The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Icevein: Chapter 20

Forged of thick iron, the shackles were strong. Gretti couldn’t open the links, though he tried. The jackals had hooked the chains to an iron ring on the wall of an alcove, leaving him to sit on a sheep pelt and make his toilet in a bucket. A hired dwarf came in and emptied the bucket, not allowing Gretti to walk to the midden pit. They brought him out of the alcove for meals, and sometimes let him sit in the reception chamber where they hooked his chains to another iron ring. A jackal always remained on guard at the door to the hold, though he saw no one come and go except for other jackals and the lone yowgan.They often asked Gretti about the various Highlodes whom he had slain. Gretti knew the blood feud was well known, but Gretti found their callous and eager manner repulsive, and he kept his stories to himself. They appeared to enjoy speaking of brutality, but Gretti killed out of duty and necessity. Still, he did not turn down their ale or food.

There was a drift running from the reception chamber deeper into the hold. Though Gretti was never taken further in, the jackals often went together, and sounds which he interpreted as some kind of training continued for hours at a time. Gretti had little hope of prevailing in a fight, even if he could be free of the shackles. The jackals moved with a kind of solid ease that bespoke great strength and skill.

They never introduced themselves to him, but he picked up most of their names by listening. He wasn’t sure quite how many came and went, but it must have been over ten. He was correct in which dwarf led them, for they referred to him as though once he heard the name “Aftercut.”

The day after Gretti’s arrival, Aftercut had come alone to ask about Sledgefist’s gold. Gretti refused to explain where he had obtained the gold. Sledgefist had given him unsmelted flakes and little nuggets. A substantial weight of smelted gold would appear even more odd if carried by a claimless, bedraggled prospector.

“Is the killer also a thief?” Aftercut had asked. “I do not take you for a successful prospector.”

“I am no thief, but I master of my own affairs,” Gretti answered.

“Are you?” Aftercut said. “Well then, you’d better be off about your business.” The jackal laughed and left the alcove.

As days passed, Gretti watched for any opportunity of escape, but none came. He counted five days, and then ten, and then he questioned whether it was ten or eleven, and the days that followed were less sure. The jackals appeared to lose interest in him, and they said little to him and answered few questions.

Aftercut entered the reception chamber where Gretti sat on a rug at the table. Two other jackals trailed behind Aftercut. They all wore their kit and masks. He had never seen any of the jackals leave the hold without the masks, but that came as no surprise. Every child of Deep Cut knew the jackals never went about unmasked. Gretti was only surprised they removed them in the hold.

“Well, Icevein,” Aftercut said. “It is time.”

Gretti didn’t respond, which clearly irritated Aftercut. The dwarf turned to one of the jackals following him. “Get the supplies ready. I want to leave in an hour.” Aftercut turned back to Gretti. “We don’t want any ürsi interrupting our trip, so best not to wait any longer.”

Gretti still didn’t humor the dwarf, though it was clear they were leaving East Spire, and he suspected he knew the direction. It was still early for ürsi, though they would no doubt raid within the next few weeks. It was likely Aftercut was more worried about the return trip.

The jackals needed no hour to prepare; they were ready to move in no more than ten minutes. They had clearly expected the order. Gretti was left shackled, but they extended the chain between his feet, letting him take nearly full-length strides, though he would not be able to run. As if to counter this freedom, they moved the shackles on his wrists behind his back. The upper and lower shackles were connected by a chain which they shortened, and through the chain they fixed an iron rod. Old Blithebarrow adjusted the chains until Gretti was flexed backward with knees slightly bent, unable straighten or bend into any comfortable position. To make matters worse, they returned Gretti’s pack to him, but it was heavier, full of supplies. They buckled the straps across his chest to keep it in place, and Gretti had to flex his stomach to keep from toppling.

“You’re a big brute,” Aftercut said. “It shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Aftercut and three more jackals led him out of the hold, down the dim drift, through the outer door, and down narrow passages unfamiliar to Gretti. In a mere twenty minutes, they came upon the light of dawn shining through an adit. Outside, a fifth jackal awaited, holding the leadrope of a string of two small, sure-footed hill donkeys, each carrying wooden pack trees laden with canvas-wrapped supplies. The adit opened onto the ridge a quarter of a mile down from the spire and about halfway to the crest of the ridge. The jackals put their own packs within the panniers of the beasts, keeping only their weapons and belt pouches. They did not remove Gretti’s pack. As the sun brightened the sky beyond the eastern ridge, the group worked their way down the narrow trail and toward the valley.

Gretti knew this valley. The trees had been cut away from the slopes. Goats and sheep grazed on tough mountain grasses and shrubs. Goatherds huddled in the shade of stones watching over the flocks. Soon, the animals would have to be taken under the stone for shelter from raiding ürsi.. Closer to the spire, terraced gardens were carved into the slope. Gretti could smell the change of season on the air—the cool of approaching frost and the dry mold of autumn.

Though they had shackled Gretti, they pressed their pace, and the jackal behind Gretti pushed him if he slowed. Due to the shortness of the chains, Gretti had to make three steps to every two of theirs, laden with a pack that could be no less than two hundred pounds. With his hands shackled behind, he was unable to brace the weight of the pack on his shoulders as he normally would. He knew they wanted him tired and burdened. Despite their appearance of confidence, they were taking few risks with him now that they were in the open country. So near to East Spire, paths diverged constantly from the main trail, and cave runes marked rocks and trees. Everything for miles had been claimed many decades before, most worked-out or abandoned, now.

The jackals moved through the day and the next night, not slacking their pace. They camped in an abandoned claim, an empty drift that dwindled to nothing within ten yards of the adit. No jackal aided Gretti except to unbuckle the straps of his pack from across his chest and let it fall to the ground. Unable to straighten or bend, Gretti leaned against the stone wall, trying to slide down to the ground sideways. He landed with a heavy thump, drawing a few chuckles from the jackals. His neck ached. The muscles of his back stood out in rigid bands. He felt the strain of the day’s journey all through his neck and back.

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The jackals did not sleep long, and they barely talked. In their hold with masks off, they were jovial enough one with another, but here in the wilds they were quiet, speaking in low tones only as necessary. All their movements had purpose, and they slept in shifts. When they departed only five hours after they stopped, Gretti was not sure he had truly slept at all.

The second march, the pain in Gretti’s neck and shoulders increased, and he tried to brace up against the bottom of the pack with his hands, but the chain was a few inches too short. An infuriating few inches. The jackals knew he struggled, and he knew they wanted him to struggle. In the hold, he felt they were friendly at first because he was dangerous, and now they tortured him for the same reason. If he did not act soon, he would have no strength to act. One thing served to focus his mind; at this pace, they would arrive at the Shalemoss trail crossing. From there, they would either proceed north toward the Gold River Range and Glint, or westward toward Deep Cut.

It was early afternoon when they arrived at the crossing, and without discussion, they continued north. So it was Glint, or somewhere along the trail. Sledge Rock, perhaps. Would Sledgefist keep him from Chargrim? Gretti found it unlikely, if his identity was announced.

Gretti had traveled this path twice before, and he could remember most of it. He needed to come up with a plan. He needed to know as much as he could. As much as he hated to grant Aftercut the satisfaction, he needed to swallow his pride and ask. Only survival would allow him to accomplish his duty.

“So,” he said loud enough that Aftercut could hear from the lead. “It’s to Glint after all.”

“Fox Scree to meet the Ridge Wifs,” Aftercut said, turning to look behind. The jackal’s face was covered by his rusty, disgusting animal mask—it looked like an owl, maybe, if the owl’s face was melting—but Gretti thought he heard a smirk in his tone. “Chargrim is willing to pay.”

Fox Scree. Gretti had learned its name from his time with the Hammers. It was the southern boundary of Glint’s territory. Ridge Wardens and Hammers often patrolled it. He had crossed it twice before on his travels, though the first time he hadn’t known its name. It was a narrow path along a stream-gorge, cut into a scree that had slid, shattering and toppling the massive Red Ridge pines. About twenty miles further, the trail arrived at the Gold River, itself, where Sledge Rock towered above the valley. If only they were to meet the Hammers. The Ridge Wardens would show Gretti no mercy. Orders or not, they might choose to avenge their comrade’s blood as soon as Gretti was in their power.

Gretti didn’t know quite how many wardens might meet them at Fox Scree, but the whole Gold River Range would be preparing for the coming of the ürsi. There was no telling if he would be better guarded or worse with the wardens, if they let him live. Only two of the jackals carried crossbows, but the wardens did as a rule. Even if he could slip away, there was no way he could free himself from the chains without the key-pin, and though he hadn’t seen it, he figured that Aftercut would possess it. Either Aftercut or Blithebarrow, the old one. The more he thought about it, the more despair rose in his bosom. With every step, he felt the strain on his body. He let his mind wander over every bit of the trail he could recall.

Day followed day. Three dawns saw him in misery, though they only rested twice, a few hours at a time. They let him drink, but they fed him little more than a mouthful at a time. They were hard dwarves and grim in the wilds, and the miles passed with brutal regularity. Even when they camped, Gretti found it hard to sleep, the muscles in his back and shoulders spasming and sending pangs of pain down his legs. With each day, he knew his chances of escape dwindled, and yet no opportunity presented itself, and he grasped at no plan. They drew near to Fox Scree, and he could no longer keep up the pace. Behind him, Notchnose shoved his pack when he faltered, and Gretti fell again and again, slamming onto his chest, his hands behind his back. They had to lift him back to his feet as they muttered curses at him

“It’ll be over soon,” Aftercut said after yet another fall. He patted Gretti on the shoulder, the eyes within his mask narrowing. “For us, I mean.”

Gretti gritted his teeth. He was nearly broken. Iron anger served as his only bastion. He longed to stand straight. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Any ability to plan had fled him. All he wanted was to stand straight and stab jackals.

The morning sun rose, and the trail moved along the edge of the high gully. The path was narrow, only a yard wide, with a steep broken ridge to the left, full of broken shale and snapped tree trunks from an old landslide. To the right, a stream had gouged a deep ravine with nearly sheer sides. The trail was wide enough for the donkeys to pass, but no wider. He smelled smoke.

At the end of the gully, a stone wall shored up the scree of shale, providing a campsite wide enough for the pack trains. No doubt, the exchange would occur there. The wardens would take him to Glint, and there Chargrim would kill him, like as not. He would spend the rest of his few days as a captive, and his duty would go unfulfilled. He would go to the halls of his forebeards in disgrace. Better to die fighting than wait to be executed. There was one duty he might fulfill; the duty to Sledgefist, if only he could do violence to a jackal. The last of his strength was slipping. Seventy five-feet of nothing plunged to his right, and no escape to the left. Three jackals walked ahead, and two behind, with the rearmost leading the donkeys. He listened; he could hear the steps of the jackals close on his heels.

With the last of his strength, he surged backward, using his body and heavy pack as a ram, but the impact he expected didn’t come. Something slammed into his legs, and he fell, landing hard on the pack. The butt-end of a handaxe haft slammed into his stomach, driving the wind from his lungs. He gasped, struggling to expand his lungs for breath, his body contorted by chains and pack. Laughter broke out around him.

“I you he’d try it here!” one of the jackals shouted. “You owe me a cask!”

“Pick him up,” Aftercut ordered.

Strong hands set him on his feet, but his legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees. The muscles in his thighs and calves quivered and spasmed.

“That’s it,” Aftercut said. “Put him on a donkey.”

The jackals quickly undid the pack, then released the panniers from one of the donkeys. The trail was narrow, but Gretti was weak, and they were careful not to give him any opportunity. They loosened the chains, allowing him to drape over the donkeys back. The beast groaned in complaint. They bound him with cords to the saddle tree, and he was made fast. Bending forward over the donkey rather than backward woke screaming pain through his entire back and stomach, even as he felt a wave of relief.

“I will acknowledge it, Icevein,” Aftercut said from before the donkey. “You’rea tough alloy.”

“I have never seen anyone last beyond sixty miles,” added Blithebarrow, the oldest of the jackals. There was a note of respect in his tone, but it meant nothing to Gretti. He was still having trouble breathing, and he could not recall how far it was from East Spire to Fox Scree. The new position on the donkey gave his lungs little relief. His face rested against the donkey’s flank. His nostrils were full of the beast’s sweaty scent and the smell of smoke. Strong smoke.

“Let us finish this,” Aftercut said. The line began to move again. Gretti felt a wave of panic as the donkey swayed along the edge of the ravine. He had never been atop a beast before, and with each step it felt as if it would pitch sideways to their deaths.