That evening, Yorvig sat at his table, staring down into a small bowl of mashed beans, when a knock came at the door. He sighed and rose. The meeting had been tiring. When he opened the stone, he was surprised to see Rightauger there.

“Do you knock now, son?” Yorvig asked. “This is still your home.”

“Father, I would speak with you.”

Yorvig knew by the tone and demeanor that Rightauger meant privately.

“Come,” he said. He led the way down the back passage to his reception chamber and motioned Rightauger to sit at the other side of the parchment-strewn table.

He missed the years when Rightauger was a young gilke who used to play or nap beneath the table when Yorvig worked. Those had been days of peace beneath the stone. Together they had gone to the mines, and he had taught his firstborn gilke to wield pick and shovel, to identify the minerals running through the rock. He had watched as Rightauger first plied hammer to hot steel under Onyx’s tutelage, and he had taken him panning along the creek when Rightauger had asked how the dell was found. In those days, Rightauger had been his shadow.

“What is it, son?”

“I wish to go with you on the expedition.”

“You won’t be going with the sally,” Yorvig said. Probably Rightauger thought Yorvig would have let him sally, since he had yet to forbid it. “But not because you are not able. I have another purpose in mind, but I will tell you closer to the time.” That was partially a lie. Yorvig had prepared a letter in case he did not return. It had instructions to Rightauger about helping his mother and siblings escape. Perhaps it was foolish, but Yorvig thought such a formal command from a dead father might bear more weight than a spoken word from a live one.

“I’m not speaking of the sally,” Rightauger said. “I am speaking of the expedition to strike at One-Eye with this alchemy you are making. Unless that is the other purpose you have in mind?” For a moment, the young dwarf looked hopeful.

Yorvig sighed. They had yet to call for volunteers or even announce the existence of this plan. They had just finished debating it less than an hour ago. Yet here was his son come to ask for permission to join. Ay, news of their strange preparations was all over the colony, but Yorvig wasn’t sure whether to feel despair at how poorly secrets were kept in Glint or impressed that Rightauger had managed to suss it out so soon.

“That is not possible,” Yorvig said. “You are needed elsewhere, as I have said.”

“Did I not prove myself in the assault?” Rightauger asked.

Yorvig stiffened. He was beyond relieved that his son had survived, but he did not relish the memory of Rightauger picking him up and carrying him through the fighting. They had hardly spoken since—barely even seen each other. There was plenty to occupy Yorvig, anyway.

“Many proved themselves in the assault,” Yorvig said. “I am glad you were one of them.”

“This is my home. I have a right to defend it.”

“Rights? You have as much right as One-Ear has to kill us all. You never saw these wilds as they were. Rights are taken by force. Claims are ruled by force, or the threat of it. I am Rhûl. Do not kick stone, son. The expedition is not for you. I promise, I have a far more important duty in mind for you.”

“What is it?”

Yorvig shook his head.

“I will not say until I know for sure it is needed. Tomorrow we will call for volunteers. You are not to be among them. My word as Rhûl is done." He cut the air with his hand. "Now, I beseech you as a father. Please, Kurumed, heed me.” Kurumed was his true name, rarely ever spoken. It meant Arm of the Future.

Rightauger sat back in his chair, sliding his teeth back and forth. He had the exact same color of beard and hair as Sledgefist, but everyone said he had Yorvig’s nose and shoulders. Yorvig thought he resembled Onyx and her brothers far more than his own side. It was probably good that he reminded Yorvig of his mother. It cooled Yorvig’s temper, somewhat.

How could Rightauger know that his safety was more important to Yorvig than his son’s glory, wealth, or even his courage? No one had ever said such a thing to Yorvig, and his throat seemed to close even at the thought of speaking it aloud. Of course he wanted his son to be great. More than that, he didn’t want him to have to be great. But that was not the choice of a father. Nor was it normal for a father to send his son on a mission likely to get him killed. What was right?

“Is that all, then?” Rightauger asked.

The question took Yorvig off guard. He was normally the one to ask that.

“That is all.”

Rightauger nodded, rose, and left the chamber.

Sometimes it had been too much, Rightauger’s constant attentions when he was a young gilke, and in haste and frustration Yorvig had given him harsh words. Then, to assuage the guilt, Yorvig would bring him a treat, like a sugared date from Deep Cut or a new tool. But the past years had been dark ones, as the ürsi raids grew fiercer and the traders came less. Rightauger, too, had changed as he neared rhundal. He wanted less his father’s presence and more the joys of his own companions. Yorvig had been the same—though his father had never doted on him. He had been raised much harder.

Rightauger inspired a kind of fervent admiration in his companions, an ability that Yorvig felt he himself lacked. He knew folk respected him as Rhûl. He certainly made them uncomfortable or fearful, judging by the expressions he often saw. Even the other owners acted that way, and their respect had come grudgingly all those years ago. Rightauger was different. But then Yorvig had not had the luxury of winsome ways, nor did Rightauger have to make hard decisions that would please no one. He had led one life so his son could lead another, but it seemed to put a gulf between them.

Yorvig had sat in silence for some time when there was a knock.

"Enter."

One of the Ridge Warden guards stuck his head in through the door.

"Pardon, Rhûl. You weren't in your hold so I came here. The Jackal wishes to speak with you."

"It is well. Send him."

The Warden stepped away and Rothe Stonefoot entered the chamber. Yorvig was tired and didn't motion for him to sit.

"I need to send aid to the refugees at the claim," the Jackal said, not waiting for greeting or command. "They have little food."

"The best thing for them is for us to kill One-Ear. If we cannot do that, they are safer where they are."

"But I believe the ürsi know where they are."

"And soon the ürsi will have better prey."

It was clear that Rothe was not satisfied, but he did not seem to know what to say. He had finally taken off that abhorrent mask, but it was tucked into his belt. He had also taken all the cloth and leather from his armor—burned, Yorvig hoped—and had thoroughly cleaned his kit. They had a made a gift of new clothes to him. The Jackal's face was forgettable, if anything, with flushed skin and tawny brown hair and beard that hung straight.

"I am responsible for their lives," Rothe said at last.

"I know the feeling." Yorvig chuckled, but it was joyless. "I do not wish any to die. There will come a time where we all must do as we think right." He was so tired. Tired in a way that physical labor could never make a dwarf. "Have you eaten?"

"Eaten? No."

"I was eating. . . something. There may be some left. Let us see."

Yorvig rose and led the way.

They could not hope to carry all the weight of Black Powder they had prepared and still hope to move secretly to the adit in the ridge. They weren't sure of how much they needed, either. Yorvig had settled upon a best guess, balancing competing problems as best he could. The call for volunteers went out the next day. In less than half an hour, the twenty-five positions were filled, with many more clamoring for a spot. Sledgefist’s Hammers and the Ridge Wardens had been waiting for an opportunity to wet their blades for months. Even though Yorvig informed them that the risk was dire, they had to turn away over fifty more dwarves. They accepted a mixture of Ridge Wardens and Hammers. The Ridge Wardens were skillful in crossing rough terrain and in the use of crossbows, while the Hammers were known as vicious fighters in close quarters.

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Preparations continued. The gardeners came through with nearly six hundred pounds more saltpeter. Onyx had taken a special hand in overseeing the mixing of the powder, though it caused Yorvig great stress to think of her around such volatile stuff. He tried to dissuade her.

“And yet you’re fine going on this expedition, or sending me fleeing across the Ridges?” she’d snapped, storming out of their stonehold to continue the preparations.

The afternoon before the raid, Sledgefist came to their private hold. Yorvig didn’t let him speak before he'd poured two flagons of hot mead. He already knew what was coming, but he’d much rather share a drink with his brother than argue. As expected, Sledgefist tried once more to talk Yorvig out of going, to let him lead the expedition instead, or at least allow him to accompany.

“If we fail, you will need to sally,” Yorvig said. “You are a greater warrior than I. The dwarves will follow you to battle. But this mission, the plan is liable to change. . . suddenly. You know this.”

“Do you honestly think you will reach the adit in secret with nearly thirty dwarves?”

Yorvig shrugged.

“We will try.”

“Please see reason,” Sledgefist said, holding up his palms.

Yorvig smiled at his brother and ignored the question.

“Drink,” Yorvig said. Sledgefist hadn’t even touched his flagon. Yorvig took a long drink from his own flagon, tasting the hot sweet liquid, soothing his throat. He let out a satisfied sigh. “Do you remember the steam engine you and Hobblefoot tried to make?”

Sledgefist tilted his head.

“I have hardly—wait, do you mean when we were gilke?”

“Ay, yes. You must have been what, twenty-seven or twenty-eight?”

“More like twenty-five,” Sledgefist said. “You can’t have been ten yet.”

“It’s one of the first things I remember clearly. Hobblefoot had seen a steam engine at the exhibition hall, and he was certain the two of you could make one. It was only two feet long, and it had a boiler of brass heated by the base of an old samovar.”

Sledgefist smirked.

“You played with it when we were gone, but didn’t open the valve. You were lucky.”

“I think I still have a bit of brass in my arm, but it was nothing to the bruises Hobblefoot put on my ass.” Yorvig laughed. Sledgefist couldn’t help but grin.

“How in blazes did you let me be rinlen?” Yorvig asked.

Sledgefist shook his head.

“I suppose we forgot.”

“I hope you make it through this, and that you will make peace with Hobblefoot.”

Sledgefist’s smile slowly faded, and he stared at Yorvig for a time before glancing down at his flagon. He picked it up and took a long drink.

“So be it. It is all stone long mined, anyway.”

“That it is.”

“Will you not relent, brother?”

“I have decided what I have decided.”

Yorvig rolled into his sleeping alcove, hoping to rest for a few hours before he must wake to prepare. The expedition would assemble before dawn at the entrance to the Under Way. The Black Fire was being transported there even as Yorvig closed his eyes. It was only fatigue that let him sleep, an old friend.

Hands grabbed Yorvig. He tried to sit up, but they had his arms and legs. He tried to strike as they pulled him from beneath the lamb pelts, but they pinned his arms. He called out for Onyx, but she was not there in bed.

“Easy, easy!” said a voice. He knew the voice. Blinking, he looked at the faces around him, and he ceased his struggle.

“What are you doing!” he shouted.

“Easy brother,” Sledgefist said. Hobblefoot, Shineboot, Warmcoat, and Greal each had a limb, while Khlif held his waist. Onyx stood with her back to the closed door.

“What is this?”

“Set him in the chair,” Onyx said.

They set him bodily down in the chair. Yorvig had to fight not to fight—he would not struggle and show indignity. This was an outrage, but he could not match their strength. His face flushed red, and no one would meet his eye.

“I am the Irik-Rhûl!” he growled. Then he looked at Onyx. “I am your husband!”

Even Sledgefist looked away.

“We have never broken oath before,” Shineboot said. “Though by the bedrock there have been times we’ve wanted to. But this we do not do for ourselves, but for you.”

“The expedition must go!”

“It will,” Sledgefist said. “I will lead it.”

Sledgefist had a rope, and he began to loop it around Yorvig’s waist and arms. The chair was of heavy carven stone. Yorvig couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Do not make it too tight,” Onyx said, raising a hand.

“I will make it tight enough to hold.”

“Onyx will release you in the evening,” Shineboot said. “By then, it will be no use following the expedition. You can do to us what you wish when you're free, although it may be best if you do not tell anyone about this.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No!” Shineboot said. “But we will tell no one about this.”

“The children are already at Sledgefist’s hold, to keep his children company while he's gone,” Onyx said.

Even in his anger, Yorvig grasped their logic. This indignity, if known, must be answered in the harshest measure, or else it would undermine his authority. By hiding it, they were giving Yorvig the option to forgive, if not forget.

It took little time for them to truss Yorvig fast to the chair. He could move nothing but his head and his feet below the ankles. Sledgefist carefully kept Yorvig's beard from being bound beneath the rope, letting it drape down atop the bonds.

“Please understand,” his brother said.

"Do not be wroth with them," Onyx said. "This is my doing."

"She's a liar," Sledgefist retorted. "We're all here."

Yorvig did not respond.

“Onyx will see to your needs,” Shineboot said. “Please do not yell. She has sent the guards out of the Owner’s Drift on your orders.”

With that, all but Onyx left, red-faced and silent.

Onyx tried to feed Yorvig breakfast, but he refused. Only after a few hours did he accept a drink. When she left with the empty mug, one of the cats slipped into the chamber. It circled Yorvig twice and thrice, then jumped onto his lap. The cat was a big Mine Runner, barely able to fit in his lap. It rubbed itself against his bound torso, purring, asking to be petted. It was one of the black ones with white paws. Old Striper would have spurned him for this betrayal. That brought the memory back to him:

It was not long after he found out that Onyx was pregnant with Rightauger. He had come home, smiling to see his wif great with child, but the look on her face gave him pause. She spoke before he could ask:

“I’m sorry. I found Striper.”

He knew instantly what she meant.

“Where is she?”

Onyx led him to her workshop. There Striper was, curled up on a shelf amidst Onyx’s tools. She had knocked a couple of pincers down onto the stone, and she was curled just as if she were sleeping. But she wasn't sleeping. It was clear at a glance her spirit had fled. She had the unnatural stillness of death.

“I’m sorry,” Onyx said.

At that time, he had not wept in many years. But fool that he was, he wept for Striper. The Irik-Rhûl cried for a cat.

The cat kept rubbing against the ropes, purring.

"Go away," he said, waving his beard at it. The cat lay down, tail hanging close to the ground, still purring.

He tried to gauge the time. They had set upon him with enough time left for Sledgefist to meet the expedition, but the time approached when they would depart from the Under Way. Yorvig’s misery increased with every minute. There was nothing he could do. The dwarves of the expedition would be lined up waiting for daylight on the narrow stair beneath the west ridge, their burdens at their feet.

He was not such a slave to anger that he did not understand why his friends had done it. It was a great indignity, but that frustration did not take pride of place. When he had planned the expedition, he knew it was dangerous. He knew it was as likely to fail as succeed, or worse. But he had been willing to risk himself and volunteers from among the warriors. He would not have risked Sledgefist. How did that make any sense, considering he had commanded Onyx to flee if he failed to return?

Apparently, Sledgefist felt the same way about risking Yorvig. But what Yorvig had never explained in council was that he also thought assassinating One-Ear was a gambit with only a slim chance of success. Yet it might serve a purpose even in failure. Surely, he would try to kill the beast if he had the chance; it was their best hope. But if not, they would lure as many of the kulkur—hopefully some of the chiefs—near as they could, right on top of them, even if it meant letting themselves be overrun. All they needed was to light the powder at the last moment. Escaping was always a secondary consideration. There would still be enough Black Fire left for the dwarves left behind at Glint to use in the sally, or for other traps.

Someone knocked on the stonehold door. The sound was faint in the private chamber, but he could hear it. The cat leapt down and meowed at the door. Should he yell? It might be one of the sentries or a runner. Or one of their children. Or it could be one of the owners who had done this to him in the first place. If it was a sentry, his situation would be revealed if he was heard, but did Yorvig want that? More than anything, he wanted to itch his nose, but he would not call to ask Onyx. How he felt about her involvement and betrayal, he was afraid even to think about. Many years ago, he had promised himself not to let fear hinder his planning, but how could one plan feelings?

The knock came again. He strained to hear if Onyx answered. He couldn’t. The knocking did not recur. A few minutes passed, and Onyx opened the door to the private chamber. The cat fled. Yorvig tried not to look at Onyx, but he could see immediately that her walk and posture were off. When he glanced at her face, he knew something had gone wrong. Had the expedition met ürsi at the Under Way adit? They could hardly have been gone long.

“What is it?”

“A runner from Hookear.”

Hookear wasn’t involved in the plans.

“What about?”

“Rightauger was not at his duties this morning. Hookear hoped he was here.”

Yorvig frowned. He knew Rightauger was angry, but he never expected he would grow petulant and shirk his duty.

“That isn’t like Rightauger,” Onyx said. “He is devoted.”

“What of his cadre? Did they question them?”

“His companions on the detail did not report it. One of them confessed Rightauger had made them promise to say nothing about his absence.”

Of course they showed Rightauger loyalty; those who knew him loved him. But Yorvig had ensured that Hookear kept eyes on Rightauger, eyes that were not part of his son's cadre or companions and over whom he could not easily gain the influence of friendship and loyalty. Rightauger obviously had not accounted for that when he had decided to cover his absence.

The realization hit Yorvig in a wave of fear like icy waters.

“Let me go!” Yorvig shouted. “I have to go after him!”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s gone with the expedition!”

“That’s impossible. Those were picked dwarves.”

“There is no time. Let me go!”

“Sledgefist would have noticed. Others would have noticed as well. Sledgefist would not have allowed it.”

Except that some of the Wardens and Hammers wore warmasks. Sledgefist would notice something unusual with his own Hammers, but there were hundreds of Ridge Wardens.

“He has convinced a Warden to let him take his place,” Yorvig said. “He will have worn their mask, their entire kit. Do you think Sledgefist was checking? Let me go.”

Onyx hesitated. Yorvig’s heart was beating, but unless he could convince Onyx that he was right, he could do nothing. Nothing.

“Send a Ridge Warden to the stew halls," he shouted. "Look for a Warden drinking off duty. Someone acting unusual. Use threats if you need. You’re an owner. Go!”

It would not be hard to know if one of the Wardens had stayed behind to drink away a hefty bribe. As the son of the Irik-Rhûl, no doubt Rightauger could be abnormally convincing.

Onyx ran from the chamber.

There were only two stew-halls in Glint.