The tower was progressing, and the weather had warmed. Spring was ending. The sun shone down at midday, and Yorvig sweated on the final tier of the new tower. Nearby, Hobblefoot’s great treadwheel crane creaked as it turned. It was a wheel of wood, built to fit two dwarves within it, and as they walked forward, it reeled the rope that hoisted rubble from the mullock piles or dressed stone from the masons for the outer and inner walls. When the tower was completed, the crane would lift whatever goods needed raised to the level of the High Adit.
Over the previous weeks, construction had reached the height of the adit and exceeded it. They had designed the tower with ürsi in mind. The last part of the plan devised was the bridge and the roof. The roof would be peaked and spiked to prevent anything from easily breaching it from the ridge above. There would be no access to the inside from the top, except the roof be ripped apart. The roof itself would extend above a stone-enclosed walkway to the High Adit. Two arches supported the walkway, suspended far above the ground of the dell. Within the walkway, the floor would be fashioned of wood, and at the working of a mechanism, the planks could collapse, plunging anything within to death or maiming below.
The tower and its narrow loopholes for the plying of crossbows would give the dwarves the ability to dominate anything within the outer walls. The dell was hardly recognizable from that first time Yorvig had seen it. Yet food remained the greatest challenge. Even if they could protect the flocks within the walls and in the fold, it didn't solve the problem of feeding them. Without pasture or the ability to forage, the mangelwurzels could be diced or mashed and fed to the flocks for a time, but only for a time. While they had significant beds for gardens terraced up the back of the dell and inset into the cliff, they would have to clear-cut the riversides and plant whole fields of mangelwurzels to truly support the flocks through the winter on vegetables alone. All would be different were it not for the ürsi. Some believed they had bested them, taught them a lesson, and were safe.
Yorvig could not hope for that.
“It’s coming along,” Shineboot said, as he had said for days now. He could practically smell the end of the job. “What’ll be next for my dwarves?”
Yorvig had a number of ideas, it was just a matter of priority.
“Well—” Yorvig started, but he didn’t get the chance to continue. There was yelling down in the dell.
It was coming from a group of dwarves near the tailings pond. He couldn’t make out what was happening, but there was jostling and others were running toward the group from among Hobblefoot’s engineers at the Low Adit. Besides that, about ten sheep and a number of lambs fleeing up the dell.
“What is it?” Shineboot asked.
Yorvig shrugged. Thrushbeard and two of the dwarves on guard duty were heading toward the confusion at a quick pace. They arrived, pushing toward the center of the knot.
“We’ll know soon enough.” Yorvig looked up and squinted at the bright sky. “But I’d rather be under stone to deal with it. Tell them I’m waiting in my reception chamber.”
With that, he climbed down the stone stair to the level of the High Adit bridge, hopped over the narrow gap where they’d had to cut away the end of the old bridge to make room, and walked into the rock. Cool air flowed over him, and he felt the tension of the daylight fall away in the dimness of the adit. A year ago, Yorvig would have rushed into the thick of the disturbance, but with over two hundred dwarves at the claim, now, he could not attend to every such matter. If Hobblefoot’s engineers had an issue, they would go to Hobblefoot first, and if necessary, Hobblefoot would come to him. The same was true of those in rotation for guard duty under Thrushbeard. If the herders had a problem. . . Well, they would come straight to Yorvig. They did not have a rinlen. The families looking after the sheep and goats and pigs had done so for generations and knew their business. Still, Crookleg most commonly spoke for them.
As Yorvig reached his reception chamber, he was pondering over whether herders in Deep Cut had rinlen. He’d never heard of a herder rinlen. Did they order themselves in some other way? Some meager flocks were kept down in the canyons, mostly for dairy. More sizable flocks grazed on the eastern edge of the waste, beneath the western slopes of the Red Ridges where sparse grasses grew. The council had once threatened to confiscate flocks, but so far as he knew the families owned their own. He’d never thought to ask the herders much about their ways beyond what needed attention in the claim.
It did not take long before the knock came at Yorvig’s door. He sighed. So it had come quickly to him. Part of his reasoning for going out of sight was to encourage the rinlen to handle it themselves. It had not worked this time.
“Enter.”
Thrushbeard opened and came through the door, followed by one of the dwarves on guard-duty who still carried his spear. He had to dip the spear to get it through the door. With his other hand, the guard clasped onto the arm of a herder. Yorvig knew him by face, but it was also plain that he was a herder because of the long mantles with deep hoods they wore to keep the sun from their faces, being outdoors so often to watch the flocks. The herder’s nose was bloody, clotting in his mustache. Behind the guard and the herder came another dwarf, red-faced but apparently unhurt. Last of all, Hobblefoot entered.
Whatever it was, it involved altogether too many folk.
“This herder struck Boltring,” Thrushbeard said, wasting no time. He gestured to the bloodied herder, who squinted at Yorvig.
Boltring. That was the name of the dwarf with Hobblefoot, one of the engineers. Yorvig was secretly thankful Thrushbeard had called the engineer by name, because he wouldn’t have remembered it.
At that moment, Crookleg rushed into the chamber unbidden.
“I won’t have this dwarf hauled off like a criminal!” Crookleg shouted. Hobblefoot turned on him.
“Then he should learn not to strike one of my engineers!”
“Enough!” Yorvig yelled, moving to stand too quickly and sending a spasm up his leg. Crookleg and Hobblefoot stared each other down.
“Who here witnessed the events?”
Boltring raised his hand.
“Anyone who was not directly involved?” Yorvig asked.
No one spoke. The bloodied herder stared straight ahead. The guard kept a tight grip on his arm, hitching up the herder’s shoulder.
“Let him go,” Yorvig said to the guard. “And you can wait outside.”
The guard looked reluctant but he let go of the herder, dipped his spear again, and stepped through the door.
“Shut the door, Thrushbeard.”
Thrushbeard obeyed and stood with his back to the closed door.
“So I understand that no one here saw it but the two involved?”
“I did not,” Hobblefoot said. “But Boltring is a trustworthy fellow.”
“As is Farstock,” Crookleg said.
Blows were serious business to dwarves. Such things caused reprisals. A blow for a blow. But it was hard to keep it at just one. Things had a way of escalating and causing feuds. In mines, a rinlen had the right to punish miners harshly—beating with a rod was not uncommon, so long as it caused no permanent injury. Most miners knew better than to start trouble. How was it with the herders?
“As the only apparently injured dwarf here,” Yorvig said, looking at Farstock. “Tell me what happened.”
“We let the ewes and lambs out to graze today. I was leading my nursing ewes to the pond to drink,” Farstock didn’t make eye contact, but by the set of his jaw and the tone of his voice, he was still hot from whatever had happened. “They—” he jutted a thumb at Boltring “—were hammering and I told them to stop. It was spooking the ewes, and they can trample the lambs.”
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“We were fitting a new vent bellows, and we were using the water to test for leaks,” Hobblefoot said. “Outside the adit.”
“Go on,” Yorvig said to Farstock.
“I told him to wait until I was done or take it somewhere else,” Farstock said, motioning to Boltring.
“I don’t take orders from herders,” Boltring said.
“He told me drink piss somewhere else,” Farstock snapped.
Boltring smirked at that, and Farstock looked like he might lunge but Yorvig motioned for his attention again.
“Keep talking.”
“I ignored the worthless shit and brought the ewes down as best I could.”
“He drove them at me,” Boltring said.
“You were at the waterside!”
“I was working!”
Farstock looked straight at Yorvig:
“He kicked a lamb.” The herder was trembling, now. Yorvig was glad there didn’t appear to be any weapons in the chamber.
Boltring folded his arms and pressed his lips together.
“Should have known to keep away from me.”
“I hit him and I’d do it again,” Farstock said.
“I will not have a herder striking one of my dwarves,” Hobblefoot growled. “He needs punished.”
“And I will not have our flocks abused,” Crookleg interjected, staring straight at Hobblefoot. “We will strike any dwarf who does as much.”
“I am an owner of this claim! We bought those herds!”
“And I can leave,” Crookleg said. "So can all the herders. Oaths are forfeit before injustice."
Yorvig flinched at the threat. Family and friendship aside, he could replace Hobblefoot easier than Crookleg and the herders.
"It was a beast," Hobblefoot said. "Do you think that striking a beast is the same as striking a dwarf? We eat the kulkur."
“Enough,” Yorvig said. “Why does it look like Farstock took the worst of the exchange?”
“He had friends,” Farstock said. “Or it would be different.”
Yorvig held up his hand before Boltring could retort. He glanced at Thrushbeard. He liked the dwarf, but he highly doubted Thrushbeard had gotten to the bottom of the story. Too little time had passed. Instead, he’d hauled up the herder under guard, leaving the engineer free. Hobblefoot may have had something to do with that as well. This was not merely a problem of two dwarves coming to blows. That could be solved easily enough. The bigger problem was ensuring the herders did nothing rash that could jeopardize them all.
“Crookleg,” Yorvig said. “I spoke to you a week ago. You’d said something about shearing. Has that been done?”
“No,” he said. “We had planned the Spring Keeping for three days hence.”
That was the name, Yorvig remembered once Crookleg said it. They waited until the end of Spring to be sure the cold weather had passed before they sheared the wool.
“What all is involved in the Spring Keeping?”
“Many things. Shearing. Trimming hooves. Worming.”
“I confess I know little about herding. Does it take much labor?”
“Much.”
“Will it take many days?”
“Two for the bulk.”
“I suppose you could use help.”
“Ay, we could.” Crookleg squinted, as if unsure what was happening.
“Can it be started tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Is there any reason not?”
“No, if the weather holds, it could begin tomorrow at dawn.”
Yorvig stood up, placing both hands on the stone table. It was still bare except for the parchment from Eldenhaul.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I will work with you. As will Hobblefoot, Thrushbeard, and Boltring.”
“What?” Hobblefoot asked.
“Will the lamb die?” Yorvig asked Farstock, ignoring Hobblefoot. He did not want to argue with an owner in front of kulhan.
“I don’t know.”
“It ran away!” Boltring said.
“A dying sheep will run,” Crookleg said. “Time will tell if it is injured inside.”
“The flocks belong to the claim,” Yorvig said. “I do not expect our possessions to be kicked. If the lamb dies, Boltring, it will come from your pay or your food. Whichever is dearest to us. From now on, I wish to hear of any interference with the flocks directly, so I can take personal interest in the discipline.” He turned to Farstock. “As to the strikes, it looks like they have been returned thrice over. Leave it there. If I hear of further reprisals from this, I will be angrier than I already am.”
He let that judgment sit for a moment before proceeding:
“Now everyone go except Hobblefoot. I need his advice about a situation.”
Yorvig didn’t want Hobblefoot’s advice about anything in particular. It was said in courtesy. When the door closed behind the others, he spoke before Hobblefoot could manage it first.
“We could lose every dwarf in your cadre, but if the herders go we will starve this winter.”
“We are engineers,” Hobblefoot said. “We should not take disrespect from shit-shovelers who lounge about all day watching beasts chew their cud! And I am not working with them. Coddle them all you like, but don’t involve me.”
"Your brother is married to Crookleg's daughter!"
"I advised him against it, but even so, seniority matters not in this claim anymore. Even so, a maid might be a herder, but a wif is a wif. I need acknowledge no relation."
Yorvig sat back down heavily in his chair. He was tired. For a long while, he just leaned back, picking at the table between his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed at Hobblefoot. The dwarves of Deep Cut did not think highly of those who lived out in the canyons or spent their days on the surface. But Yorvig had learned that survival mattered more than—whatever this was. Sighing, he spoke:
“I have declared before the kulhan that my rinlen will join me in this labor. Do you wish to undermine me in front of our kulhan?”
“Sometimes you go too far.”
“Maybe you went too far,” Yorvig said. “Too far from Deep Cut. Too far from East Spire. Too far from anything. And I followed. Maybe we are the fools, gathering more fools to ourselves.”
Hobblefoot looked up at the chamber ceiling.
“I have wondered,” he said, shrugging. “I have wondered if. . . we have not made a mistake.”
Yorvig noticed the hesitation and the choice of the word "we" instead of "you." He didn't think Hobblefoot was referring to the same mistake.
“You can go back to Deep Cut and find a bride,” Yorvig said. “Do whatever you will. There is nothing to hinder you. The gold will open any door.”
“I know." Hobblefoot turned his body away, looking at the blank stone wall. "But without hindrances, what is there to do? What do I do, now?”
Yorvig was shocked at the tone in Hobblefoot’s voice. He had never heard him speak like this—rarely saw anything but certainty in that face. It felt like hunting wild game, as if at any moment Hobblefoot might spook and flee back into his usual demeanor.
“Do you not enjoy your labor?” Yorvig asked cautiously.
“It is not that,” Hobblefoot shook his head.
“Why not go find a maid and win her.”
“There was a maid I wanted,” Hobblefoot said, then held up his hands as if to ward off argument. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I am sorry for how it was,” Yorvig said, but did not linger. “I am looking for someone to establish trade with East Spire or Deep Cut. Or to dig a southern supply claim.”
“Maybe. Maybe I will go to East Spire. There are maids there, they say.”
“You could be back by fall if you meet success.”
Hobblefoot nodded.
“Maybe.”
“And tomorrow—” Yorvig said.
Hobblefoot met his eyes.
“We will meet in the dell at dawn. Consider it a hindrance.”
“You little shit,” Hobblefoot said, shaking his head.
Yorvig straightened in his chair.
"Cousin—"
“I will on one condition," Hobblefoot interrupted. "Your brother joins us. I will not be open to ridicule.”
Yorvig wished Hobblefoot had phrased that differently. Even a rinlen could not give him a condition to obedience any more than a kulhan to a rinlen. To acquiesce was a weakness in authority, and that would be a seed best left unplanted. Who knew what the future could bring? The claim was far from stable. At the same time, it did not feel right to Yorvig to treat Hobblefoot as strictly subservient, either. They were more than that.
Hobblefoot seemed to misinterpret Yorvig’s hesitation
“Or is your brother better than we are?”
“Let all the owners join us,” Yorvig said.
“Let them.”
Shineboot merely frowned when Yorvig told him that he would be assisting his wif's father with the other owners in the morning. Warmcoat gave no more than a muttered complaint when he told him that all the owners would be present. Greal squinted but did not argue as there were kulhan nearby. Khlif he sent to bed early as the dwarf normally would not be awake in the morning; his cadre worked the opposite shift.
Yorvig found his brother eating.
“You want me to what?” Sledgefist asked, shocked when Yorvig told him.
“Ay, yes, unless you are daintier than Hobblefoot and are not prepared to make an example for the claim like he is.” Yorvig hated to play into their conflict, but a tool was a tool.
Sledgefist frowned.
“I did not say that!”
“Dawn tomorrow,” Yorvig said, and left him.
It was evening when Yorvig returned to their private hold and found Onyx within, seated at her private workshop table, delicately working a bit of gold-wire lace with tiny pincers of steel. Yorvig was always amazed at how delicately and uniformly she could draw out the wire, so that it looked almost like thread. She had ensured their new hold had a workshop where she could see to her craft in privacy and without distraction. She did not look up as Yorvig entered. Striper lay atop a shelf, watching Onyx’s hands. When not hunting, Striper could typically be found in Onyx's workshop, now. Yorvig had made sure Khlif’s dwarves had cut an access into the hold for her.
“The owners are seeing to a duty tomorrow,” he said. “But you do not have to come.”
She swiveled on her stool and glared at him.
He laughed. “I jest. I know you do not like being left out of labors, so all expect you to join us.” He held out his hands in conciliation and stepped toward her, but she swiveled back to her bench.
“Branna,” she muttered. “I am an owner, so I will join in the labors of the owners. What is it?” She did not wear her veil in their hold except when hosting, and her dark hair was uncovered and unbound.
“We go to aid the herders in tending the flocks.”
“We what?” she asked, turning back to face him again.
“It is necessary. There is trouble with the herders and we must make example.”
“Tend flocks? What do I know about tending flocks?”
“Little less than I.”
“You laid a trap for me.”
“Ay, yes.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Branna," she said again.
He reached a hand toward her hair and she swatted it away with a pair of jeweler’s tongs.
“There is not hope for you tonight."