The next morning, Yorvig found Tonkil waiting for him at the opening to the private drift where the owners had their stoneholds.

“Do you want me to join the miners, now?” he asked.

“Have you hunted?”

“Many times,” Tonkil said.

“We must have constant hunting now.”

Tonkil nodded.

“You said you had been in the Red Ridges. Do you know the beasts here?”

“I’ve spent many years in the western parts,” he said. “I had just returned to Deep Cut with a pack train from a Red Ridges claim when your brother made such a stir.”

“And you were not bound to go back?”

“No. I worked for the merchant, not the claim. I only agree to one trip at a time. An old habit.”

“What kind of beast climbs trees. Weigh a few hundred pounds. Black, with sharp teeth and wide paws.” Yorvig held up his hands as if he could somehow demonstrate the shape of paws.

“Snout like this?” Tonkil made a cone around his face with his hands.

“Ay, yes.”

“That’s a bear.”

“I’ve heard of bears, but I did not know what they looked like. It was not so vicious as what the stories say.”

“They are small in these mountains,” he said. “But they can account for you if they catch you unprepared, or if you approach their young in springtime.”

“What are the beasts with the horns?” Yorvig asked.

It turned out there were a few types of beasts with horns. Tonkil identified elk, moose, deer, and many other small creatures Yorvig had seen and could describe but had no names for. Yorvig felt a hesitation in asking the dwarf to do the hard duty he had in mind. Then again, Tonkil had come to a claim in the wilds, and hard duty could be expected. To suggest he wasn’t capable of it would be an insult.

“You are going to lead the hunting parties,” Yorvig said. Tonkil pursed his lips.

“Is hunting distasteful to you?” Yorvig asked.

“No, not the hunting. It’s—” Tonkil raked his fingers through his gray beard. “—It’s that I don’t like much to be in charge.”

Yorvig thought about it. He liked Tonkil, even though he barely knew him. But he couldn’t account for the personal inclinations of everyone in the claim. There was survival that came first. Nor could Yorvig be out of the mine constantly to oversee the hunting. Sledgefist had a point there.

“You are now the hunt-master,” he said. “What’s the best way to go about it?”

Tonkil sighed, still running his fingers through his beard.

“We’ll hunt out this area soon, if you haven’t already,” he said. “Best way then is to take salt and make a temporary camp for a few days at a time.”

“We’ll run out of salt eventually.”

“You’ll have to be getting regular trade in it. Smoking isn’t as good or as quick as salt to keep the meat.”

“How many yowgan do you need?”

“Five is best, I think.”

“You’ll be checking the weir.”

“If I were you, I’d get to the other side of the river, build a weir straight across with a bridge overtop. Have stone footings. Then we could hunt both sides of the river.”

Yorvig thought about it. They had the numbers to do it in good time, now. He nodded.

“When we are done with the new drifts and chambers and the thaw comes, we will,” Yorvig said. “Go to each of the cadres and pick your dwarves from among those who have not apprenticed. You can tell the chiefs I sent you. There are crossbows you will have. The hunting must begin at once.”

Tonkil took a deep breath, nodded acknowledgment, and headed down the drift.

Beyond Tonkil's retreating form, Yorvig saw the three gardeners following Onyx into the stairway alcove. She was wearing her veil again. He wondered how she was faring with her duties. Putting her in charge of the cultivators would give him an opportunity to speak with her. It was also the right choice, he reminded himself. It was best to keep everyone busy and occupied, especially the owners.

That day, Yorvig took stock of all they had, carrying around rolls of birch bark and tallying scores, using the mine runes that all miners were taught. Mine runes were sufficient for simple labeling of supplies if not for actual writing. With all this two months ago, they would have been provisioned beyond hope. But two months ago they were only eight. Now they were fifty-nine dwarves beneath the stone, which meant over a thousand pounds of food a week to keep them in decent condition.

Beyond doing sums and checking inventory, Yorvig toured the new delvings. By the end of the first week, Warmcoat’s cadre had delved the treasury hold in the rock at the end of the owners drift, and then hung an extra stone door at the end of the drift itself. They had also cut the third new drift. Under close supervision, they moved the smelted gold ingots within, as well as other valuables—the salt, in particular. The mine-smith fashioned a simple lock for the door and gave Yorvig the key. It was nothing a dwarf could not reverse-engineer given a short time, but it would deter theft of opportunity, at least. These precautions were not unusual, nor would they make the other dwarves feel untrusted. No one in Deep Cut kept precious metals or gems in the open, either.

Sledgefist’s crew had finished cutting the workshop drift and were working on the fourth actual workshop chamber. The smelters had requested to build their own smelters in the bare workshops and were busy at work. Likewise the brewer had kept busy, at one point arguing with the new smith over the use of forge tools—a disagreement Yorvig stamped out with little pleasure. When the smith refused to let the brewer use his own snips, Yorvig told the smith to make a new set of forge tools for claim use, and that until they had another forge built, the brewer could trade shifts with the smith as needed.

Hobblefoot’s crew dug the second drift for private stoneholds, sectioning off miner’s ten-by-ten sections. The kulhan already started marking their sections of stone and working them after their sixteen hour shifts. In their eagerness, they made rapid progress, barely sleeping.

Those were days of earnest labor among the dwarves. With his detachment of four hunters, Tonkil even brought in meat that week and set up snares and traps along the river for smaller creatures. Yorvig heard that Tonkil had refused to pick dwarves, instead asking for volunteers. It was somewhat surprising that four wished to walk the surface, but the more he thought of it, the more he suspected that they were taking advantage of the opportunity to scout the land for their own claims. Hopefully, they kept their year-long oaths. He wondered what Tonkil meant to gain by coming to the claim. There could be layers of answers there, beneath the one he’d already given. Tonkil assured Yorvig that adding more dwarves to the hunting party would not guarantee better results, not without splitting up and venturing much further. That was dangerous, but Yorvig knew it may yet come to that.

At the end of that week, Yorvig felt a little restless. He hadn’t swung a pick or a hammer, though axe and saw he had used. Yorvig refused to be idle or avoid labor just because of his leg. It bothered him, but he would not play the part of an invalid. It did take time to plan and direct the doings, though, and he was constantly pulled between many needs. Part of his planning he spent with Tonkil, envisioning the bridge and great weir. Tonkil assured him they could manage it, even with the river partially covered by ice. Yorvig decided they would build their bridge over the narrow gorge in the river directly south of the dell, and then expand the weir in the wider portion upstream where their weir currently lay.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“There are fish that run up the river in autumn,” Tonkil told him. “You need to leave an avenue where fish can get through, even if you catch many of them.” Taking Tonkil's advice, they planned the weir accordingly.

In all their mining through the winter, the mullock pile of rock below the adit entrance had grown deep and wide, heaping half as high as the adit tower and stretching down the dell slope. They would use the broken stone to build a causeway into the river, with channels and weirpools at intervals. They would likely have to repair it year by year, but such was the way of things when dealing with water and flooding.

As the second week of work began, Yorvig put himself in the middle of it. Using the sleds that the expedition had brought, two cadres hauled stone to the river, broke the ice, and started the causeway while another cadre laid stone footings at the side of the gorge and counterbalanced cut timber, working their way across the rushing narrows. With so many working, progress was swift. It took them only four days to settle the wooden bridge onto stone footings on the far side of the river. The bridge was at least twenty feet above the frigid water pouring through the gorge. Then all three cadres worked on the causeways, able now to extend from both shores. Yorvig did not make them wade into the cold waters to make the weir pools, and he made sure those at the ends of the stone causeways were secured with ropes.

One afternoon, Yorvig was crossing the bridge back to the near bank when he saw two dwarves approaching from downstream, staring at the kulhan coming and going across the bridge as they hauled stone for the causeway. The two dwarves were heavy-laden with packs and tools. There was no question that they were prospectors. Yorvig waited as they approached, then hailed them.

“Welcome to Quartz Dell,” he said.

“Quartz Dell?” one of them asked. The two dwarves looked like brothers, with the same curly hair and beards hued toward rust.

“That is the name of this claim.”

“Do you know where the Glintridge is?"

"I have not heard of it."

"It is the claim that Sledgefist spoke of.”

Yorvig smirked. Glintridge?

“This is the claim. We call it Quartz Dell. Have you come to join us?”

The two dwarves shared a quick glance.

“No. We’re going on. So this—” they pointed up at the mountain ridge above the dell “—is the claim?”

“Ay, it is.”

The dwarf who had been speaking nodded.

“We’re going on, then.”

“That stone crop and its connecting shoulders and valleys belong to us by rights,” Yorvig said, pointing at the rocky promontory atop the east ridge above the dell.

The dwarves nodded.

“Have you gone far up stream?” one asked.

“A few miles only. We have been busy here.”

“We’ll be off, then.”

“Be wary,” Yorvig said. “There are ürsi in these ridges.”

The two dwarves looked at Yorvig as if he had just warned them of a bogey from an old tale. Yorvig squinted.

“If you are in need, come here and follow the trails up into the dell. You will find the adits there.”

They thanked Yorvig with customary half-bows and moved on.

The water behind the causeways piled up and rose up the riverbanks, but they had left enough channels for foamy white water to flow through so that it did not flood. The weirs themselves would wait until after the spring floods, but at least the hunters could easily cross the bridge and use long nets to scoop fish as they came through the narrow gaps. That was good, because they were barely feeding the dwarves a solid meal per day, mostly stews with too much water. But soon the sap would run. There were ample maples and birches on the far side of the river, and the brewer was out to inspect them. The gardeners crossed as well, filling up sleds with the undisturbed loam there.

The next week, the miners finished the workshops and store-rooms. There was great excitement as they turned to delving for ore. The kulhan exclaimed as their picks opened the seams of gold-laden quartz for the first time. Laughter rang in the drifts that week, despite the poor rations. Yorvig returned to decision-making as they planned new stopes and drifts to follow the branching seams and veins. They hit a new pocket of hematite, which Hobblefoot suspected was just a continuation of the hematite pocket they’d struck in the Low Adit. They found a few amethysts, but more brown than purple at the current level. The smelters fired, and new five-yothe ingots went into the vault daily, it seemed.

It was a busy spring. On the fifth week, warmer weather came and the sap ran all at once. Yorvig detached ten kulhan to aid the brewer, making sure they kept plenty to boil to syrup and didn't turn it all to beer and liquor. The sweet smells filled the dell and drifted into the mine. All this raised spirits, for even the raw sap was sweet and brought light to the eyes and new strength to the swing of pick and hammer.

Yorvig saw little of Onyx. She wore her veil each time. He stopped in at the terraces once, but she was not there. He checked on the preparations of the cultivators, and Wornstalk made request for miners to aid them. They also confirmed—just by looking at the seeds—that the plants Onyx had found during the hunting expedition the previous fall were well-known and cultivated in Deep Cut. The cultivators also had requests for the width and depth of new beds, holding back from openly criticizing those already there. Yorvig understood the correction, but he let it go. They knew better; he was no gardener. The cultivators he gave choice over the design of new terraces, forbidding only that they go closer to the clifftop or closer to the ground than the terraces that already existed. They must go east or west. He detached ten miners to dig them, and still the ore delvings proceeded with speed and vigor. The ridge was being transformed so quickly after all their slow and painstaking labor. It was almost dizzying to watch it.

After a warm spring day spent sap-collecting with the brewer, Yorvig sat in his private chamber with Hobblefoot, Sledgefist, Warmcoat, and Greal clustered around him. During this time, Greal had been cutting the best specimens of amethyst, quartz-crystal and a few worthy garnets. He’d even worked with Onyx to set some stones in simple gold rings of twisted wire, promising that doing so would increase the value beyond the gold or gems separately.

The five ate their food away from the kulhan, taking the opportunity to relax and talk more as friends than as their respective roles in the mine. It was also a chance to plan and report. There was much to say about the relative skills and moods of the various dwarves now breathing abundant life into the ridge.

“Does Onyx eat alone tonight?” Hobblefoot asked Greal.

He shrugged.

“My sister,” he said, and then paused, looking for words. “My sister does as she will. I cannot direct her. She was always difficult. Here it is impossible.”

“If she would consider my offer—” Sledgefist began, obviously irritated at the mention of Onyx, but Greal raised a hand and cut him off.

“I told you, I will not discuss it more. I will not favor you or Hobblefoot. She has received three open offers of marriage already from the kulhan. Just from those fool enough to ask.”

“Compared to us, they’re paupers!” Sledgefist snapped. “Doesn’t she realize, in five years time, if these seams continue, we could be as rich as any dwarves in Deep Cut.”

Hobblefoot’s brow darkened, and he’d stopped chewing even though Yorvig knew he had a mouthful of fish that he hadn’t swallowed. Nevertheless, Hobblefoot held his tongue.

“Only we fellow owners have a chance, now,” Sledgefist added. Then he glanced at Yorvig and his anger was broken by the flicker of a jest. “Well, except you.”

Yorvig didn’t need reminding, but he too held his tongue.

“She has accepted no offers from the kulhan,” Greal said. “That I know of. She has thanked them for their ask, that is all.”

“It’s the principle of it,” Sledgefist said, chewing on a new bite. “What, does she seek a member of the council? They are too old for her, and all married as well.”

“Maybe you should look elsewhere,” Yorvig said. “Both of you. Like you said, brother. You could soon be a wealthy dwarf by any standards. Go and choose a maid who will not give you such fits.”

“Eh.” Sledgefist shrugged. “There’s something to be said for a challenge. I’m not done yet.” He grinned at Yorvig, and Yorvig tried to grin back. It felt more like a grimace. In the past, he had pitied Onyx for being in some part tricked into coming to this claim in the wilds with ürsi and hardship aplenty. But for the first time, he felt sorry for Onyx as a maid, for having to deal with all of them. It was a new thought.

Still. A dwarf had to forge his destiny in the world, and a maid could to some degree select hers. It was easy for a maid to find apprenticeship with an honored trade-wif and spend her long years working with her hands. Or more likely, she could just marry into a rich hold and know no want. Few dwarves had such easy choices.

“I saw two prospectors the other day,” Yorvig said, seeking to change the topic. “While we worked on the weir.”

“There will be plenty more,” Sledgefist said.

“Maybe there already have been,” Warmcoat added. “We’re not always along the river, and not all would pass by this spot or stop in.”

“They didn’t seem to take my warning about ürsi seriously.”

Sledgefist grimaced and lowered his wooden bowl.

“Some folk in Deep Cut. . . mostly the younger ones. Some thought we were telling tales to keep away other prospectors," he said. "At least, that’s what Shineboot thought. I didn’t notice it, myself.”

“But there have been ürsi sightings in the west parts of the ridges,” Yorvig said.

“Not for many years. And no one ever heard of fighting like we’ve had here," Hobblefoot said. "We didn't, before we came."

Yorvig thought about it. There could be scores, even hundreds of dwarves heading to the ridges without taking the situation seriously.

“Honestly, I’m not sure we have much more to fear," Greal offered. "We made them bleed right enough when they attacked.”

Yorvig frowned. Had they? Or had something else happened that the others wished to forget. . .

He thought of Tonkil's words. It was not assault they must fear, but starvation.

Even if they were safe in Quartz Dell, scattered prospectors in the hills would be anything but.