The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Icevein: Chapter 21

Sledgefist stood in the overlook atop Sledge Rock, staring at the throng moving toward the fortifications on either side of the riverbend. Between the fortifications stretched a dam, resulting in a ten foot fall of sheeting water. Along the cleared ridge-crests, he could see more ürsi slipping over the divide, seeking to navigate the screes and defiles. Already, their numbers were clear. It was a host. An entire host of ürsi. If they wanted, they could all struggle over the ridge crests, but they could not do it quickly or in a united horde. Still, Sledgefist would have chosen the crests over assaulting his fortifications in the river pass, but they were ürsi. It was useless to wonder why they did what they did. Better to leave such musings to his brother; his part was merely to kill them. Enough would cross the ridges to keep the wardens busy behind his lines, anyway.The sun had risen above the ridge to the east. They foe was not yet attacking, but they filled the narrow paths of the pass. It looked less like a skirmish and more like an invasion, but the blow was likely to land at night. Keenedge and the other wardenshad warned him that thousands had amassed to the east, possibly ten thousand. They were early, too. Weeks early. Isolated parties of the kulkur had been slipping over the ridges for days, but he had kept his Hammers close, waiting for the true assault. Such numbers might overwhelm the defenses. But what if he could turn them?

“Should we withdraw?” asked Tenstrike, one of his hammer rinlen.

The previous year had been hard fighting. Could he hold? Chargrim had warned him to retreat if he was not sure—had begged him to keep himself and his dwarves safe. But there was no safety against such a foe. Only steel and blood. The ürsi had to be fought , and if he could hold them here, how many lives might be saved among the stubborn prospectors who had kept to their claims in the Gold River Range? If he stayed now, there would be no retreat later. Too many ürsi would block the path to Glint.

This was Sledge Rock. This was pass. It bore his name. He did not want to leave it, not while there was a chance at victory. This was not yet the year to run.

“Tell the bolt throwers to focus on the paths,” he said. “Crossbows to guard the bolt throwers. Hammers with me.” He lowered his inlaid helm and fixed warmask over his head with both hands. He was Sledgefist, death of ürsi. He would fight. Once more, he would hold.

The donkey swayed, and Gretti’s head pounded with pain to the rhythm of his heart as he hung upside down. The donkey stepped to the side and Gretti’s back was dragged along a slab of shale. He longed for the wardens. Surely, they could not be worse than these kulkur jackals. Even if they would just let him straighten his back, he would bless their beards for a thousand generations. The wardens were close. Surely it was their smoke he smelled ahead. The campsite was just a little further down the winding gully.

The wind had grown fretful, shaking the treetops on the ridge above, and the day grew dimmer. A gust of air pushed down the gully, and along with the scent of smoke Gretti smelled it, the foul stench. The jackals halted without a word. One of the donkeys brayed. There were hurried footsteps, and the donkey began to turn. Gretti thought the beast would plunged over the edge of the narrow trail and he with it, but somehow, the sure-footed beast managed to make the turn, and they headed back the way they had come, the jackals goading the donkeys until they were at a trot. All this was done without a single audible order.

Gretti hung over the edge of the trail, his upside-down view a dizzying plunge to the broken rocks of the swift stream below. The smell was stronger, now. They came to a curve in the gully. Someone cursed, and the donkey screamed, stumbled, and twisted. Gretti’s head slammed against the stone path. He saw a flash of light, and the donkey landed on him and rolled, driving the breath from his lungs and straining his back on the iron bar. The donkey kicked as its body stiffened. He heard thuds and shouts, but he could make no sense of it. Somehow he had not fallen over the edge, but he tasted blood and felt it running from his nose.

He lay twisted on the ground, the donkey dead on his legs, and when he tried to lift his head to look, he saw an ürsi sprinting toward him. A bolt sliced through the ürsi’s chest, and it fell forward, its oily hair flipping forward to snap against Gretti’s face. The stench was overwhelming, and he felt his gorge rise. Another donkey screamed. The weight rolled away from Gretti’s legs, and someone grabbed him by the shirt, hauling him backward. Gretti watched another donkey twist and fall, and the hand dragging him let go.

Gretti rolled onto his belly. The jackals huddled on the narrow trail, crouched down between the bodies of the two slain donkeys. The donkey that had born Gretti had a sling stone through its eye, judging by the wound, but the other had its throat cut. Bubbly red blood pooled on the path beneath its neck. A jackal with a crossbow aimed down each length of trail. On the slope behind them, a twisted dead fir trunk had created a bulwark against sliding shale. It was clear they had slain the second donkey for cover. A sling-stone sliced across its flank, spinning upward.

“Which way?” Rimbiter asked. “Back or forward?”

Aftercut leaned against the rock, keeping his body low. A stone slammed into the shale above his head, raining fragments down on him. Gretti dared not rise. The jackals wore armor, but he had nothing to protect him. Another stone whistled overtop the donkeys. Above them,Gretti heard shale sliding on the slope. A brief chorus of yips and shrieks broke out to either side. Gretti noticed that Notchnose held his arm close to his torso, the hand hanging limp.

“Unchain me,” Gretti gasped.

Aftercut ignored him.

“They’re on both sides,” Blithebarrow growled, keeping his crossbow trained up the trail. “Is that warden smoke or ürsi smoke?”

“Sound the horn,” Aftercut said.

“If there are more ürsi, they will hear us,” Rimbiter said.

“It makes no difference. Sound it.”

Rimbiter carried a blowhorn beneath his arm, made of blackened bronze. The dwarf raised it to his lips, drew in a great breath, and blew. The note shivered along the gully, rising in a clear peel. The gabbles of the ürsi quietened. Everything within a mile would hear that note. Broadlever loosed a bolt down the trail and rolled over to draw back the string, fitting another bolt. With their masks hiding their faces, Gretti could not tell if the jackals were frightened, but their bodies and hands were calm. The hornblast ceased and the echoes with it. They listened in stillness.

“They’re trying to move along the slope,” Broadlever whispered. Even as he finished speaking, an answering horn sounded from further along the gully.

“Wardens,” Aftercut said. “We go north.”

“Unchain me!” Gretti shouted, though his voice was hoarse.

“How many do you think between us and them?” Aftercut asked Blithebarrow. The old jackal shrugged.

“One way to find out.”

“Rimbiter, give Icevein more stride. We take the food.”

The jackals hurried to free the panniers from the fallen donkeys, while Rimbiter produced a key-pin and gave Gretti more slack for his legs. So Rimbiter had the key. Gretti hadn’t expected that.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

A stone struck Blithebarrow in the chest as he rose to roll the donkey off the far pannier. The dwarf cursed, but the stone fell from his breastplate. The panniers were clearly lighter than at the start of the journey, but Gretti knew they must contain enough to fodder the donkeys and see the jackals back to Deep Cut. He noticed that his own pack was left lying as the jackals prepared. If they were to be surrounded, they would need all the food they could get.

“What about my pack?” Gretti asked.

“Limestone dust, mostly, and a rock,” Aftercut said. Gretti looked at the pack, dumbfounded. It had all been for torture and to weaken him beyond danger, even the contents of the pack.

“What are so many doing over the ridge so soon?” Notchnose asked, slinging a pannier over his shoulder with one hand while still cradling the other in his bosom. Aftercut took another of the burdens on his shoulder. He ignored the question, peeking over the side of the donkey northward up the trail.

“See if you can get that one there,” he said to Blithebarrow. “Then we go. Icevein stay in the center, and don’t try anything. You’re dead without us. If you fall, you stay. Rimbiter and Broadlever keep the rear. Notchnose behind me.” He laid a hand on Blithebarrow’s shoulder. “As you’re able.” Aftercut looked back at the others. “We are jackals.”

Blithebarrow peered over the side of the donkey. A slingstone spun past within inches of his head, but he did not flinch. Gretti waited, wondering if he had the strength to rise and run. He wasn’t sure.

Blithebarrow rose and loosed a bolt in one fluid motion, the speed and precision of a jackal who had fought for a hundred and fifty years. The others rose with him. Gretti’s body lurched upward as if in response to their movement. He could rise. He could walk. Strong hands grasped him from behind and pushed him over the donkey, hauling him upward again. He heard whistling in the air, yipping and shrieking on the slope above. Shale came skipping down the slope. Dull thuds sounded against the jackals’ armor. A sharp pain cut across Gretti’s back, but the dwarves pushed forward. Somehow, Broadlever and Blithebarrow jogged and loosed from their crossbows at the same time. Gretti could hear the strings at work.

Three ürsi leaped down from the base of a fir tree on the slope above them. Aftercut was in the lead. The first he hooked with the head of his axe, throwing the beast over the side of the gorge even as he plunged upward with his dagger to pierce the second. The third ürsi thrust with a spear, but Aftercut lowered his frame even as he moved forward, taking the blow on his breastplate and slipping past the haft, bringing his axe back around to open the beast’s throat. Three ürsi slain in a moment, and the jackals never flagged in their pace. As blank as his mind felt, Gretti saw the skill of dwarves whose lives were dedicated to war. But the sound of yipping and shrieking filled the gully. There were far more than three.

Something thudded into the back of Gretti’s leg and he stumbled. Again, hands from behind lifted him. They did not leave him as threatened. His leg felt numb, and he limped. It was Notchnose’s wounded, bloody hand, lifting him from the side as they struggled forward together, keeping pace.

A rock burst down the slope in a spray of shale—no sling-stone, but a hundred pounds of boulder—and Blithebarrow was simply gone, plunging into the ravine in an instant. The jackals made no sound, nor did they flag in their pace or look back. The smell of smoke strengthened amidst of the stench of ürsi. Notchnose’s hand no longer supported Gretti, but Gretti’s leg was not so numb, and he lurched forward, his chains rattling. A flash of steel shone ahead. A ridge warden stood and loosed a bolt. For a moment, Gretti thought the bolt was meant for him, but the dart sped overhead. A slingstone glanced off the back of Aftercut’s helm. The dwarf leaned forward, sprinting the final yards. Gretti hopped after him, his breaths coming in strained grunts. Angry shrieks sounded behind them, but more Ridge Wardens stood to loose bolts.

Gretti turned the corner into the wide open space carved out of the scree. Unmortared walls of rough stone held back the slope in a wide flattened yard. A fire burned near the center, its smoke tossing in the fitful wind. Ridge Wardens crouched around the stone wall and near each trailhead. He fell to the packed earth in a heap, gasping for air. His body was a tumult of disparate pains, and his mind could not make inventory of the number or severity of his hurts.

The campsite was an oval of thirty yards in width. The retaining walls along the slopes rose to a height of twenty feet at the rear, and he saw Ridge Wardens perched at the top, crossbows trained up the slope. He could only see a dozen wardens still in action, though two still bodies lay near the fire, and three more wounded dwarves sheltered against the stone wall.

Aftercut, appearing neither winded nor alarmed, spoke with one of the Ridge Wardens in hurried tones. Rimbiter and Broadlever had taken up positions near the southern trailhead from which they had emerged. Rimbiter had already found a crossbow among the Ridge Wardens. Of Notchnose there was no sign.

As his breath returned, Gretti took better stock of his own condition. He felt a laceration across his back, no doubt from a slingstone loosed from the slope, and while he could not feel it with his hands shackled, he knew he had been struck in the back of his thigh as well. The blood beneath his nose had dried. Other than that, he was uninjured. His heart thumped as he struggled to his feet. Rimbiter had not only allowed him enough chain to take a full stride, but also to stand up straight. Though his hands were still manacled behind his back, he squared his shoulders and felt the searing complaint of his muscles and spine. With his head level, he walked to Aftercut and the warden.

“Unchain me,” he demanded. Aftercut ignored him, but the ridge warden turned to regard Gretti. He was a frank-looking dwarf with a beard bound in warrior’s braids.

“Icevein,” he said. “You have brought your ill luck with you.”

“Shit on you,” Gretti said. “Let me fight.”

“Use your teeth, before I let you free,” the warden answered.

“Is there any chance of relief from Sledge Rock?” Aftercut asked.

“None,” the warden said. “If ürsi are here, they have surely assaulted the Rock. We had not heard of ürsi crossing the ridges before this pack set upon us.”

“It is early,” Aftercut said.

The warden shrugged.

“They are worse each year. But it is early, yes. And these bear the sign.”

“Kulkur,” Aftercut muttered, then recollected himself. “Where is the nearest claim?”

“Three miles north and up the ridge.”

“Why is there no drift dug here?” Aftercut asked, a note of accusation in his tone.

“You are welcome to dig it,” the warden answered, “but it is a rock slide. This is a resting place for pack trains, no more.”

“You should have begun fortifications when they attacked.”

“We need all our number lest they rush.”

“It is too much space to guard,” Aftercut said. “Do we know their numbers?”

“Not for certain.”

“They sound plentiful.”

It was true. The gully resounded with yips and shrieks, though Gretti could see no sign of the ürsi at present.

“To frighten us,” the warden answered. “They will move and yap to make us think they are more. They are not so great in numbers to rush us in the daylight. They tried us in the night, but I think more have joined since.”

“So tonight.” Aftercut spoke in a flat tone, as if he was commenting on the weather. If he was distraught over the loss of his comrades, he showed nothing. “We’ll take the stone from the back wall,” he said. “We make a wall in the center near the ravine’s edge. Have five of your dwarves begin it.”

“But they must hold the wall.”

“Move the rest into the back center,” Aftercut said, pointing. “They can hold the sides as well from there.” He turned to Rimbiter. “Ai, Rimbiter.” The jackal turned to look. “I want you on the north.” Aftercut waved two fingers to direct him.

As Rimbiter jogged to obey, the warden rinlen hesitated, clearly reluctant to follow the jackal’s commands, but after a moment he nodded, turned, and called off names.

“I can help build,” Gretti said to Aftercut, but the jackal ignored him again, striding over to Broadlever. He peered around the wall to look down the trail. A slingstone nearly caught him on the mask, and he ducked back.

“Kulkur,” the Aftercut said. He patted Broadlever’s shoulder. “See if you can get that one, but don’t waste a bolt.”

Gretti remained near the center of the clearing, not far from the smoking fire and the dead wardens. Unarmored, he could not risk more sling stones. Someone had covered the face of one of the dead with a piece of his own shirt. No doubt, the fallen dwarf had received his fatal wound there.

The wardens began construction of the central fortification. There were hours before nightfall in which work could be done, and dwarves worked quickly with stone. Enough trees and shattered trunks remained on the slope to lend them some protection. From above, ürsi lobbed a stone here and there, but they did not come in range of the crossbows.

“Slope it from inside!” Aftercut shouted as the layers of repurposed rock mounted, “or they’ll topple it on us.”

Part of the back slope collapsed inward as the bracing drystone wall was removed. Two dwarves pried the wall apart as the others ran back and forth, building up the new fortification. Gretti stomped over to Aftercut.

“I could be helping!”

“Forgive me if I do not want to be stuck between you and the ürsi,” the jackal replied.

Gretti gritted his teeth. He had half a mind to lunge at the jackal and use his forehead to bash the dwarf’s helm in, but that would hardly aid his point. Instead, he watched helplessly as the dwarves prepared for night.