The ice was thinner than Ber would have liked, but there was nothing for it. They had to press on. The howling of the wolves was getting closer, and it was looking like it was a choice between freezing to death or being eaten alive.
Ducim called for everyone to exit the wagon; the less weight, the better.
Ducim nodded to Ber, and they both whipped the horses. That gave the beasts enough incentive to step onto the ice.
Cracks appeared under thier hooves, and spread quickly across the frozen landscape. The river was wider than Ber had thought. And the ice was much thinner.
Few dwarves had been this far into the outer realms, or had taken such a circuitious route through the Still Mountains. Was it still technically winter here? Or did this count as late spring, even as early as Granite? The snow was still heavy on the ground, but for the ice to be so thin ...
The cracks got larger and larger. Monom had to stop himself from running across the ice just to get to the other side, or calling others to do the same. It wasn't until the wagon was fully on the ice, horses nervously stepping and sliding, when they realized that they were in serious trouble.
Like sudden thunderclaps, the ice snapped, and suddenly everyone was on their own ice flow - except for the wagon, which was straddling no less than three. The river had broken winter's grip, and at the worst possible time.
Ber could see no other option. "Swim for it! Try to reach the far shore!" The water was unbearably cold, but at least the wolves would go hungry. As Ber fought the current, he saw Ducim plunge into the water, still holding the reins of the draft animals. He wanted to shout, either encouragement or disbelief, but he held his focus on reaching his goal.
By some miracle or superdwarvenly effort, all seven dwarves managed to reach the other side. Ducim even held on to the reins, and the horses struggled out of the water with the wagon still attached.
That should have been enough of a blessing. But Sigun couldn't help but check under the wagon's canopy, and the hearts of every dwarf sunk when he exclaimed "The booze is gone!"
The total sum of their loss was simple if terrifying to calculate: everything had been washed away by the icy waters. All the alcohol, equipment; even the war dogs been swept downriver. All the dwarves had was the clothes on their backs.
Shocked to the core, Ber wandered away from the riverbanks, barely acknowledging that the others followed him into the wilderness. It wasn't until they were miles away that they realized that they were out in the middle of nowhere.
"Stop," Ber called. "We can't just give up! We've got to see this expedition through!"
"Expedition?" Sodel spat. "This isn't an expedition anymore. It's a funeral. No food, no equipment, no *ale* - and nothing for miles but snow!"
"We can make it," insited Ber. "We're not going to just lay down and die because of one little mishap. If we pull together, wait for the snow to melt, we can do this."
With that, Ber began giving directions. The wagon would be taken apart and salvaged for materials. One of the planks used to make up the wagon was sharpened into an axe. Stodir did her best to be encouraging after she was done making it. "It won't hold an edge for very long, but it is good, strong oak. Most of the trees around here are glumpwrog or featherwood - easy to chop down even with a copper axe!" She handed the finished product to Sigun. "It just might take you a little longer than you might expect."
Sigun looked skeptical, but he tackled the nearby trees with vigor. To his great surprise, the edge held up even under repeated use, and it wasn't long before all the trees within fifty paces were felled and made into barrels.
"What we really need," Ber said, "is some means of defense. Make three of those logs into spears."
"Ach," protested Stodir, "it's not a real spear without at least a sharpened rock at the end."
"If you want to carve the mountain with your beard, have at it," Ber retorted. "But a sharpened stick is better than bare hands." With that, he pointed to Ducim, Ushat, Monom, and Sodel. "You're The Mountainous Chapels now. You're not just our defense; you're our hunters. That ledge over there is your barracks. Get practicing!"
"With training spears?" they protested. So Ber took one of the spears and shoved the point through the skulls of the horses that had pulled the wagon. Shoving the bodies towards Ducim to be butchered, he said, "Yes, with training spears."
They started practicing at once.
"Food's all well and good," complained Ducim while making mincemeat of the horse organs, "but what about the ale?"
"There *is* no ale."
"Exactly."
Snow still covered the ground, which obscured everything that wasn't a hill or a tree. It was impossible to say how many shrubs or brewable grasses were out there. "We'll have to wait until the thaw," was all Ber could say.
It was a long, cold winter. Several dwarves tried to drink the snow, but spat it out once it melted in their mouths. "Water! Why in Armok's name isn't snow made of something decent, like wine?" The dwarven footsteps came a little farther apart, the soldiers sparred a little less, and soon they were all gathered around the remnants of the wagon, shivering and thirsty. Occasionally one of the dwarves would get up and look through the empty barrels, as if expecting a miraculous apparation of alcohol. They were disappointed each time.
The snow didn't melt away until Felsite - only mouthfuls of snow and horseflesh kept the members of the expedition alive for two months.
Once the first bushes sprouted berries, everyone gathered as many plants as they could find - strawberries, longland grass, prickle berries, anything and everything within a hundred paces. Then Sigun went to work making wine, beer, and ale.
It was the sweetest alcohol the group had ever tasted, but, discussing it later, they couldn't decide if that was because of the use of above-ground plants or the drought. Regardless, they used the seeds gathered from the brewing and put them in a farm plot. They swore never to go thirsty again.
That problem taken care of, Ber performed the magical incantation to notify the Mountainhome of their location. The only way this expedition could be counted as even a marginal success is if a trade caravan came in autumn.
To that end, Ber reserved twenty of the precious logs to be made into wood crafts, and sent the squad out to hunt down badgers, hoary marmots, and wild horses. They butchered the animals, but Ber didn't care about the meat - he wanted the bones and skulls for trade goods.
Down to their last log, they had to repurpose the workshop for various duties. The rules of dwarven cleanliness insisted that they completely tear down each strucure before rebuilding the workshop again. It took time, but, without mining, they had little else. The same planks of wood were used time and time again to switch between crafts, carpentry, butchery, tanning, and leatherworks. By the middle of Limestone, they had a hundred individual crafts and sixteen leather bags.
They also had fourteen migrants. The initial seven were surpised mid-Malachite when they saw eight dwarves coming over the hill. When asked how they had managed to make it past the raging river and the dangerous peaks of the Still Mountains, they said that they had taken the bridge.
"There's a *bridge*?" Stodir asked incredulously.
Apparently, it had been there for years, but as local cartography was done by humans, it was only known to a select few dwarf clans.
As typical of the outpost's luck thus far, none of the migrants had thought to bring a pick. "Aye, this place will be light on tunnels indeed," quipped Ducim, inadvertently naming the future fortress. But there was nothing for it but to ration the logs as necessary, apportion a section of grass for sleeping, and hope that the caravan had picks to trade.
Thankfully, with the exception of a few roving bands of badgers and badgermen, the area seemed peaceful. Rains were infrequent and short, and while the speardwarves had only wooden weapons, they could usually overwelm any wild animal. Ushat even managed to shove the tip of her spear into a badger's eye socket, felling it in one blow. "Did you see that?" she exclaimed. "I'm the best speardwarf ever!"
Her enthusiasm was not infectious. It was a miserable, if simplistic, existence eeked out on the lip of a mountain. The crops grew slowly, as if protesting the presence of the dwarves, which made drinks all the more scarce. Rats began to appear in great hordes, and would run over the dwarves as they slept. The soldiers would attempt to stab them, but they were too quick for the novice speardwarves. "Never in my life," said Sodel, "have I wished so much for a blasted cat."
Finally, at the very end of autumn, the trade caravan arrived. They were astonished at the "outpost" that had been established at Lighttunnels, and commiserated with the dwarves as the story of the founding of the settlement was told. After all was said and done, and the caravan had unpacked all of their supplies, the caravan liason pulled Ber aside. "You've done well, Ber, make no mistake. Pulling these people together, and still sending up a flare even after all the hardship. I tell you what: you're obviously a force to be reckoned with. If you wanted to, you could sieze everything I have, in the name of establishing Lighttunnels." The liason gave a slow wink. "We wouldn't be able to resist you."
Ber looked at the heavily-armed caravan guards, besplendent in bronze armor and silver spears. One of them shifted her crossbow and took aim at a passing buzzard. "Right ... in the name of the Mountainhome, I ... er ..." Ber paused. Isn't this the exact sort of thing he had left the Mountainhome for? A new home away from the petty politics and corruption of the Alaksodel? But now, when things were at their absolute worst, when he could really use the things on those wagons, could he, in good conscience, just let them wheel away?
Ber looked at the caravan liason, who returned the look eagerly. "In the name of the Mountainhome," Ber began again, "I welcome you to Lighttunnels. Let's trade!" And so they bartered, and haggled, and traded for a couple picks, an anvil (one of seven! Such riches!), and a few barrels of plump helmet wine and cave wheat beer. That, and a few other miscellaneous items, were all that they could afford. But it was bought and paid for. And that, among other things, was what Lighttunnels was all about.
TL;DR version: started a zero-point embark. A hard first year, but now that that trade caravan has arrived, everything else should be as normal.
Author
Topic: What's going on in your fort? (Read 6231955 times)