For the remainder of the first day, they split into twos and hunted the eastern slope of the ridge with no success, camping behind the granite outcrop at their fire-ring that night.

The next day, Tonkil led the hunters in one group down into the valley west of the ridge. It was territory Yorvig had never seen before, but it looked much the same—the same mix of conifers, birches, and shrubs for which he had no names, the same protruding stone. The hunters watched the ground for tracks and moved with silence, hunched over to make their already low profiles even less. What the dwarves lacked in speed they made up for in steady patience. They came upon a game trail running north and south along the ridge, with tracks that looked fresh and new spring shoots trampled in the narrow line of packed leaves, pine needles, and loam.

Taking cover behind some rocks twenty-odd yards above the trail, they waited in silence as hours upon hours passed. The sun westered and then sank, and dusk came on. Yorvig kept expecting Tonkil to rise and lead them back to camp, but instead, the old dwarf whispered to keep watches in the order that they lay behind the stone, then he turned over, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. Yorvig would be second watch, so he simply stayed awake and thought, then took his watch. He saw nothing and heard nothing except distant hoots and calls of night birds, and once the crackling of twigs telling of the passing of a small creature nearby.

After his watch he slept for a time but still awoke before the arrival of dawn. He could see by the glint of Tonkil’s eyes that the old dwarf was awake too, lying on his back and staring up through the trees. Yorvig looked up through the branches and saw the brightness of the stars above. There were some in Deep Cut who would climb to the surface at night just to gaze upon the jewels of the heavens. Yorvig had never done so, but they did shine with vibrancy. They seemed so much closer and more impending here in the mountains, and somehow terrible as well, the exact opposite of safe, honest stone overhead. There was a cut of gemstone the dwarves prized, quite difficult to execute because of the number and complexity of facets, which they called the Star Cut. Gem cutters were not called masters if they could not execute a Star Cut, among many others.

The breeze was in their faces, blowing from the west across the valley and pressing against the mountainside. No sunshine would reach the western slope until midday, and the dawn came slowly, just pale hints, the gradual distinction of furthest trees, and the growth of color. It crept so languorously that from one moment to the next there seemed no difference, all just a world cast in early grey. There was a stir. The hunter on watch was motioning north. Along the ridge, picking their way along the trail, was a herd of the great beasts that Tonkil called elk. Yorvig realized the others had somehow readied their crossbows already, all aimed down at the gravelly dirt beneath them. Yorvig tried to load as quietly as he could, keeping behind the rocks. The dwarves waited in silence.

Tonkil leaned over to whisper to Yorvig.

“We shoot together but aim in order, the first at the first, the second at the second.” He made an “and so on” motion with his hand, and then a miner’s signal that meant “wait.” Yorvig grasped the concept.

The elk came nearer. Tonkil peered, his eyes just over the rock as the rest of them waited below the level of the stone. Yorvig had his crossbow cocked and he quietly loaded a bolt. He realized he had never really shot one at anything before, always giving that responsibility to others.

Tonkil raised his hand. Yorvig held his breath without meaning to, crouched and ready. The signal came and six dwarves rose above the stones and fired.

They couldn’t have hoped for a better opportunity. The execution was not perfect. Yorvig missed his elk, the bolt passing between its front and rear legs just under the belly. Another one of the dwarves sliced the flesh of an elk’s shoulder and chest open, but the bolt passed through. The beasts fled with snorts of fear, and at first Yorvig thought they had all missed. But he saw a bolt protruding from the side of a beast as it fled, and he knew that at least one was struck.

Tonkil made them wait for a fair while before they pursued. Four of the elk were mortally struck, but they had broken away from each other and had to be separately tracked by the trails of blood they left. A fifth, the one with the sliced shoulder, escaped. Tonkil would not let them pursue it far. There had been nine elk in all. Tonkil wasted no time. The hunters had carried sacks of salt in their packs. When they came upon one of the downed beasts, they put it swiftly out of its misery if it yet lived, opened its hide, gutted it, and reduced the carcass to usable parts: haunches, ribs, organs, and the greater marrow-bearing bones. They put the cuts back into the hide mixed with ample salt, piercing little holes in the bottoms of the hides before tying them closed.

“This is the last of the salt,” Tonkil said, as they finished the last beast. “I hope the herders bring more.”

Yorvig knew it. They had brought the last of the mine’s supply. It went so fast.

The dwarves hung the four bags on stout tree limbs, two to a limb. They took turns carrying them back up the ridge. Fluid drained through the punctures in the bottoms of the hides as the salt already began its work of drawing out the juices and preserving the meat. Hauling the great kill back up the ridge was difficult, and Yorvig felt the strain on his leg as he tried to hold up the limb with one arm and manage Treadfoot with the other. He felt the blood and whinges of pain pounding through his calf, but he refused to act the invalid. He would suffer it. The hunting party was in good spirits, for they had never taken so many beasts at once before. The hunters spoke more together on that breathless climb than Yorvig had yet heard, and when at last they reached their camp atop the ridge, they roasted salted organs on spits and ate their fill, the champion’s portion. All the while, the hide-sacks of meat hung from the trees, dripping as the salt preserved the meat from rotting.

After they had eaten and their stomachs were full, Tonkil looked to one of the hunters.

"Elkhorn, how about the skin?"

Elkhorn looked at Tonkil with a questioning expression.

"Have you run out of water, Tonkil?" he asked.

Yorvig wondered if Elkhorn had earned his name recently.

"The other skin," Tonkil said. Elkhorn hesitated, then lifted his hands as if to say, your choice, and pulled a waterskin out of his pack. He passed it to the dwarf on his right.

“It’s what you brought it for, isn't it?” Tonkil asked. The skin reached Tonkil, and he took a long swig, then handed it to Yorvig. He had smelled the sap whiskey as soon as Tonkil unstoppered the skin. Yorvig too, took a long swig, letting the liquor burn down slowly. It was good. All the others watched him. He hesitated a moment, then passed it on to the dwarf on his right, who himself took a snort.

“So what did you trade the brewer for it, Elkhorn?” Yorvig asked, leaning back against a tree trunk with his feet toward the fire. Elkhorn looked a Tonkil with raised eyebrows. The other dwarves also gave Tonkil expressions that meant "See?" as much as if they spoke it.

Tonkil grinned and turned to Yorvig. “It was a deer heart. The brewer is a glutton, and he trades for food. We are days away from the claim at a time.”

Such things were not meant to be happening in the mine. All the liquor was supposed to be rationed. If he couldn’t trust the brewer. . . The skin of sap whisky came around again to Yorvig and he took another swig and passed it on to Tonkil. He noticed the other hunters giving him careful glances.

“Tastes good after a kill,” Yorvig said. That seemed to relax Elkhorn and the others.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“That makes the rinlen one of us,” Tonkil said.

"I'll drink to that," said one of the hunters, taking his swig.

Yorvig knew that Tonkil was right; the hunters spent many days from the claim, but it put Yorvig in mind of yet more problems. No doubt, Tonkil had wished to apprise him of the situation, possibly also earning tacit approval for the hunter's bargaining. Honestly, there would be trade happening without Yorvig’s knowledge. That was unavoidable. And while the brewer had no right to make private stock of that which was brewed from the food stores of the mine, the other dwarves would want more even than the portions they were daily given. It was not as dire when it came to sap as to meat. Sap was more plentiful. What other arrangements were being made?

If they were willing to create a black market of liquor and food, they would be willing to do so with gems and gold. How could the owners know besides searches? Searches were simply not done in Deep Cut, but then coal was weighed in tons and gold in yothe, a subdivision of ounces or pounds. There were an idiosyncratic one-hundred-eleven yothe in a pound, mostly because dwarves of ages past used a shorthand of measurement based on ones and threes. A few lumps of coal meant nothing next to the trouble of searches. So it was with salt as well, which was worth little inside Deep Cut but was traded to human caravans from the inland duchies for hefty sums.

The miners were entitled to sums of gold as wages in proportion to the total mined weight. The gardeners expected gold, as did the brewer, and the rest of them whether or not they were digging at the gold. Since they were all paid kulhan wages, shouldn't what they produced belong to the claim? But it would be difficult to enforce honesty and not drive all the kulhan away.

They emptied the skin in four passes, ending where it began, with Elkhorn, who lifted up the sagging bag and shook and patted the last drops out.

“We’ll be going back to Glintridge before dawn, kaigs,” Tonkil said. Kaig meant something like comrade, but more familiar. “So sleep it off."

There were still a couple hours before nightfall, so Tonkil's directive to sleep was not urgent. Mostly they leaned near the fire, staring at the flames, arms slung over full bellies or propping up heads. The weather was pleasant as evening approached. Yorvig went to empty his bladder, but on his return trip he glanced out at Tonkil's slab of granite and decided to climb out on it again. Tipsy though he might be—not as used to the drink as he once was—it was no problem walking down the middle of the stone and sinking into a cross-legged sit. Close to the ground and stocky as a general rule, dwarves rarely had much issue with balance. From the end of the granite protrusion, he could watch the evening advance across the mountains. He straightened his bad leg out in front of him. It was still uncomfortable after the day’s exertions, a dull throb. He rubbed it absently as he looked across the valley.

“How’s the leg?” Tonkil asked.

Yorvig hadn’t noticed him approach. The older dwarf settled down cross-legged next to him.

“Hmm?" he asked looking over. "Fine.”

“It’s good there is a Hobblefoot already, or you might have a new name.” Tonkil smirked. It was obvious he too was feeling the effects of the liquor.

Yorvig gave a huff of breath. He’d been blankly staring and he was finding it hard to redirect to a new topic.

“Hobblefoot has had that name since before his rhundal, and for many years he hated it. His foot healed long ago.”

Yorvig had started to give up any hope that his own leg would regain its previous strength. The wound had closed, but something was not knitted right within.

“I mean no offense,” Tonkil said. “That is not how folk talk of it. . .” Tonkil nodded towards Yorvig’s leg. “You make no excuse of it.”

“I did not know folk talked of it.”

“They are battle wounds. You are wielder of Treadfoot and slayer of ürsi. We kulhan will talk of such things.”

“Do you mock me?” Yorvig said, looking over at him.

“Not at all. Besides myself, none of these kulhan have ever seen an ürsi up close, let alone fought one. Yet you have time and again. The stories are told, and told with honor. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Yorvig thought back to the horrifying moments of that first ürsi attack upriver, alone and far from help. Mostly it was an image of the beasts' faces coming at him, their fangs and suppurated grey skin. . . For a moment he thought he smelled them again, and he puffed breath out through his nose. If that was honor. . .

“I’m sorry to remind you,” Tonkil said. “I know.”

“At least folk still call me Chargrim.” Yorvig frowned. “They do, don’t they?”

“Mostly they call you rinlen, but in stories, yes, Chargrim Ürsi-Hammer. Well, except. . . ”

Yorvig raised his eyebrow.

“There are some who still think the ürsi a fabrication. A deterrent.”

Yorvig shook his head but did not reply.

“Eh, the name Chargrim suits you, anyway,” Tonkil continued. “You can be a bit. . . dour.” He snorted at Yorvig’s blank expression. “Eh, I’m just teasing. Let an old dwarf tease.”

“Names are strange things,” Yorvig offered. He wasn't upset. Somehow, Tonkil put him at ease, as did the drink.

“Ay, to put it mildly.”

“And what have you to say of yours? Is it so folk will fear what is strange?”

Yorvig had been curious for quite some time. Tonkil pulled on his grey beard, twisting it between his fingers.

“It is my true name,” he said at length. “My uncle was the only other who knew it. He died in the flight from the Long Downs. We had spoken to each other in true names for years, alone in our claim. Many have given me other names. Even here, there are those who refuse to call me Tonkil. This is what I call, myself. This is how I choose to be in the world.”

It was an odd thing, how a dwarf clung to his true name all the days of his life, carrying it since his parents whispered it in his ears as a young gilke still clinging at his mother's skirts, even though he so rarely ever spoke it or heard it spoken. Tonkil's name must be old, for Yorvig did not know the meaning. It felt too strange to ask.

"Why do you think folk should know you fully?”

“I’m not afraid of them or of the world.”

“Not all fear is foolish.”

“Is it not?” Tonkil asked.

Yorvig thought about that. For a moment, he wasn’t sure. Fear had kept him from preparations, and it had caused preparations. It seemed more how one responded to it.

“So you are Named of Strength?”

“I take no such creed,” he said. “When I left Deep Cut the first time, I had never heard of that sect. But there is much that I agree with, I admit. The old ways of thinking are not always the best.”

And yet, Yorvig thought, no matter how much the Named of Strength wanted to set themselves apart from the older way of thinking, their ideas were still a reaction to them. The old philosophy remained their foundation. In a sense, they were just etching separate sides of the same blade—whether to go join their forebeards, or to delve their own hall beyond the veil.

Yorvig thought it strange, for what did it matter for a dwarf’s deeds to count against their dead forebeards, or how was that fair?

In his mind, Yorvig heard his old mine master say again: “A mine is not about fair.”

What was the purpose of attributing the deeds of the younger to the halls of the elder, other than to force elders to take responsibility for the young? Yorvig had always felt that was the reason for it; that the older generation could not look at the new and pretend they’d sprung from the rock unshaped.

Tonkil glanced at Yorvig.

“I don’t hold to all of it, the Named of Strength belief,” he said, and as if he saw the struggle in Yorvig’s mind. “I do not worry about whether I dig my own hall or go to my forebeards. I simply wish to go bearing the true name of my heart.”

Yorvig was stilling rubbing his leg, slowly and thoughtfully.

He could relate to Tonkil's words, though he had no desire to announce his true name. Whether to dig their own holds or to go to their forebeards, their deeds would follow them. Their folk did not sit in halls of crystal drinking and eating in plenty. They carried spears and faced constant death. They must wage lives of strife. There was beauty in battling against the foe, wearisome though it was. Who did they laud in their stories and call great, except those who overcame and led their folk onward? How could they have been great without tribulation? Fire, hammer, and anvil forged a dwarf of mettle. There was beauty in labor and not always sitting at ease. There was beauty in uprightness. With a belly full of food and spirit, sitting high above the valleys, he could recognize the goodness of fine craft, warm mead, hot food, and fellowship as well. He could even ignore the ache in his leg.

That much, Yorvig could understand.

But which choice before Yorvig led to goodness? What victory did he wish from life? As he sat there above the world, he did not think of gold or authority; he thought of a future in a warm hold with gilke and gilna upon a woven rug. He knew then that the traditions were not wrong. Children would add legacy and riches to his hall. So it would always be for those blessed with offspring and children's children. It made sense. Their folk was a chain back to the beginning. He wanted to be a link. He did not deserve it. Nor did Savvyarm deserve what he got.

And he knew who he wanted to share it with.

He had never wanted all this, not truly. He'd wanted to save himself and his companions. It had all become so much more.

“What is that?” Tonkil pointed. Far down in the valley, small shapes of varied hues moved upon the far riverbank in the shadows of evening. Yorvig squinted and leaned forward. Other shapes appeared among the smaller, walking upright. Dwarves. The realization hit them both at the same time.

It was a herd and herders. They were watering at a low-point in the riverbank. They sprang to their feet, the dull sensation of liquor gone.

“I must be back before they arrive!” Yorvig said.