Year 1: Sledgefist, Shineboot, Hobblefoot, Warmcoat, and Savvyarm find and stake the claim.
Year 2: Chargrim arrives
Year 3: Greal, Khlif, and Onyx arrive. Savvyarm is slain.
Year 4 — Chargrim marries Onyx and becos Mine Lord. The Battle of the Blizzard.
Year 17 — Jackals annex East Spire. Onyx pregnant with Rightauger.
Year 18 — Rightauger born.
Year 20 — Peridot born.
Year 48 — Sledge Rock overrun. Siege of Glint begins.
Year 49 — Battle of Tonkil’s Rock.
Winter, the forty-seventh year after the founding of Glint.
One step more.
He could make it to the next tree. That was only five or six steps further.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
He was underestimating on purpose, forcing his mind to accept the possible. The tall Red Ridge pine bore a mantle of snow overhead. The next tree, or that bit of rock jutting above the snow, he could make it there. His feet didn’t even ache anymore—he was hardly aware of them at all—but his teeth hurt. Not just one, but all his upper teeth. They felt cold. He’d never felt cold in the tooth, before. He could feel his pulse in them, beating faster than walking should make a heart beat.
But this was not just walking, these weeks of trekking through the ridges in the deep of winter, with snow drifts deeper than he was tall, covering the downed timber and freezing it in place, soaking his clothes, sapping his strength hour by hour. He slept in shelters dug from the snow. Apart from the pine sap he chewed, the last he ate was three days before, a bird frozen in place upon the branch by the ice storm.
Every step was a struggle, even with his oft-repaired snowshoes. Keeping tempo and silently talking himself into a nonstop string small goals—that rise in the ridge was next—was all that kept his body in line. His mind drifted even as he urged himself forward.
He’d still been a gilke well before rhundal and not fully grown when he had lowered his hamr and chisel, his palms red. His father had taken him to the family coal-claim to work. Now, eighteen hours later, they still worked, shattering the listone that flanked the seam. The seam had narrowed to a re two feet across. Gretti breathed hard. He let his tools fall to the stone.
“Why are you stopping?” his father had asked. Gretti flinched. He had not heard his approach from further down the drift.
Gretti held up his hands, showing the torn blisters that covered his palms.
“Two hours more,” his father had said. “Then we will return. This is our task, and it is not done. Two hours more. And don’t drop your tools.”
Gretti bent over. His skin felt dry and hot. He tried to brace his hands against his knees but they stung, and so he sat backwards onto the loose rock.
“Stand up, son,” his father said quietly.
Gretti shook his head.
“I can’t do more.” He didn’t have the nerve to look his father in the eye.
There was no reply at first, no movent. The silence continued until Gretti couldn’t take it any longer. With a steadying breath, he looked up. His father stared at him, the lines on his face fixed in a stern expression.
“Your greatness,” his father said, “will never exceed your willingness to suffer. Now stand up.”
Slowly, Gretti stood.
“Take your hamr.”
Gretti picked up his hamr and chisel.
“Begin.”
Gretti placed the chisel and swung, feeling the sting of his broken skin. He paused, swallowed and swung again.
“Find the rhythm,” his father said. “The rhythm will carry you. It will force your body to obey.”
Gretti struggled for the rhythm, tears welling in his eyes at the sting. He blinked them away, but swung his hamr, twisting the chisel with each blow to drill a starter hole.
“It is cut,” his father said. “Now the feather and wedge.”
Gretti removed his chisel and set the tools aside, picking up his feather and wedge and slotting the end into the hole. Next ca the two-handed hamr. He took it up, gritting his teeth and feeling its weight straining his arms.
“Begin.”
Gretti placed his feet squarely and swung, trying to rember his technique, to turn the whole upper body and utilize his twisting weight, not just his arms.
“Find your rhythm!” his father called over the irregular blows.
“I’m trying!” Gretti gasped.
“Sing it, then!” With that, his father broke into song, one of the plodding hamr songs of the Deep Cut miners, the rhythm of falling blows.
That shift in the Low Collier coal seam was well over forty years ago, down in the lower claims of Deep Cut, far from the forsaken wilderness he now traversed, but the sound of his father’s singing found him, and Gretti realized he was muttering the song, keeping ti with his plodding pace. He struggled to add strength to his voice.
I will rember, father. I will sing.
At so point, surely, the body would collapse regardless of the will. He tasted blood. His lip had split again; they were chapped and blistered, but he sang, and as he crested the rise, he slled smoke.
At first, he wondered if it was a fancy of a strained mind. Could his frozen nostrils still sll? He breathed in the stinging cold.
He did sll it. It was smoke.
He broke the rhythm of his plodding and looked around. The rise where he stood was between two massive ridges. The whole area was forested, but the winter had stripped the foliage, leaving only the green of the pines. He turned, looking for a column or a haze or anything that could tell him where the sll ca from, but he saw no sign. Even though the wind was becald down in the valley, sheltered as it was by the ridges, on the rise the air moved. He turned his face toward it, but the sll grew weaker.
The smoke was downwind. That gave him a direction at least. Moving down the rise a little east of south, he stopped to sll the air every ten steps. Within a hundred yards, he was confident the sll was growing stronger. Through the trees, he could see the slope of the ridge ahead, where a long fold of rock projected out into the valley. Bits of bare crest jut up above the trees, blown clean of snow. It was hard to tell beneath the mantle of white that covered the world, but judging from the undulations and the projections of rock, there may be a seam buried there. It was a likely enough place for a claim, but if he was going to mine it, he would make the adit on the eastern face, the most sheltered location, which ant he had to climb the prominence or go around it and hope for a pass—a difficult task even without snow.
Just make it to the foot of the slope, he told himself, and took the first step.
The sun was setting and the temperature plumting by the ti he got to the far side of the prominence. If it weren’t for the hope of shelter ahead, he would have already burrowed into the snow for the night. The sll of smoke had grown weaker when he reached the prominence, shaking his hope, but once he made it to the eastern side below the winds, the sll redoubled in strength.
He struck upon a well-used snowshoe trail dodging between pines, heading down toward the stream in the valley bottom. The snow was trampled in a wide path, making his way far easier. The sll of smoke grew even stronger, and the snow kept the light plentiful enough for a dwarf to see in sharp relief as the night fell. His breath puffed out in front of his face. He passed the stumps of cut trees, so cut recently, and beyond he saw the bankhead. It was a log structure built against the side of the rockface, no doubt hiding an adit. Smoke rose from a low chimney at the far end of the cabin. The claim must be new enough that they had not drilled chimneys in the deeper rock to allow fires beneath the stone.
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A well of relief sprang up in Gretti. He hadn’t let himself face the true danger yet; accepting that he could not go on would have only weakened him. Now, he silently reveled in his salvation. He hurried to the door and knocked. His hand stung as it connected with the wood. Pain ant there was still feeling, at least.
Startled voices sounded within, and then a knot pulled from the pine, revealing light that dimd as soone peered out.
“Who goes?”
“Help,” Gretti said, his voice raw and weak.
It mattered not what was said. What mattered were words spoken in the language of the dhar—the dwarves. This far out and in these conditions, not even the greediest of prospectors could turn him away without bringing sha down on his forebeards for a lack of hospitality.
A bar slid, and the door swung inward. It was the wrong way for a dwarven door to swing, but the heavy snows made it necessary. Flickering firelight flowed outward. Three dwarves stood within, hands on the knives at their belts; hospitality did not preclude caution. When they saw Gretti, their expressions changed from distrust to shock.
“Seven fires,” one of them said. “Get in here!”
Gretti stepped in without a word, snowshoes and all. His clothes were crusted in ice. His beard was a frozen mass, icicles hanging from his moustache. His face was red-chapped and raw. The warmth in the cabin was almost overwhelming, and he felt dizzy as they closed the door behind him. One of the dwarves led him toward a three-legged stool near a fireplace built of tailings-stone. The fireplace dominated the outer corner of the cabin, and Gretti saw it could double as a forge.
“Here, sit down, mate,” the dwarf said, and looking up: “Greentap, put so of that pine broth on the fla.”
“Already on.”
The dwarf looked back at Gretti. “We’ve got to get you out of this, or you’ll be soaked when it lts.”
As Greentap hung a kettle on the crane in the hearth, the other dwarves peeled Gretti out of his outer layers—a task Gretti couldn’t have done on his own. His under layers weren’t much better. He’d been soaked and frozen more than once, but now he felt the fire’s heat penetrating further toward his skin.
“Where did you co from?” the first dwarf asked.
“East Spire,” Gretti answered.
“But most recently.”
“East Spire,” Gretti said again. The three dwarves exchanged glances of disbelief. “How far have I co?” Gretti asked.
“Pretty blazing far, mate.”
“How far is. . . Glint?”
“About forty miles. But I wouldn’t try it in this weather. Not to speak of ürsi.”
“Did you really co from East Spire?” Greentap asked.
Gretti nodded.
Steam trailed from the spout of the kettle, and Greentap, clearly the youngest of the three, grabbed a scrap of hide and lifted it free, pouring the hot liquid into a tin mug. He handed it over, and Gretti cradled the steaming mug in his gloved hands, holding it below his face for a mont, slling the pine and feeling the moist warmth on his chapped skin.
Apart from Greentap, the two sowhat older dwarves both had dark hair and the sa hazel eyes. It was clear their personalities were less alike than their appearances, for one had yet to say a word, though he looked both concerned and amazed.
“Drink that up and then we’ll get you sothing to eat,” the more talkative of the two said. He turned to Greentap. “Put so rye and salt-buck in that pine.”
Greentap moved to obey while the other two dwarves pulled stools close.
“What claim you with?” he asked.
“No claim,” Gretti answered, sipping the drink. It burned his throat, but it felt good.
“What possessed you to try for Glint this ti of year?”
Gretti felt lting ice from his beard dripping down his neck. He shrugged.
“Need to find soone.”
More than soone, but that’s all he said. He was staring intently at the faces of the older two dwarves. He’d grown so habituated to suspicion, but there was a resemblance.
“Take off your mitts, mate.”
Gretti held up his hand, and the dwarf reached out and peeled the damp mitten away. Gretti’s fingernails were throbbing as the blood returned to them. He switched hands on the mug while the dwarf pulled the other mit free and hung them from hooks above the hearth. The quiet one bent down and worked to free Gretti’s feet from the snowshoes.
“May I?” the other asked, motioning to Gretti’s cap. “It’s lting on you.” Gretti nodded, and the dwarf removed his cap and hung it on another hook. “This ti of year we don’t go further than the stream and trapline, though this is our first winter at this claim. Winter’s the ti to get the work done.” He glanced at the door and lifted his eyebrows, as if to say: and not the ti to travel, but he refrained. Instead, he asked: “So you’re from East Spire? Now that I can see you a bit, I’d say you look like one of the Cragknappers. They your kin?”
Gretti shook his head.
“I ca from East Spire,” he said, “but I’m not from there.”
“Deep Cut?”
Gretti nodded, raising his foot so the other could pull the last snowshoe away. The wraps over his boots were still caked in snow and ice. Water was starting to puddle on the hard-packed earthen floor beneath his stool. Gretti was trying to assess his surroundings while also sipping the tea and watching the strangers. The cabin was comfortable for its sort, full of pelts, mining tools, and a few cooking utensils. So sacks, probably full of rye and oats, hung from the rafters to keep them from rodents. Spare clothes, coats, and three pairs of snowshoes hung from hooks on the walls. The adit opening was covered in a ratty blanket, no doubt to keep from losing heat into the drift beyond. The outer door of the cabin was wide enough to fit a barrow through.
The sll of the bread and salt-buck stew was reviving Gretti’s appetite to distraction. Blessedly soon, Greentap handed him a steaming bowl, and Gretti burned his tongue digging into it straight away.
“Thank you,” he muttered between bites.
The older dwarf waved the comnt away.
“We’ve plenty for the winter,” he said. “The last claim payed out, but it yielded enough to keep from tightening our belts this year.”
“I won’t bother you long,” Gretti said. “If I could sleep by your fire, tonight and dry my clothes, I’ll be along in the morning if you point toward Glint.”
The dwarf shook his head.
“No, mate. The way to Glint from here is steep even in the sumr. You’ll have to wait till this freeze breaks. It’ll be at least another week or two before we can expect a thaw. Even then, you’d be wise to wait for the ridgetops to lt, not to ntion ürsi and all. Rest up, and you can work for your keep, and welco to it.”
“I need to get to Glint,” Gretti replied, chewing.
“I’m sure a couple of weeks wouldn’t make enough difference to lose your life.”
Gretti didn’t respond. He was growing less concerned with the trip to Glint and more concerned about the laws of hospitality. His fingers and toes ached and stung, and the corners of his mouth hurt when he chewed, but he ate quickly. Greentap stood by the fire, watching. Gretti must have been sitting on his stool. As the youngest present, the responsibility of giving up his seat fell to Greentap. The older two sat side by side, facing Gretti.
“Please,” Gretti said, holding out the mug as he took another wooden spoonful from the bowl in his lap. “More tea?”
Greentap took the mug, poured the last of the tea from the kettle, and handed it back to him.
“Would you put a whole kettle of water on?” Gretti asked.
Greentap nodded and stepped across the room, returning with a waterskin. He re-filled the kettle and hung it back on the crane.
They let Gretti finish his bowl and Greentap re-filled it.
Gretti acted engrossed in his second bowl. He felt so strength returning, the warmth spreading within, but still. . .
There was the law of hospitality.
He finished the second bowl. The first steam started to escape from the spout of the re-filled kettle.
“I am from Deep Cut,” Gretti said.
“As you said,” the older dwarf replied. The cabin was small, and they sat quite near, so that their knees almost touched.
Gretti handed his empty bowl back to Greentap.
“Thank you,” he said, sitting up straighter and adjusting his belt. It was nice to feel warm again. It had been days since he was successful in starting a fire. He stood, testing his legs, and found that his feet supported him. He stepped to the hearth, picked up the little scrap of hide, and lifted the lid off the steaming kettle that hung on the crane. The water within was just coming to a rolling boil. He set the lid down on a hearth rock and unhooked the teapot from the crane.
“Let ,” Greentap said, reaching out his hand, but Gretti smiled and waved aside his attentions. Returning to the stool, Gretti sat, still holding the kettle handle by the scrap of hide, letting the steam rise into his beard and face. He took a deep breath and released it slowly.
“I am going to tell you who my folk are,” Gretti said.
The strangers squinted. It was an odd announcent.
“As you will. But we make no demands.”
“That is proper, but I will tell you, anyway.” Gretti watched their furrowed expressions for a mont before continuing: “I am the son of Edgefiler, the son of Halfseam, of the stonehold of the Low Colliers.”
The older dwarves caught their breath, their muscles going rigid as they sat full in Gretti’s glare. Beside the hearth, Greentap cocked his head in confusion. The fire popped, and an ember landed on the hardpacked earth.
The quiet one drew his knife and lurched forward. Gretti flung the scalding contents of the teapot into his face. The dwarf clawed at his eyes and fell backward off the stool. The other rose, fumbling for his own knife. Gretti sprang up and kicked, sending the dwarf backward into the stone mantel jamb. The quiet one struggled upward, hissing, hardly able to open his eyes, flailing forward with his knife. Gretti rushed into his guard, his own knife free. He stabbed upward below the ribs twice, thrice, and flung the scalded dwarf into the second just as he charged forward. The collision distracted the foe’s knife, and not trusting his recovering dexterity, Gretti bowled forward, throwing his weight at the staggered dwarves and knocking them back into the fireplace, toppling the crane.
Gretti fumbled, trying to find the second dwarf’s knife hand. He felt the flesh of his hip pierced and rolled to pin the dwarf’s knife in his own flesh. His own knife was impeded by the limp body of the quiet one as they lay in a heap in the hearth, but Gretti was on top. He pushed the living dwarf’s head down into the deep bed of embers. Hair and beard ignited. Gretti rolled away, lashing out with his knife, but all he did was knock over the stool where he had sat re seconds before.
Greentap had fled into the corner, his visage frozen in shock, his mouth open. The second dwarf rose from the fire, but he brought it with him, his neck and head alight, flas running up the back of his shirt, embers falling away as he stood. He roared and charged at Gretti, but the dwarf’s knife was still in Gretti’s thigh. The burning dwarf tried to grasp Gretti’s own knife-hand, but the blade slipped past, and Gretti had him, stabbing frantically. The dwarf’s roar turned to wheezes, his legs buckled, and he fell.
Gretti spun to face Greentap. The young dwarf had pulled a splitting maul from the wall. He lifted it, backing further toward the blanket that covered the adit.
“What in the ever-blazing shit?” he shouted.
“Are you kin to these?” Gretti growled, breath coming in rasps.
“What? No.”
“Who are your folk?”
“The-the Hardfalls of the Fifth Drift.”
“How co you to be with them?” Gretti nodded toward the body. The air was acrid with burnt hair and charred flesh.
“I t them in East Spire. We joined up. Please.” He held the maul as if he was going to chop a tree. He was clearly no fighter.
“You saw,” Gretti said. “They broke hospitality. They drew a blade in anger. I am guiltless in this, by all law.”
Greentap didn’t reply.
“Witness to it, if you have any righteousness in you.”
“I will,” Greentap said.
Gretti nodded. He glanced at the fire. The body of the quiet one still smoldered next to the hearth. Gretti righted one of the stools and moved it beside the fire. He sat down heavily and noticed the knife in his thigh. He’d been aware of it when it happened, but not clearly. He looked up at Greentap again.
“Put the kettle back on,” he said.
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