5. Uloltad Nom
The migrants were arriving in waves now. Urvad counted some twenty of them nervously making their way down the riverbed. Enough to double the hide-out's current population. There were even children struggling through the snow, shivering behind their beards and clutching worn toys to their chests. Children! It just wouldn't do.
"You!" Urvad snapped at an idle woodcrafter whose name escaped her. "Tell the masons they need to furnish the lower chambers and quickly. Twenty more rooms with beds. All of them with stone, once the first twenty are done. Understand?"
The woodcrafter flipped his beard up in a rude gesture but nodded and walked downstairs. Honestly, the nerve of some dwarves! Urvad pulled the lever by the entrance and watched as the doors clacked open. Within minutes she had lead the migrants one-by-one through the trapped passage and gathered them together inside.
"We heard from a trader that you had food," the lead peasant said plaintively. "Our outpost was falling to madness from human sieges, but we know how to work, I swear. Many of us were competent in our textile industry, or we can learn anything you want."
"It's alright. We can find jobs for you here. You're safe now." The peasant sighed with relief. Urvad pat him on the back and pointed him towards the drinks stockpile. Most of the migrants gratefully wandered off, but the peasant hesitated.
"Seven thanks and Urist show you diamonds, but please, what may I call this outpost that has taken us in?"
"Our name?" Urvad was momentarily taken aback. "We haven't had time to waste on-"
"Uloltad Nom," Atis interrupted. Annoyed, Urvad eyed the empty doorway between the old meeting area and Atis's record-keeping office. But the peasant's eyes widened, then he bowed and hurried after his friends. Urvad frowned with confusion and turned demandingly to Atis.
"Have you never heard the old dwarven songs?" Atis asked, his tone sad.
"I can recite at least the first twelve verses of the
good dwarves won the war," Urvad answered in a huff. Atis shook his head with a soft laugh. Before Urvad could speak further, Atis closed his eyes and recited from memory:
mezmeznirotad kegeth tekkud
abod ber egen idrath
tilatoram
nist emen stesok anamkodor
idrath dutdastot dalnural
ungeg gumur
durad nanoth tilat
durad nanoth tekkud
durad uloltad nom
"... from Oram Sarvesh, the World Furnace," Atis finished tiredly. "I suppose the original was lost with Zugobdurad." He paused. "I don't think I could stand to lose here too, Urvad."
"Yes, well, I'm doing what I can," Urvad answered stiffly.
Months passed. They felt like months too, Urvad had gradually realised. These digs, hide-outs, caves ... they weren't for waiting anymore. There was nobody coming to save them and nowhere to go. Just thirty nine dwarves doing what they needed to survive. No, not even that, really. To live. It was still small, but it was becoming a fortress at heart. Uloltad Nom.
Between her usual shifts in the kitchen and brewery, Urvad spent much of her time helping to establish a textile industry of her own. The clothes on their backs wouldn't last forever. She knew the basic of threshing and weaving like any sensible dwarf, but setting up large enough scale production to accommodate future migrants required the rousing of a great many idlers. Miners needed to dig out a new production square alongside their current workshops, and additional space on ground level to keep the finished goods. There were stockpiles to be made for each stage of the production process. Buildings and querns that required construction. Pig tails to be replanted. And of course, the actual jobs to be filled in when something was needed. There wasn’t yet much raw material and no dye at all to be worked with, but a test run of cloth bags went smoothly and a happy by-product was being able to add wheat flour to Urvad's list of regular cooking ingredients.
Not every day was so busy. Urvad had nearly screamed when she heard about the first party taking place. Then she saw that it was Sodel, of all dwarves, who had started it by the statues. His dancing looked more like clumsy wrestling moves than anything else, but she could see that it was helping him relax. Atis had been right about the name; morale and mental health would be as important as good food if they intended to avoid madness themselves. They were here for the long haul, after all.
Smaller expansions occupied the fort once textiles were available. Filling the bedrooms chambers took time. Kel's trade goods slowly stacked up underneath the depot, though Urvad noticed with concern that he had started locking the bins. Additional passages and stairs were dug throughout the fort after Alath had once become lost for nearly two days in a bustling stone dumping task.
Leather goods were next on Urvad's checklist. They didn't often have animals to butcher, but that made it all the more important to use as much as possible from them. A single tanner's shop, leather works and stockpile were set up underneath the butchery and across from the main production hub. The bones still went to waste, but decorations with them were plain grisly and there weren't enough to make any meaningful quantity of ammunition. The natural sand and clay niggled at her too, but there was no fuel to make use of them. The rough opals, at least, Urvad made sure were finally being cut and encrusted on trade goods and furniture. One inspired dwarf even took several of the gems to craft an expensive and purely decorative hammer titled the Fields of Splattering. The children praised him as if he were a legend for it.
But there was still more to be done. Urvad arranged for the construction of a fishery and another stockpile for it, just south of the prepared food. Raw fish would still be carried through the trapped entrance for now, but if - when, Urvad chastised herself - the humans came then it would possible to build a small safe extension to cover part of the river. It was still frozen most of the time but the fish would be a nice change of diet every so often. It was worth it. It was worth it.
Job assignments needed to be reorganised for the long term. Poorly skilled workers were stood down to keep the best few dwarves constantly active in their fields. Some rarer jobs were given new trainees to ensure there was always someone ready to work with needed. Urvad had pressed for over a hundred changes before she was satisfied that things would run smoothly.
Leisure! She had nearly forgotten there would need to measured rest between jobs. A playroom could be dug for the children, with bright engravings and doors to keep their pets efficiently out of the way. Then something larger for the adults ... a more tasteful art gallery to display Medtob's best engravings, creations such as the Fields of Splattering and the cutest puppy available. It took Urvad a lot of running around between dwarves and checking mechanical designs, but she even managed to facilitate a crude cooling system that drained and resprayed mist near-endlessly over one end of the room. The wood stockpile dwindled to a mere three logs now, but hadn’t been doing anyone any good just sitting there, had they?
Urvad lowered the last row of roast fish snacks into the corner of the gallery, careful not to let any slip from her aching fingers. There. It was perfect. Let's see any dwarf dare claim they're only content now! Urvad sighed and stepped back into the rolling mist, but her eyes didn't leave the prepared food. She did a few mental calculations. With a start, she realised this left the main stockpile with less prepared meals than mouths. There should be plenty of fresh plump helmets, but this wasn't some hovel. Urvad combed her fingers through her beard and quickly marched upstairs.
She only made it to the statue hall before Alath and Medtob blocked her path.
"Urvad," Alath said calmly, holding his arms wide in front of her. "Stop. You've done enough. Everyone is living happily and you yourself assigned other dwarves to fill in your chores. When was the last time you slept?"
"No, you listen, get out of my way." Urvad jostled left and right several times before her dignity caught up with her. "There is work to be done and I am fully capable of doing it." Alath didn't move. Urvad glared at him. "I won't just sit around while- This fortress needs me to- I'm not going to fail these dwarves like I failed Medtob."
Urvad regretted the words the moment they passed her beard. Medtob didn't say anything, of course. But she put one hand on her hip and pointed sternly downstairs. Urvad hung her head.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I ... I need to rest for a while."
Urvad lay on her bed that night, staring at the ceiling. It was unsmoothed slate. She thought she could draw a picture of every bulge and chip. From the corner of her eyes she saw a rat nudge its way into and out of the chamber. An uneasy noise of hammering rumbled from two levels straight upwards. She lay still. Idle.
No, this was silly. She clearly wasn't sleeping. Urvad swung herself back onto her legs. The large obsidian pots weren't going to fill themselves.
The seventh hand holds the pick
that strikes the earth and gifts the treasures
to the child world.
But fear! The strong are molten at the age's dawn
and the treasure is a bleeding sword to the greedy blind
who fail to idle.
The bearded are never the child.
The bearded are never the pick.
The bearded are God's last hand.
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Topic: God's Last Hand - serious story fort (Read 1342 times)