Something was buzzing. A small bee, with darker yellow and deeper black body coloring than those at Deep Cut, hovered about Yorvig's forearm. It darted away in a straight line eastward, across the tailings pond and into the trees. That was good to know. There were honeybees in the area. His mouth watered. That was good to know indeed. But seeing just one meant little. The little beauties could fly for miles. Near the far side of the tailings pond, where they had cut a few pines and allowed sunlight to descend, some late season purple asters bloomed. It was a warm fall day, when the sunlight seemed to take a golden hue. No doubt, the honeybee sought out the asters. Yorvig’s leg wound was still inflamed and raw-looking, but maybe. . .

He rose, sticking his crutch under his arm, and started to make the first halting steps on the broken rock outside the adit.

“Where are you going?” Shineboot asked from behind before he’d gone ten feet. Shineboot was pushing the wheel-barrow, twice-repaired since it had been built, out of the adit with a load of broken rock.

“To those asters.”

Shineboot frowned. “You shouldn’t. If an ürsi came while you were there, you’d never get back in time.”

“I saw a honeybee.”

Shineboot’s frown deepened, but his eyes flitted to the asters.

“I’ll come with you,” he said after hesitating for a moment.

Shineboot followed after Yorvig’s slow pace as they made their way to the far side of the tailings pond. The pines left uncut in the pond rose above the surface to display hanging needles wilted and brown. But elsewhere in the dell, the pines seemed unusually emerald in the fall light.

A few yards from the clump of asters, they stopped and waited. The asters were delicate flowers, with little yellow suns within the purple fur-like petals. At first, Yorvig saw no sign of insects, but then he caught the movement of a small plump body of a honeybee crawling on one of the blooms on the far side of the clump. A breath later, it rose into the air, turned east, and flew away in a straight line.

East. . . If the bee was leaving the dell, it should turn south. But then, bees could fly. The eastern arm of the ridge was not as sheer and impassable as the side they’d dug into, but it was rough enough. Maybe the bee was going up and over.

“There’s another,” Shineboot said, pointing. A second honeybee darted in amongst the flowers, and it was followed closely by a third.

“Three,” Yorvig said. He met Shineboot’s gaze. Shineboot had a broad, somewhat flat nose but an open, friendly countenance. He always wore his mousy hair pulled back, exposing his sloping forehead. At that moment, Yorvig could see in Shineboot's expression the same hunger he felt.

Months and months without the taste of sweetness and barely even the tang of salt. . .

“There’s definitely a hive,” Shineboot said.

Of course there was a hive. It was just a matter of how close.

Yorvig took a step forward with his crutch.

“No,” Shineboot said. “We’re not just going off into the woods now. We’re not prepared, and the others don’t know.”

The words were wise, but even though Yorvig’s leg complained and agreed with Shineboot, it was hard to turn away. Don’t be impulsive, Yorvig remembered.

“Fine. Tomorrow, at midday then.”

“Agreed.”

Sledgefist tried to dissuade Yorvig from the attempt, but Yorvig insisted. The thought of just sitting for another day grated on him. But they only tried to convince Yorvig, not Shineboot—not when the thought of a beehive watered their mouths. The day dawned cloudy, with spitting rain, and they thought they had lost the chance that day, but a high breeze moved the clouds, and before high morning the sky had cleared.

Shineboot insisted on carrying the few items of gear they anticipated needing. At the last minute, Sledgefist decided to come along.

“I don’t need ürsi coming down on you all out there, and not knowing where you’re going.”

Hearing that, Hobblefoot decided to come, too. He and Sledgefist grabbed their picks and followed. They did not bring the picks for digging.

The four dwarves skirted the tailings pond and came within a few yards of the asters, close enough to see any bees but far enough not to scare them. They had waited until midday, the warmest time of day, when the bees should be most active. The ground was still damp, but the air had freshened since the morning.

Perhaps the bees were taking advantage of the warmer spell of weather in a last ditch effort to bolster their larder for winter. A few bees were among the asters, as well as some other pollen-seeking insects. They waited until the first flew off in a line straight east.

The four of them moved without need of command, skirting the asters and hurrying after the bee. But the others hesitated, waiting for Yorvig who limped along with his crutch.

“Don’t wait! Go! I’ll catch up.”

So the others hurried along, but they only made it about thirty yards before they had to stop. A small margin of error over a long distance could result in missing the hive, and they could come quite close and still miss it. Yorvig caught up, and they stood facing back toward the asters, waiting.

They all seemed to see it at the same time. The bee passed five yards to the south, and they hurried after it, again leaving Yorvig to struggle after. They managed to keep it in sight for another twenty yards or so. Now they couldn’t see the asters through the pines, but dwarves rarely lost their sense of direction, even deep underground. “Iron in our noses,” the old ones said.

They got better at sprinting after the bees, but it took six bees to make their way all the way across the dell. When Yorvig caught up, determined not to show how sore his wound had become during the trek, the three others were talking in low voices.

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“It went up the ridge,” Shineboot said, pointing.

“It’s probably on the other side.”

The ridge where Shineboot had pointed was a shelved ascent of broken rocks and clinging conifers. He would not be able to climb that yet.

“You’ll have to go on without me,” he said.

“I’ll stay with you,” Sledgefist responded.

With no more words, they turned back to face west, waiting. Minutes passed. And more. A cloud rolled in front of the sun, and the air felt immediately cooler, even though they were already beneath the shade of the pines. The first cloud was followed by more and heavier, and far away Yorvig felt as much as heard a low rumble of thunder.

Sledgefist growled low in his throat as he let out a breath in frustration.

“We’ll get nowhere in poor weather. I’d rather go back to mining. We can try again another warm day,” Hobblefoot said, turning to go. Shineboot shrugged, but as he went to follow, he stopped.

“There!” He pointed south, now. At first Yorvig didn’t see it, but Shineboot tracked it with his finger. An insect—yes, a bee—flying up to the ridge from the south. It disappeared into some low hemlock on the ridgeside.

“It’s definitely going up,” Hobblefoot said. “Who knows how far beyond.”

“It’s not beyond,” Yorvig said.

“How do you know?”

“It came from the south,” he said. “The other bees came from the west.”

“Ay, yes,” Shineboot said, catching on.

“If these are from the same hive, their lines would never intersect far from the hive.”

Yorvig had never been a beekeeper, but beekeeping was well known in Deep Cut. Human children may learn the keeping of cattle and the hunting of the stag, but the dwarves knew bees. They felt a close affinity for the colony-building, regimented, hard-working creatures. . . and for sweet honey and the mead it made. Some dwarves even carved their holds in mimicry of the honeycomb’s elegant simplicity.

Yorvig scanned the ridge above, and something caught his eye. Amidst all the pine and hemlock and twisted spruce, a single beech tree rose with sparse leaves flushed yellow and its trunk leaning.

“There,” he said. “Climb to that tree with the yellow leaves.”

Shineboot started to scramble through the low hemlock and up the rocky slope. The beech tree was up thirty feet of rough ridge, but Shineboot was a hale dwarf.

“I can hear them!” he called from the base of the beech. “But I don’t see—wait. I do. It’s here. It’s a small hole about ten feet up. They’re going in and out, and they’re loud.”

“Go up and help him,” Yorvig said to Sledgefist and Hobblefoot. “You’ll have to smoke the entrance. Dead leaves, damp moss. Then open the trunk.”

“We’ll have to cut it down,” Hobblefoot said.

“Ay, yes. Just make sure there’s smoke.”

"We know," Hobblefoot said.

They only had two woodaxes at the claim, but Shineboot had brought them both, and Sledgefist and Hobblefoot hurried up the ridge. Damp though the ground was, Shineboot and Yorvig had planned ahead, bringing rolls of flame-loving birch bark. The first scent of flame reached Yorvig in minutes. They waited till they had a good blaze of broken branches before they started to pile on wet leaves from beneath the beech tree along with pine needles. The smoke rose in a heavy white plume, following the beech upward. There was little breeze on the west face of the ridge.

Smoke, for whatever reason, put bees in a trance-like stupor. So much so that the beekeepers in the gorges of Deep Cut had long ago beseeched the council to forbid any forge, kiln, or smelter vents from being drilled out into the canyon. It was law to this day. Smoke rose from the flat of the Waste, instead, rising up chimneys from deep beneath the surface rock. That smoke could be seen many miles from Deep Cut, rising in column in those clear, waterless skies.

“Cut it close to the ground,” Yorvig called. Moments later, the sound of axe-blows rang in the woods. Sledgefist notched out the trunk, setting the angle where he wanted the tree to fall. Then, he and Hobblefoot stood on opposite sides of the tree and began trading swings in close rhythm. The tree was old and thick, but it held for mere minutes under the storm of blows. The trunk cracked, the three dwarves sprang away. Beech branches scraped down, snapping the weaker pines as it fell. The trunk kicked up as the tree hit the ridge-side, twisted, and lodged against two pines just below it. Even from where he stood, Yorvig could hear the hum of riled bees.

“More smoke!” Sledgefist yelled, holding his arm across his face. Shineboot hurried to heap more leaves and needles on the flame.

“Don't smother it!” Hobblefoot snapped.

“Now what?” Shineboot asked, hopping away from the fire and the angry bees.

Sledgefist and Hobblefoot looked at him, but they didn’t speak. Shineboot stared down at Yorvig who still leaned heavily against his crutch, watching.

“Does the hollow come all the way to the stump?” Yorvig called.

“To the stump?”

“Can you see into the hollow where they cut it?”

“No. Only that hole further down.”

“Plug the hole.”

“Easy for you to say from down there!” Sledgefist called back.

“Help me up and I’ll do it.”

“No, you stay there,” Sledgefist answered. He looked around for a moment, then hefted his axe and walked towards a low hemlock shrub. He began hacking away at the base, and in a few minutes he had part of the root bulb. Setting down his axe, he pulled his knife and began trimming the chunk of wood, eyeing the hole in the side of the bee tree. Soon, he held the tapered peg up in front of him, pursed his lips, and shrugged.

“Don’t run,” Yorvig called up.

“Like hot slag I’m not gonna run,” Sledgefist answered.

“If you go slow, they’re less likely to sting.”

Sledgefist muttered under his breath, but he grabbed his axe and approached the tree at a slow walk. Yorvig could see the dark blurry motion of the swarming insects. Sledgefist held the plug in both hands. Yorvig couldn’t see the opening in the tree, but he saw his brother reach the trunk, hesitate, and then slam the plug down. There was a flat stake-hammer on the back of his axe and he struck two quick blows onto the plug—and then he ran, or rather hopped away, swatting with his free hand and trailing a line of bees and curses.

“Do you see them coming out anywhere else?” Yorvig called.

Shineboot carefully worked his way around the tree at a distance until he reached the upper branches.

“I don’t think so."

“Fine. Now move the fire under the hole and limb the tree.”

Yorvig continued to give the others directions from below, and for whatever reason they followed them. They smoked the swarm caught outside the hive, stripped the branches off the tree, and then slowly cut away the bottom and tops of the log, putting their ears against the trunk from time to time to make sure they hadn’t neared the hive within. The blows of the axes kept the hive agitated within the tree, but the smoke kept those trapped outside at least somewhat tamer. Before long, they had a ten foot section of the tree cut away. An axeblow at the bottom had pulled away with a smear of honey, and at the top Shineboot swore he heard buzzing close.

“Now what?” Shineboot asked.

“We drag it back.”

“And by we you mean us?” Hobblefoot asked. Yorvig grinned.

“By we I mean you.”

“This has to weigh a mine-ton, still.”

“No, not that much. It’s hollow after all.”

“And full of honeycomb!”

“If we leave it here, the skunks and weasels may get into it,” Yorvig said. No one liked that idea, judging by their frowns.

“This would go easier with rope,” Sledgefist said. “I’ll go back and get some.”

“And I will go see to the smoker fires,” Yorvig added.

It was pouring chill rain in the evening dim when the three dwarves finally dragged the tree trunk around the tailings pond and to the adit. Yorvig watched from his three-legged stool. His own leg ached, but he was happy. If even half of that ten foot length had comb in it, they could eat a pound of honey every day all winter. And there would be wax for candles.

They left the log in the adit drift just inside the closed door, up against the stacks of firewood they kept for the smoke hives. They all were stung except for Yorvig, but Sledgefist had the worst of it. His neck especially was angry red. Tired from the exertions of the day, the three went to sleep in their alcoves while Yorvig sat up. He told the others he wanted to break the fibers of the now hardened pelts that the others had saved from the beasts he'd killed. Ideally, they would have been worked to break apart the fibers as they slowly dried and then smoked. Now they were hard folded lumps, ignored during Yorvig's plight. But he was just happy the others had recovered them. It would take work to loosen them now, but that was alright. The busy work for his hands was to allow him to think more clearly. So, he worked and stared off into the dark drift, pondering many things.