Thankfully, Shineboot’s injury was not severe. He had a duck’s egg on his forehead, but dwarf noggins were hard to crack. On top of that, the ürsi hadn’t managed a full swing in the close confusion.

After they were sure they were alright, Yorvig ordered the smoke-hives emptied of meat. The chunks of beast had developed a thick dry crust of black-and-red leathery flesh, but Yorvig knew that the meat within would still be tender. They distributed the meat into the ewers of honey, weighing the meat down with clean rocks to keep it submerged. The deep beds of coal in the bottom of the smokers would go cold.

Yorvig had retrieved his crutch from the pond shore, his brother dutifully following for security. They scrunched their noses at the stench of the dead ürsi. The one Hobblefoot had impaled through the back still floated face-down near the edge of the pond. Thankfully, they had the spring of water in the adit and didn’t have to rely on pond water.

After this work, the four of them sat in the storeroom on their carved stools.

“I would have bolted the adit door and waited ‘em out,” Hobblefoot said. “But damn if it didn’t feel good to kill those filthy kulkur.” Kulkur was dwarvish for dross—the impurities removed during metal refinery—but it also served as a curse in their tongue. Yorvig knew the comment was both a censure and a compliment.

“It was a bold move,” Sledgefist muttered, as if compelled to say it yet loath to do so.

Yorvig decided to accept the compliments for what they were. Striper hopped onto Yorvig’s lap, purring. He placed his hand in her fur. The sensation was such a stark contrast to the moments of horror he’d just experienced mere yards away.

Yorvig hadn’t tried to be bold. When the moment came, his mind went to plans and solutions first. He didn’t think that made him brave. The ürsi were problems, and when presented with a problem, he sought to solve it and solve it quickly. The horror of it felt somehow like an unpleasant surprise.

Each of the dwarves found something to occupy their hands as they indulged in the use of an oil lamp. Shineboot sharpened chisels. Sledgefist carved at a piece of bone, determined to make a better spearhead than mere sharpened sapwood. Hobblefoot was carving a new pick handle of cedar, and Yorvig was cleaning his dagger and sheath. He had stabbed the ürsi with it, and like a fool had resheathed his dagger without thinking. Now it stank. He wasn’t sure he could salvage the leather but he must at least try. Wasting a still usable piece of kit in the wilds was foolish.

The ignorant among humans said that every dwarf in Deep Cut was rich, their most neglected possessions encrusted in jewels. This was nonsense of course. Many dwarves had just enough possessions to serve them in their daily labors. That said, the dwarves took great care of what they did have, and poor quality was not tolerated. Most dwarves felt almost compelled to ensure that what they had was functional, durable, and if possible, pleasing to hand and eye. Yet what was pleasing to dwarven eyes was not always gaudy. There could be poor work encrusted with jewels, or truly fine craftsmanship of simple iron or burnished bronze. As a folk, the dwarves knew the difference between quality and show.

In the wilds, there was even less luxury than normal, and an even more meticulous care of what little they had. Well did Yorvig remember the music of the bronze harps, the fine ring of resonant metal, the shine of jewels sewn into a maid’s fine hem. Such things he had taken for granted before.

Yorvig must not have been the only one thinking on such things, for Shineboot spoke:

“Imagine what it must have been like in Illenfärner,” — it meant Ice-Cloak in dwarvish — “when all was made of the living steel.”

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“Living steel is a myth,” Sledgefist said, absently.

“No, the hammer and the medallion are still locked in the treasury vault. I saw them, I had my lot drawn on the Day of Deliverance to see them, twenty years ago. They’re real.”

The hammer and medallion, brought by Auntie Tourmaline and her companions from Illenfärner itself, were the most treasured artifacts of their folk.

“I’m sure there’s a hammer and a medallion, of some alloy and cleverness, but living steel is a myth.”

“I told you I saw them. A metal unlike any I’ve ever beheld.” Shineboot stared upward as he said it, seeing in memory and not in the moment.

“And let me guess, they walked you under armed guard in single file through the treasury gallery and you saw them through steel bars as they lay in embroidered pillows, and you weren’t allowed to stop shuffling forward as you passed, let alone touch them.”

“That’s how it always is,” Hobblefoot said. “To let the most folk see.”

“They don’t want you looking too closely and finding out,” Sledgefist retorted.

“Who’s they?” Shineboot asked.

“The folk with the power, who want everything to stay the way it is. It’s always about power. Power and wealth. Hoards and holds.”

“I don’t see how a hammer and a medallion give anyone wealth and power.”

Sledgefist sighed, rolling his eyes.

“That’s because you’re still blind to it.”

Yorvig interceded before the dark storm gathering on Shineboot’s brow could burst forth in hasty speech.

“Enough, enough,” he said. “Maybe there’s living steel, maybe not. But we’re a long way from Deep Cut.”

“And it’s no Kara-Indal,” Hobblefoot muttered.

“It’s no Kara-Indal,” the others chimed.

A few minutes of silent work passed.

“I just like to think what it would have been like in the days of the Crippled King.”

“The Crippled King wasn’t a real person,” Sledgefist said, taking up the argument again. “He’s an idea, a way of living and thinking like true dwarves. It’s a story Auntie Tourmaline used to teach us.”

“Sledgefist, leave off,” Yorvig said.

“I’m still your elder,” Sledgefist retorted.

There they were arguing about ancient history mere hours after fighting for their lives. Yorvig could have kicked his brother.

"Who cares if there really was a dwarf by that name, anyway,” Sledgefist added. “Does it really matter?”

“It does to me,” Shineboot said, his voice low.

“Those stories are to teach us for the future. I came out here to strike my own wealth like Auntie Tourmaline taught, whether or not the Crippled King ever dimmed an adit. Here I have power over my own piece of stone.”

“Our own,” Hobblefoot said.

Sledgefist paused.

“Of course. Our own.” He nodded.

Yorvig sighed.

All four dwarves walked down to the weir the next day, as heavily armed as they had yet managed to be. Sledgefist had his new bone-tipped spear, while the others carried an assortment of mining tools. Yorvig limped along on his pointed crutch.

They had brought the net and managed to snag a carp from the weir, but they had truly gone to scout for ürsi. There was no sign of any. They rooted around in the area for the carcass of the beast that Shineboot had seen them carrying, but with no success. There were a few tracks where the ürsi claws had dug into loam or silt, but nothing more.

Yorvig didn’t say anything about it yet, but he was worried by the description of the beast. By Shineboot's report, the ürsi had trussed it on a pole and were carrying it between them. Upon questioning Shineboot more, Yorvig found that it was probably a fairly fresh kill. Where were they taking it? Ürsi might not mind spoiled meat as much as dwarves, but they hadn’t devoured it on the spot. They meant to transport it, and they’d been heading downstream, most likely. Yorvig didn’t like that, either. Any dwarves coming from Deep Cut would be traveling upstream.

There weren’t any good options for doing anything about it, either. A flock of geese flew overhead, stragglers in the migration south. It was time to hole up in their claim. They’d make regular visits to the weir so long as the water didn't freeze, but never alone. Not anymore.

Satisfied that there were no ürsi in the immediate vicinity, they dragged their dead foes to the river and dumped the bodies, letting them float downstream. The dwarves washed their hands and forearms vigorously after the bodies had floated away. Sledgefist had suggested impaling the bodies on sharpened stakes and leaving them there at the riverside as a warning, but Yorvig did not want to draw any more attention to the dell than need be. It still felt uncomfortable to gainsay his elder brother, but Hobblefoot agreed with Yorvig.

Yorvig was never fully certain when it was agreement in truth, or merely to goad their rival. At least he could use it.