Two hours later, Yorvig stared down at a freshly-inked line in his ledger—saltpeter fertilizer: 3.5 tons.

Of sulfur, they had just over five hundred pounds. They kept that much in store at all times. The rest they had always treated as refuse, but it was not as dear in the recipe. Of charcoal, they had many tons. They needed cauldrons or vats for mixing, which they had already.

“And you can demonstrate this recipe?” Yorvig asked Rothe, who stood in the chamber still wearing his mask. Thrushbeard, Sledgefist, and Crookleg were also present. Yorvig had made the young herder and the two Hammers who had witnessed Rothe’s demonstration swear oaths of secrecy. He hoped it would work, at least for a short time. The last thing he wanted was false hope, for if this Black Fire turned to no account, the loss of hope would be worse than never having it.

“No,” Rothe said. “I have never made it. Our weapon-smiths make it. It has been kept a secret for decades.”

“While our folk were dying!” Sledgefist said.

“While we were dying!” Rothe snapped back. “Many Jackals died not using this weapon.”

“Why?” Sledgefist asked, his anger turned to confusion.

“So that the humans would not expect it.”

Yorvig sighed. It made sense. Much would rest on surprise in Glint as well.

“If we made a thousand pounds of this powder, how much destruction would that cause?”

“It would depend on how it is contained.”

“What do you mean by contained?” Sledgefist asked.

“The powder will burn bright and fast if open on the ground, but its greatest force comes when packed inside something.”

“So like your steel tubes?” Yorvig said.

“Or in a bore-hole in rock. That much powder could blow your cliff-side wide open.”

Sledgefist raised his eyebrows.

“From a powder? I find that hard to believe.”

Rothe shrugged.

“I have demonstrated what I could.”

“I find it hard to believe that Reamer would have risked his dwarves otherwise. Not now,” Yorvig said. “Does this recipe scale? If we make, say, a thousandth part as a trial, do the proportions hold?”

“I do not know,” Rothe answered.

“Then we will find out.”

With the others in tow, Yorvig stepped outside the reception chamber. One of the Ridge Warden aids stood waiting. Yorvig ordered him to bring a pound of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter to his private hold, along with a mortar and pestle from the kitchens. If this went poorly, he did not want his documents and ledgers going up in flames, so he led the small retinue to his own hold. He opened the door and announced their presence in case his wif or gilna needed to veil or seclude. No one responded, so he led the others through the warm glow of fiery Miner's Eye to Onyx’s workshop.

She was within with both Peridot and Iolite. It appeared they had been in the process of forming some fine chain-links, but now they were standing and veiled after Yorvig's announcement—they did not work in veils. He was surprised to find that Onyx's tools showed no sign of packing.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at Yorvig’s retinue with a squint, especially the Jackal.

“Peridot, Iolite, you two go elsewhere for a time. We have need of the workshop.”

As the gilna left, casting glances at Rothe's back as they closed the door, Onyx arched her eyebrow. Over the years she had come to expect that she would receive an explanation for such a strange occurrence, at least eventually. Yorvig didn’t keep her waiting. She did not read many speaking runes, but he held out the recipe parchment to her and gave as succinct an explanation as he could. From her seat at the worktable, she appraised the Jackal still in his mask.

“And you have not called a meeting of the owners?” she asked.

“Not until I verify the recipe.”

“In my workshop?”

“I could do it on the feasting table,” he said.

She sighed and began clearing her tools from the bench.

"And you are using the saltpeter from the gardeners?"

Yorvig snorted. He had not mentioned where he got the saltpeter. So Onyx knew about that. Of course, she likely would.

"Ay, yes."

It was a spacious workshop, more than enough room for the six dwarves present. It took less than half an hour before all the elements were arrayed on the table. The shelves and workspaces were meticulously arranged and maintained, especially now that their gilna served as apprentices in all but oath. It was always part of apprentice work to learn proper maintenance and order of tools and other supplies. Onyx produced some ceramic bowls, and Yorvig began to pulverize the sulfur crystals with the mortar and pestle.

“How fine does it need to be?” she asked.

“As fine as possible,” he answered.

“Here.” She tapped his shoulder, motioning for him to move from the stool. “Let me do it.”

Yorvig wasn’t sure how much differently she would manage the pestle, but he scooted away and let her have her way. In the meantime, he set up her balance scale.

“I would wipe the pestle in between elements,” Sledgefist suggested.

“Does that matter?” Yorvig asked Rothe. Rothe merely shrugged. They cleaned the pestle between elements just to be safe.

Onyx pulverized the charcoal next, and then the saltpeter.

“What are the part weights and the standard?” she asked.

“Let’s make it a standard of one pound. Fifteen parts charcoal.” He waited as Onyx arranged the weights and parted out the charcoal. Satisfied, she poured the fine powder into one of the ceramic bowls. “Ten parts sulfur, seventy-five of saltpeter.” She measured and poured them together.

“Mix to uniform,” he said.

Onyx took a narrow bit of steel she used to size chain-rings but Rothe raised a hand.

“Do you have anything of wood to stir with?” Rothe asked.

Yorvig looked down at the recipe parchment.

“I do not see anything mentioning what to mix it with.”

“You want to avoid sparks,” he said. “If it sparks, it will burn.”

Onyx set down the steel rod.

“Is this powder truly that dangerous?”

“Ay, yes, if packed and contained. Open, it will flame high.”

Yorvig was trying to think of something made from wood that they could use, but Onyx stood and moved to a shelf. She unwrapped a case and slipped a long piece of brass from a sleeve. It was a tapered punch of some kind. Brass was useless at sparking. She sat back down and stirred.

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

“That is as uniform as you could wish,” she said after a time. She took a cloth and wiped off her brass punch. “It is ugly and a foul-smelling concoction. What is it called again?”

“Black Fire,” Rothe said.

Yorvig looked at the Jackal.

“Give us a demonstration.”

Onyx left the workbench and Rothe approached. He took an empty ceramic bowl and poured a small amount of the mixture within. Then, he handed Yorvig the bowl containing the rest.

"Keep that covered." Rothe reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a fire-starter. He tested a couple punches pointed at the stone floor, spraying sparks. Holding it above the smaller sample, he pushed the plunger. Sparks flashed into the bowl. Nothing happened. Rothe punched the starter again.

It flared, shooting tall and narrow flames. There was a hiss and a smoke, and it was over.

“Is that what it was supposed to do?” Sledgefist asked.

“Ay, yes,” Rothe said. “That is correct.”

“So.” Sledgefist turned to Yorvig. “It scales. Why did you want it to scale?”

“To see if it would work!” Yorvig said. “We need as much of this made as we can resource.”

“I will help," Onyx said.

“I don’t want you anywhere near a thousand pounds of that.”

“I dare say it is safer than running across ürsi-infested ridges," she answered, a bite in her tone. But she moved on: "We cannot make thousand-pound batches. Even a hundred would be difficult. I suggest we do fifties at most. We will need bigger mortars and pestles. We can use one of the empty stopes for the final mixing. How should it be packed?”

Yorvig looked at Rothe.

“How should it be packed?” he echoed.

“What do you have in mind for it?” Rothe asked.

“I want to kill One-Ear.”

“If he is truly on that ridge,” Sledgefist said. “Then the trick will be getting this powder near enough to matter. ”

“We will also need to carry it,” Thrushbeard said. “So it cannot be too heavy.”

“If this does what you say,” Onyx said. “How will you ignite it without dying yourself?”

“Fuse,” Rothe said. “Cloth finely rolled and sewn, packed with powder.”

“If One-Ear was closer, or if we had time, we could tunnel under him,” Sledgefist said.

“But neither is true. Whatever we do, it must be done soon.”

"Shit. If we’d had this last fall, we could have dug right under him by now."

Maybe, maybe not, Yorvig thought. Tonkil's Rock was both far and high.

“We should get to work,” Onyx said. “You can plan while we make the powder. Send for Lowpleat. The Jackal can explain this fuse to him.”

Yorvig nodded.

“So be it.”

There were far too many aware of the goings-on now to keep from having an owner’s meeting. Each of the owners had already heard at least some version of the events. Once they were all present at the nine-sided table, the Miner's Eye sufficient for light, as it was throughout most of the old workings. Yorvig filled in any gaps and corrected plenty of misunderstandings and assumptions. At last, he hoped all present understood the circumstances.

“Why not just raid the camp? Charge?” Hobblefoot asked.

“Because he will not stand to fight us. He has everything to lose fighting us himself and nothing to gain. ”

“I do not know why the ürsi follow such a craven.”

“I do not believe they care about the same things we do," Yorvig answered. "At least, not in the same way."

“What do they care about, then?”

Yorvig thought back to his first encounter with the ürsi. He had stumbled upon them, and the idea to do anything but kill had not entered his mind, nor had it seemed to enter theirs. The question of what they cared about was one Yorvig had pondered for years. He'd even kept notes in a ledger and sent the Ridge Wardens out on missions to observe them. A few Wardens had died. Once, they had observed an ürsi chief batter the brains out of an ürsi hunter, and while they did not understand what code the hunter had broken, Yorvig knew that their society was rigid.

It seemed the entire purpose of the males was to hunt food and carry it back to their dams in exchange for the right to mate. An individual ürsi was a small thing. To survive, they banded together, and some ürsi rose to influence. Yorvig had come to believe that this was accomplished through killing or challenging somehow. Ürsi did not cultivate or herd, though they did eat a wider array of plants than the dwarves. Still, in order to propagate themselves, they must hunt, and when they grew in numbers, they needed more hunting grounds. To an ürsi, this territory was food and propagation, the right to mate and survive. The irony was not lost on Yorvig that he and his companions had come here hoping to one day earn a bride price.

But there was more than survival at play here. Yorvig had released the last rat back into the tribe, an unusually vicious predator with a special hatred of dwarves. That rat had killed his way to the top. After all these years, many of the ürsi besieging them must be One-Ear’s own offspring. He did not fight for just his ilk, but for hatred. If he took this hunting ground, the ürsi would only continue to increase until they spilled out of the Red Ridges. Killing One-Ear might break their cohesion, at least until a new leader arose. That might give them time. Always, Glint needed time.

“Without the Red Ridges they will starve,” Yorvig answered.

“I say we go ahead with the sally,” Sledgefist said. “A battle will distract him, at least. Draw eyes away.”

“Or it will cause him to move. Come closer, maybe to watch. Then we’ll lose the opportunity, and many dwarves will die.” Shineboot said.

“A distraction is not a terrible idea,” Yorvig said, hoping to pacify Sledgefist some. “Though there is risk, as Shineboot says.”

“I still don’t see how we can be sure One-Ear is up there, or whoever is leading the horde.” Greal sat with his arms folded, always skeptical.

“We can’t be sure,” Yorvig said.

“Then why not bury this powder somewhere beneath the dell or in the valley, and see if we can draw the ürsi above it,” Hobblefoot suggested. “It may break them.”

“How much could we make?” Shineboot asked.

“A little over four tons," Yorvig answered. "But I have the gardeners leaching more compost. They promise at least another four-hundred pounds of saltpeter, once it is boiled down.”

They paused, each thinking on that number. Even Yorvig had little understanding of just how much destruction that amount could wreak, or how best to use it.

He did know one thing:

“One-Ear has to be our priority. If we fail to kill him, then we could try something else.”

“What did the Jackal suggest? How do we get it there?” Shineboot asked.

“He suggested kegs,” Sledgefist said. “Banded and bound with iron. And some in small ceramic jars for throwing, with bits of scrap inside.”

“Are we sure we can trust the Jackal?” Greal asked. “We have never trusted them before.”

“I say he comes with us,” Sledgefist said. “Let him stake his beard on it, too.”

“And who is us?” Onyx asked, looking at Yorvig. “Who are you sending?”

Yorvig knew exactly what she meant. And he knew she would not like what he had to say.

“I am bringing the Jackal and willing volunteers from among the Ridge Wardens and Hammers.”

“You cannot go,” Sledgefist said. Onyx glanced at Sledgefist appreciatively and nodded her head in agreement as he continued: “If it fails, you must remain to lead in the next plan. I will lead this expedition. And if we keep the attempt secret, it will not dishearten the folk if it fails. Let them think we make the preparations for a larger assault.”

“I am the Mine Lord,” Yorvig said. “I have brought these folk here. It is my responsibility, and One-Ear is my enemy. I will lead the attempt.”

“You have led with wisdom for many years,” Shineboot said. “As a friend I beg, do not fall into prideful foolishness now.”

“Brother, your leg cannot tolerate climbing a ridge with a heavy burden.”

“I do not have to carry.”

“Then you are of no use!”

“What does One-Ear look like?” Yorvig asked.

Sledgefist frowned.

“Like kulkur with one ear.”

“And if he wears a helm? Or a headdress?”

“We’ll kill everything on the ridge.”

“Do you honestly think you can recognize his face, Chargrim?” Shineboot asked.

“It’s been decades since you’ve seen him, cousin,” Hobblefoot added. “Since anyone has.”

“I have seen his face many times since then!” Yorvig snapped. The sight of the hunched creature cowering at the end of the drift often visited his nights, or hovered just in front of columns in a ledger.

“Hobblefoot speaks true,” Greal said. “We don’t even know if he is still alive, let alone leading this horde.”

“We have seen his mark every fall when they raid.”

“We don’t know for sure what that means,” Khlif said. “It could be a tradition, or a taunt for all we know.”

Yorvig knew they were all arrayed against him if even Khlif was speaking up. Certainly, the mark of the ear was a taunt, but Yorvig was sure it was also meant as a reminder. A promise. Just like piling boulders before the adits. One-Ear was sending his messages. Their survival was never certain, so long as One-Ear remained. The foundations of Glint could only be laid upon his bones. He glanced at Onyx.

Looking at her was a mistake. She was staring him down, her forehead flushed. Under the table, his hands were curled into fists.

“He may have died of old age,” Khlif added.

“Ürsi do not die,” Yorvig said, his voice low, even, and laced with anger. “They are only killed.”

The others shifted, glancing around the table with uncertainty. Was it true? It was better to think so. Yorvig went on:

“The preparations are already underway. The work will go on night and day. I expect that in four days, we will make our attempt. We will set out at dawn from the Under Way, cross to the back of the ridge, and move to the adit beneath Tonkil's Rock.”

Yorvig was irritated years ago when he heard that prospectors had claimed the ore beneath Tonkil's Rock, but it turned out to be just a single vein. It was worked out soon. Thrushbeard said they had not disturbed Tonkil's Rock, itself, or the spruces behind it; the prospectors had run a drift up under the granite outcrop from an adit down the slope, but the vein had played out and they had not broken into the hard granite above. The ridges were cut with such adits, many proving false or shallow—the failed hopes of the dream-driven rhundaela whom Yorvig had lured to the Red Ridges.

The others stayed quiet for a while. Finally, Sledgefist spoke:

“How will we keep them from knowing?”

“We will be few, just enough to pack the powder in the drift. We must hope for the best.”

The others around the table exchanged more glances. Yorvig knew they did not like the plan. He also knew that, if it failed, nothing would change. The dwarves of Glint would sally. Onyx would have to attempt the flight west. But how could he tell her to leave behind their nieces, nephews, and the children of brothers, cousins, and friends? Together, they would be a slow moving target for every ürsi in the Red Ridges.

He would go on this expedition, because nothing else mattered as much. It had been like this for his folk since the ancient days. They had to fight for their survival. They had to take it with strength and blood and flame. They had built this claim from nothing into a colony, but none of it mattered, none of it had any significance. In the end, it was was not about building a mine, or being rinlen or Irik-Rhûl. It could all burn and collapse, and let it! It was about his folk. It was about his companions. It was about his family. If there was any chance to save them, he would lead the fight, and he would rather die before he knew he had failed them all.