-beard with a bald pate, clearly the oldest among them, and it was the first he had spoken. “Now we sit in this dying warren instead of rolling in gold.”

“I bet that Chargrim Gold-Giver would recompense us for Icevein’s capture, given the opportunity,” the leader said.

The jackals watched him, waiting for a response. Gretti was confused. If they were trying to goad him again, he did not know why, but he was happy to goad back.

“I did not know jackals were easily bought.”

“Much is easily bought with Glint’s gold these days,” the old jackal said.

“What difference for Chargrim to slay you or the Council?” the leader asked.

“And what when the Council and their puppet Rhûl hear of it?” Gretti asked. The jackal had a point; he wasn’t sure what difference it would make in the end. It was the duplicity that confused him.

“Who do you think keeps Limechewer in place here, and who carries the reports back to Deep Cut?”

“If you are so friendly with Glint, why did you kill their spy?” Gretti asked.

The jackals looked to one another, confused.

“Who?” the leader asked.

“Oneye. He was a machinist.”

“Hah!” the old jackal shouted, slamming his palm on the table. “I told you he was a spy! I told you!”

“Well done, Blithebarrow,” the leader said, laughing. He turned back to Gretti. “I didn’t think he was, but Blithebarrow here encouraged a pack train guide to talk, and. . . what was it, Oneye? He fit the description.”

“He didn’t seem like a spy,” the younger jackal said, shaking his head.

“With age comes experience,” Blithebarrow replied, taking a drink.

“You weren’t sure?” Gretti asked.

“No, but you can rarely be,” the leader said. “But how do you know about Glint’s spies?”

“What did you do to him?”

“My answer first.”

Gretti had not thought that far ahead. He hesitated, trying to think through the implications of truth or a lie. But another thought occurred to him.

“If you send me to Glint, I will tell them you killed him.”

“And if we ask Glint why they sent a spy into our midst, they will deny knowing who he was. And, he fell down a chute, didn’t he?” He looked over at Blithebarrow. “Wasn’t that it? With a half-drained skin of spirits. Surely he has been found by now?”

Blithebarrow shrugged.

“I haven’t heard anything,” the old jackal said.

“Oh, well. You should have chosen a more frequented chute.”

Gretti felt the heat rise beneath his beard. These were not dwarves of duty, honor, and law. He held his tongue.

“So friend Icevein,” the jackal continued. “A blood avenger who happens to know about the spies of Glint, but is reported to have murdered a Ridge Warden. What to make of you?”

“Make of me what you will.”

“I think we will make some gold of you.” The jackal leader smiled. “More tea? Or do you prefer the beer?”

Peridot was smashing yams using a wooden pestle in a ceramic dish atop the granite table, preparing for the morning meal. Once thoroughly mashed, she would drizzle honey and salt over the top, stir it quickly, and bake it over coals until the top caramelized. She was thankful they had powerful enough ventilation in their stonehold—as did the whole Owner’s Drift—to allow for their own small baking oven. Most dwarves shared a cooking stove or baking oven among many holds, using braziers for some things, instead. Peridot was glad she did not have to wait a turn or speak to others while she worked.

The stonehold door swung open and Rightauger entered. His hands were empty, and his clothes were not dusty. Had he skipped another shift with Shineboot? He turned toward her, drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils.

“How soon will it be ready?” he asked.

“It is yet to bake.”

“I don’t have long. I will rest here. Please wake me when it is done.” Rightauger sat down upon a cushion and leaned against the stone.

“What do you mean you don’t have long?”

He didn’t open his eyes.

“I have to go to my shift with Shineboot.”

“You are working a double?”

“No.”

She watched him, still mashing the yams, hoping he would offer more, but he didn’t.

“What were you doing?”

She didn’t believe for a moment that he was already asleep, but he didn’t respond.

“Were you with the Ridge Wardens again?” she asked.

“Sister, I don’t ask for you to protect me, nor for you to pry.”

She took that as a yes.

“What is it about them?”

“My father is the Irik-Rhûl. Do you not think I should learn to fight?”

“Father does not fight.”

“He did.”

“And that is how he was injured.”

“Maybe if he had known how to fight, he wouldn’t be a gimp, now.”

“Rightauger! How dare you? He is our father.”

“I know who he is.”

“Why do you resent him?”

“I do not resent him!”

“Disobey him, then?”

“It isn’t right that he would put chains on me that he never wore. My rhundal is mere months away.”

Peridot realized that the yams were thoroughly pulverized. She took the honey dipper and drizzled the golden treasure over the top.

“He is more than just our father,” she said, “and an Irik-Rhûl has many more important duties than fighting.”

“None of which he has asked me to learn.”

“You are still a .”

“And fathers teach their . Mother has taught .”

“Learning does not end at rhundal.”

“I think father doesn’t want me to do anything but mine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He certainly hasn’t told me otherwise.”

“Have you asked him?”

“It isn’t that simple, sister.”

“Why not?”

“Dwarves are not maids.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Can you just finish the food?” Rightauger leaned back and closed his eyes again.

Peridot clenched her teeth. Who did he think he was, speaking to her thus? He had no right to disrespect her. If it was up to her, she would walk away and let him finish his own food, but Onyx had directed her to prepare the meal for the family, and it was not Peridot’s to say no; she wouldn’t be like Rightauger.

She sprinkled the salt over the top of the dish. Was she jealous of Rightauger? She had never clearly understood what would happen when her father died. It was so far away, anyway. He was only eight-seven. He could rule for another hundred years and more. Would the owners decide upon a new Irik-Rhûl? Who would the owners even be, then? Or was the position of Irik-Rhûl handed down to a son or a daughter, like any other trade? Irik-Rhûls were a thing from old tales and traditions of the Kara-Indal. Maybe her father had found some rules in his books.

“He just doesn’t want you to get yourself killed,” she said.

“It won’t be his choice, soon enough.”

“Do you really want to go to war so much?” She didn’t understand it. They had been close, once, and not just in age. In their youngest years they had played together in all things, and Rightauger had followed their father around, sitting for many hours under the table in the Rhûl’s Holt. Yet the closer Rightauger had gotten to rhundal, the more. . . irritating he had become.

“I want. . .” Rightauger paused.

“What?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You will be a wif.”

“Why does everyone—” She stopped herself. Instead, she continued: “Auntie Tourmaline was a wif. As was Queen Jade.”

“Queen Jade is a legend.”

“That’s not what Auntie Tourmaline taught.”

“She also taught that a dwarf had to carve his hold.” Rightauger leaned forward and stood. “I don’t want to talk about this, anymore. You can do whatever you want.Become a wif of craftif you like, but no one will ever look down on you. No one will ever expect anything more from you. You will never have anything to prove.”

“What do you have to prove?”

“Everything.” Rightauger stood back up. “I’m going to my shift.”

He left the stonehold and swung the door shut behind.