They had constructed the smoke-hives against the side of the cliff face just north of the sluices at the adit door. There was only about a ten foot gap between rock and the water of the tailings pond. The tailings pond curved around north and east before ending in a mire of mud and pine needles and sodden limbed pine branches. Yorvig sat on his three-legged stool just at the water’s edge at the far end of the smoke hives. From there, he would be visible to anything that came through the trees or up the tailings embankment from the south.

The smoke from the hives meandered upward before spreading over the dell in a thin fog. The breeze did not reach down between the arms of the mountain that day.

Yorvig acted as if he was dozing, but his senses were alert. He tested the air with his nose, scanned the woodline for movement from beneath slitted lids, and he listened for any sound of stick cracking or branch rustling. The sun was well below the ridge, the dell in shadow.

He flinched when he saw it. One of the ürsi was crouched down near the south side of the tailings pond, its arms resting on its knees. Dangling from its clawed hand was a thick carved handle with a black iron spike driven through the end. It stared straight at Yorvig. He hadn’t seen it emerge. A tingling chill ran throughout Yorvig’s body. He still saw the ürsi faces from his last meeting when he slept, but the horror of them had started to fade. This one brought that all back.

Why was there just one? It crouched, staring at him, alone. He scanned the treeline south of the pond and the top of the berm of mining debris that had blocked the flow of water. Nothing. They were supposed to come towards him by the easiest and quickest route, past the adit door, and they were supposed to come as a group. Why had only one come and exposed itself alone?

The beasts were clever. In Yorvig’s foolishness, he had assumed they were brutish and stupid. Vile and filthy they may be, but they must be clever. This could be nothing but a ruse. Yorvig glanced behind himself as nonchalantly as he could. He had misjudged. Heat flushed his face. All the stories told of the horrors of ürsi raiding. Even in the memory of older dwarves still living, the ürsi had pushed their folk out of the Long Downs. No stupid brute could do that, even with vastly greater numbers. A sense of panic gripped the pit of his stomach, but he had to remain in control. Think. Think.

Shineboot had seen five. Yorvig had expected them to come up the side of the pond past the adit in a group, and as soon as they’d passed, Sledgefist and Shineboot would rush out of the adit with their spears behind them. Hobblefoot lay concealed beneath a pile of discarded pine branches just behind Yorvig. They would have had them from both sides. Yorvig was just bait to lure them into the trap. A trap which they weren’t springing.

Surely this one wasn’t here in the open alone for no purpose. The rest must be circling around behind, coming from the north while this one drew their attention on the bank of the pond. That would mean at least four coming from behind, and Hobblefoot in a poor position to spring.

“They’re going to come from behind us,” he said low but loud enough for Hobblefoot to hear. Yorvig leaned on his crutch as he stood from the stool. The very air felt heavy and tense, tinctured by smoke and the smell of moldering pine needles.

He looked over his shoulder into the trees.

The water parted as the lurid form of an ürsi surged up from the pond. Out of instinct, Yorvig twisted and flung himself backward, raising the end of his crutch—just in time. The end of the crutch took the ürsi just below its chest, its flesh popping over the point. Yorvig had sharpened it. Two more ürsi burst from the water even before the first had landed. Yorvig scrambled to pull his dagger from its sheath at his back. He knew in that moment he would not be fast enough. The ürsi had swum beneath the surface, and they held curved blades hooked onto short wooden handles.

Hobblefoot roared as he rose from beneath the pine branches and charged forward, spear held before him, a brown cluster of needles clinging to his beard. The ürsi turned towards this new threat—a threat with a weapon much longer than theirs.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Hobblefoot stabbed forward at one of the ürsi who tried to block with his sickle-like dagger, but Hobblefoot’s attack was a feint, and he twisted his spearpoint aside and thrust it beneath the second ürsi’s armpit. Yorvig rolled toward the other ürsi, ramming into its legs and toppling it halfway into the water. He stabbed at its leg, ramming the dagger in as the beast struggled to get away, but the blade caught in the tendon, holding it back. Yorvig grabbed the other leg with his free hand and held on as the ürsi splashed desperately. Hobblefoot’s spear pierced through its back.

The stench hit Yorvig like a hammer to his face. Dizziness and nausea washed over him, and he retched into his mouth, some of the vomit spilling into his beard. How could such a horrid reek exist?

Thudding footfalls brought Yorvig back, and he saw Hobblefoot running toward the adit. Another combat had unfolded, and Yorvig hadn't even noticed. Shineboot was on the ground, and Sledgefist was breathing heavily, his dagger in one hand stained with dark blood, and in the other he held something dark and fleshy. Two ürsi lay dead—or one dead and one nearly so, its chest rising and falling with a flailing motion and a sucking sound. Yorvig barely caught a glimpse of yet another ürsi disappearing over the tailings embankment.

“Shineboot!” Hobblefoot yelled. Shineboot sat up, blood staining his forehead.

“I’m alright,” he said, sounding almost drunken and looking around as if he couldn’t tell who was talking to him. Hobblefoot knelt beside him.

“Did you see that?” Sledgefist said, his voice bellowing. “I took the shit’s ear off!”

Who he was speaking to, or whether it was to the whole world, Yorvig wasn’t sure. He managed to climb to his feet, pushing up from the damp ground with muddy hands. He didn’t bother trying to retrieve his crutch. There was an ürsi impaled on it still.

Six. There had been at least six.

“Stay alert!” he shouted. There might be more. Already, he knew they had failed in at least one purpose; they had let one of the beasts escape. No doubt these things could communicate, and who knew how many roamed the ridges? The dwarves couldn’t pursue it. Yorvig could barely walk. Shineboot was injured, how badly he didn’t know. Sending one or two away alone was foolish. The odds of catching it already fading to nothing.

“Do you see that?” Sledgefist asked as Yorvig limped up to the others.

“Ay,” Yorvig lied.

“It was the one that was sitting at the edge. I saw it through the gate. I got his ear!” Sledgefist held up the ear, but the smell must have struck him, and his elated expression turned to disgust. He chucked the foul thing toward the woods where the ürsi had fled.

“It can have it back if it wants,” Sledgefist said, heading towards the pond to scrub his hands with loam and water.

“Are you alright?” Yorvig asked, kneeling next to Shineboot. There was already a lump growing on the side of his temple.

“It hit me with a club,” Shineboot said, looking down. There was a nasty bulbous root there, so polished it shone. “We came out the door too close for spearwork.”

Yorvig saw the spears on the ground, not just Sledgefist's and Shineboot’s, but one of the short javelin-like things that had given him his leg wound before.

“Better to get hit with the club, I think,” Yorvig said, then looked to Hobblefoot. “Get him inside and clean it with fresh water and honey.”

“Ay,” Hobblefoot said, already lifting Shineboot to his feet.

By the disturbance in the gravel, they had grappled together on the ground, the four of them. Wiry though the ürsi were, few could match a dwarf’s strength when once in his clutches.

How had they gotten into the pond unseen? Yorvig scanned the edge, and his eye came to rest on the spot where the water overflowed the dyke of debris and ran down into the original creekbed. Probably there, slithering on their bellies as like as not. Ferns grew there, brown now but still providing some cover. They’d come with their close-quarters weapons, swimming toward him as he sat clueless, distracted by the figure on the shore at the opposite end of the pond. He'd known it was a distraction, and it had almost killed him anyway.

Devious.

“Are you well?” Sledgefist asked.

“Ay, well enough.” His leg hurt.

“We gave ‘em what for, we did. But it was a risk. We could have holed up.”

Considering that one of them got away, it may have been just as well to hole up under stone. Here were five fewer ürsi and maybe a message sent. The question was, what would the message be?

“Maybe. But how could we ever know it was safe?”

“I don’t think we’re going to,” Sledgefist answered, pursing his lips. “But we gave ‘em what for, didn’t we?” His older brother put a hand on Yorvig’s shoulder and grasped it. It was the most brotherly moment they’d had in a while—like in younger days.

“We did.”