Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  As they proceeded along the main street, his eye was caught by the craftsmanship of every structure. His gaze alighted on a smithy. No ordinary, functional human construct was this. Every piece of timber was shaped to fit, every block of stone carved to match its partners with an even level of mortar between each one. Looking up to the rooftops, the rafters and eaves were covered with embellishments of swirling patterns of sharply-angled symbols. And as his eyes moved on, in each building he studied, there was artistry and individuality, and that was the most surprising thing. It did not seem to matter what was the purpose of the building, each one had been lavished with care and attention. It wasn’t like the elven design, which he found garish and cloying to look at; these dwellings were what every town of the Empire could look like if all its citizens was treated as equals, where it wasn’t just royalty or the Imperial Church who could afford the finest masons and carpenters.

  ‘Welcome to Bar-Ras. By your open mouth and surprised expression I’d say that this was not what you were expecting,’ observed Marmus, as he rode alongside Fillion.

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m impressed.’ Fillion quickly raised a hand. ‘My apologies, that came out wrong.’

  Marmus grunted. It was, Fillion was relieved to hear, his amused grunt.

  ‘Most of your kind have an opinion of our culture. Few of them ever get to experience it.’

  ‘I’m amazed at the quality of build. I do not see one structure that has any disrepair,’ said Fillion. It would be far too much to say so, but he actually liked it.

  ‘We dwarves are a practical people, and we have pride. A lot of it. And that means even the most humble of dwellings are given much consideration in their design and construction. As a nation, it is the thing that brings us together and gives us a sense of who we are. It doesn’t matter which merchant house you claim allegiance to, there is not a dwarf alive who could bear to see a shoddy piece of work.’

  ‘I can see that, my friend. And are your cities like this too?’

  Marmus nodded.

  ‘We don’t have cities on the scale of the elves, or the humans for that matter. But our larger towns, yes, they are sights to behold.’

  ‘Is it true they are built into the mountains themselves?’

  ‘Yes. As I said, we are a practical people. We make our wealth and livelihoods from the rock, and it makes sense to live where we work.’

  They reached a bridge that crossed one of the rivers. On the upstream-side a number of tree trunks, lashed together, were carried by the current towards several workers who splashed around, gathering them up. There was much shouting from the workers and some seemingly aggressive encouragement from an on-looking foreman as they secured the trunks against the bankside.

  ‘This is a big logging town, amongst other things. Plenty of good forest further up east in the hills,’ observed Marmus.

  ‘Are we heading up that way?’ asked Fillion.

  The dwarf shook his head.

  ‘Not quite. We are following the course of the northern river, we call it the Bar.’

  ‘And the other is called the Ras,’ Fillion mused. He was busy looking at the Bar, tamed in its descent by a series of locks, like giant steps down the mountain. And going up that canal were barges, almost at every level, piled high with covered cargo, and plenty of the tree trunks.

  ‘Yes, puts things in context for an elf, doesn’t it?’ said Marmus. ‘The Dwarf Nations have been around a long time. We’ve learned a few things along the way.’

  Fillion was inclined to agree as they crossed the bridge, then turned on to a well-worn, paved road.

  They rode alongside the canal for a short while. At the lowest point, six barges awaited their turn to enter the first lock, and a number of ponies were allowed to roam free, cropping at the grass verges. A barge was within the first lock, slowly rising as the waters gushed in from above. The noise was like being close to a waterfall, a splashing, echoing thunder of sound. On the far side a dwarf led two ponies to the top of the loch, ready to pull the barge into the next waiting area.

  ‘We’ve got sixteen locks,’ said Marmus loudly, drawing close to Fillion. ‘We have ponds, dwarf-made lakes, to hold the water needed to fill the chambers and house the barges going up and down. There are locks further on where the slope is so steep, each chamber gate leads on to the next chamber. Other places we’ve built further along the route have switchbacks and viaducts. The barges are able to penetrate into the higher valleys and peaks where the true dwarf settlements are clustered. The ones you were expecting to see.’ He eyed Fillion. There was definitely a sparkle of pride there, and why not?

  ‘This is truly most impressive,’ said Ezra with a sincere tone that Fillion rarely heard.

  ‘I’ll take the compliment,’ acknowledged Marmus. ‘These locks don’t stop. We have produce and materials flowing continuously into the dwarf lands from here. During the day they go up and at night they come down.’

  ‘And yet it is undefended,’ pointed out Fillion, with his soldier’s perspective.

  ‘We are well inside dwarf territory, who would dare attack us? Perhaps you are sizing us up for an invasion, lad?’ said Marmus, with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘My colleague is hardly the finest military mind!’ laughed Ezra. ‘No offence, Sabin.’

  Fillion felt himself flush, the guilt of getting called out for scoping out potential weak points for an attack was nicely disguised as embarrassment.

  ‘None taken, Ezra, it just struck me how vital this settlement is.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll give you that,’ said Marmus. ‘But hundreds of years of peace and stability will lower your guard somewhat. No, there’s no risk to us this far in. It’s not as if the Tissans are coming for us, eh?’

  Fillion nodded quietly. Already here. He watched a dwarf insert his windlass into the winding gear and begin opening an upper-lock gate, allowing the water to flow in.

  ‘We’ll follow the canal to the top. There’ll be a waystation a few miles further on. We can lodge there overnight and then tomorrow onwards into the mountains themselves. That will be where we part company.’

  ‘What? I thought we were travelling together?’ Fillion exclaimed, caught off-guard.

  ‘No. I said that when we planned this trip I had messages to deliver. Messages that have to be personally relayed. Ezra is travelling with me, and you will be heading to the mines with a contingent of my guards as guides and company.’

  ‘Oh, that is a shame.’

  ‘Don’t get all dewy-eyed on me, elf. We’ll meet back here in ten days’ time.’

  ‘I’ll try and keep myself amused,’ said Fillion with a smile.

  Marmus grunted and kicked his pony forward.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sabin. I thought you knew the arrangements,’ said Ezra.

  ‘Patiir was clear in my task, I just didn’t stop to think that there would be a division of labour,’ replied Fillion.

  Ezra shrugged. ‘Member Tekla is always interested in the politics of any and every nation. Your Member often takes a more focussed view on matters.’

  ‘I can’t deny that.’

  ‘It does him credit, and his knowledge and views have always carried great weight. We are lucky to have him.’

  Fillion chose not to reply.

  Early the next morning Fillion mounted Amice and took a moment to gaze back along the canal and follow its course downwards. A gentle breeze was blowing down from the mountain, making him shiver slightly. The Ras was only a few yards away and a barge was moving sedately past, heading upriver, the conversation of its crew easily reaching him over the sound of the water. He breathed deeply, from here on in he was on his own. Almost. The sound of hooves on cobbles made him look back at the waystation. The building was more like a fortified coaching inn, of the sort that could have been found way out west, back in the more remote parts of the Empire. Marmus was leading his pony towards him.


  ‘Don’t fret, lad,’ said Marmus, as he climbed on to his mount. ‘Do a good job and I’ll make sure next time I’ll have you accompany me into the Dwarf Nations proper.’

  ‘I’ll use that as my incentive,’ Fillion replied, with a polite smile.

  ‘There are your companions.’ Marmus pointed as, with a degree of grumbling and clanking metal, a half dozen guards emerged from the building. A moment later one of the dwarven wagons rumbled into view from the stables to the rear of the waystation. ‘Reygar is in charge,’ he said. One of the armoured dwarfs raised a hand. ‘He knows the way, and anything you need, you just ask him. He’s already been told to treat you with respect. More than your lot normally get.’

  Fillion took that as a rare acknowledgment of friendship. Marmus nodded and guided his mount away. ‘Now what is keeping the rest of my malingering party?’ he shouted.

  The six dwarves took up positions in front of the wagon. Still on foot, even though there would be room in the back.

  ‘Good morning, Sabin!’ said Ezra as he appeared out of the waystation.

  ‘I trust you slept well?’ inquired Fillion.

  ‘Well enough, thank you.’

  Fillion gestured towards their dwarf companions. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get used to some one-sided conversations for a while.’

  ‘Oh, enjoy it. It will be nice not to have one’s opinions questioned and analysed at every turn. Consider it a holiday from the politics of Parliament.’

  A holiday? What in all of Tissan was that?

  Ezra held his hand up and Fillion took it.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ Ezra said with a bright smile, then he leaned in close. ‘Keep your counsel my friend, I know a little of your task and I bid you to be careful.’ He stepped back, the smile still in place, and patted Amice on the flank.

  Fillion pondered their parting, not surprised that Ezra knew something, but surprised at his words of caution. Perhaps being away from the capital had lightened the elf ’s usual disposition somewhat.

  ‘Servant,’ said Reygar, drawing Fillion’s attention.

  ‘Ah. Um. Reygar. How long to the mines?’ asked Fillion.

  ‘Two days.’

  ‘Very good. Are we camping under the stars? I rather liked the waystation.’

  Reygar fixed him with a hard stare. There’d be no idle banter with this fellow.

  ‘Stars,’ the dwarf replied.

  ‘Excellent. Shall we?’

  Reygar nodded and set his men marching. Fillion fell in behind them and the wagon brought up the rear. He spotted a barge slowly making its way towards them. Its cargo was covered with tarpaulins, but the barge rode heavy in the water. Rocks? Either that or it was laden with gold. There would have been a time when had no interest in such things. Now he was concerned with the task at hand. If there were humans working these mines, what was he to do?

  CHAPTER TEN – MICHAEL

  Michael fingered the fringe of the cloak draped over his shoulders, savouring the warmth of the fur against his body and the stout thickness of the hide that no doubt would protect him against the harsh winters of this land. The garment had been presented to him after his run of victories and Nutaaq had offered it with genuine pleasure. A practical gift, from a practical people. In another life, he might have grown up in a tribe like Nutaaq’s, fighting for his kin and for his own pleasure, not the whims of a master. But then he would have never have met the Emperor.

  He stood to one side as the rest of the party bustled around, preparing to set off. Finally, after months away, they were heading home. There was a sense of excitement and purpose among the Tissan contingent, and in truth, he was just as eager. He wanted to see the Cardinal, to tell him of all the wonders he had seen. He wanted to share just how much the Emperor had achieved. He wanted to see the Cardinal’s face when he learned of their new allies and that the dream of returning to Tissan would be realised in their lifetimes.

  ‘You are not going to wear that, are you? It’s boiling!’ asked Corporal Fenner as he strode past carrying a basket of bread.

  ‘’Course he is! It’s good to see the champion is back,’ called Beautiful, from the wagon that Fenner was heading towards.

  ‘Yes, it is. But it’s still bloody hot,’ said Fenner as he handed the bread up to her.

  Father Michael experienced a wave of self-consciousness. Yes, it was a warm day. There was no need for the cloak and to wear it was a mark of another life. He reached to free the horn fastening.

  ‘Father. Wear it if you wish. You earned it and you have done us proud in doing so.’ Father Michael turned at the sound of the Emperor’s voice. ‘I think your efforts did as much to win the Nidhal to our cause as any of the promises and diplomacy.’

  Father Michael shrugged. ‘I’m not much of a diplomat.’

  The Emperor laughed and clapped him on the back.

  ‘I’m glad of it. I have enough of those waiting for me back at New Tissan. The Nidhal, I think, much prefer your honest and straightforward approach to negotiations.’

  ‘I admit I was pleased to do something more physical.’

  ‘Keep it up, Father. You know, I might even suggest to the Arch Cardinal that we should consider forming a new martial force from the ranks of the religion.’

  ‘I thought that was the Gifted?’

  The Emperor nodded, conceding the point. ‘They are my finest warriors, but they are too few. I need a larger force to win the wars ahead, and brawn would strengthen our ranks.’ He clapped Father Michael’s shoulder and moved off. After a few strides he turned around. ‘Besides, Father, wouldn’t you like to be a general, one day?’

  He laughed lightly and continued on. Father Michael watched him move among the party, his manner easy, every inch the ruler of all. Never had he seen the weight of rule carried as effortlessly by his Emperor. If nothing else, to see that, made the trip worthwhile. As for being a general? He sincerely hoped the Emperor truly had been joking.

  The Tissan expedition formed up, pointed south and east. The Emperor was mounted, the rest were walking or riding in the two wagons, one a replacement for that lost to the river during the winter. An honour guard of twenty Nidhal, riding vargrs, would accompany them part of the way and this group waited to one side, their mounts shifting and growling restlessly.

  Behind the Tissans was a gathering to wish them well. Yet it could not be more unlike the one the residents of New Tissan had given them last year. It seemed all of the Nidhal tribes had gathered to watch them – it was a staggering sight. It evoked memories of the arena, of vast crowds clapping, cheering, shouting his name. But this was no crowd baying for blood. It was a horde of warriors, thousands strong, dressed in leather, metal and bone. They were terrifying and glorious. The hope for their future. Every single tribe represented at the gathering had pledged their support to Nutaaq and the Emperor’s promise of new lands when they helped him reclaim the Empire. Nutaaq, flanked by his two brothers, stood before the throng. Directly behind them gathered the other tribal leaders and their shamans. He spied Ellen, standing to one side, her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes met his and she grinned.

  Just saying goodbye to my brothers and sisters. I’ll see you soon, Father. Keep the Emperor safe.

  He would truly miss her. He raised a hand and she waved back. Father Michael eyed Eilion and saw the disapproving look on his face. Father Michael smiled. He could not help himself.

  He watched the Emperor ride towards Nutaaq, dismount and hold out his hand. As the two grasped each other’s wrists in a ritual farewell, Father Michael felt a surge of regret, yet also pride. A hush fell over the vast gathering.

  Once remounted, the Emperor pulled his sword from his sheath and raised it high in salute. As one, the Tissans followed, raising their fists into the sky.

  ‘The Nidhal!’ shouted the Emperor.

  ‘The Nidhal!’ cried Father Michael in chorus with the rest.

  Then pandemonium erupted as Cadarn and Bryce flew their eagles low ove
r the massed Nidhal who roared their approval and waved their weaponry aloft.

  The roar echoed across the huge camp like a rumble of thunder as the Emperor turned his skittery mount around. Father Michael fell into line with the rest of the Tissans and they began to move off.

  ‘That went well,’ observed the marine, Wendell. The four marines had taken control of the second wagon, Father Michael walking alongside them.

  ‘And here we are heading back into the wilderness, all alone again,’ said Coyle.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ said Fenner, pointing to their left flank from his position on the front of the wagon next to the driver, Beautiful. Shadowing them at a distance of a hundred yards loped their Nidhal escort.

  ‘How many bolts to take down one of those things?’ asked Wendell.

  Fenner scratched his beard.

  ‘A vargr? I dunno. You hit it in the side, chances are it’ll keep coming. No good treating it like a deer and waiting for it to bleed out. Maybe hit a hind leg. That should hobble it.’

  ‘And it’ll be moving fast. Tough shot for one,’ added Beautiful.

  ‘And if it’s coming straight at you–?’ asked Coyle.

  ‘You take it straight in the face,’ interrupted Father Michael.

  ‘Well, yeah, o’course,’ agreed Fenner. ‘But you gotta wait ’til it gets close, just to be sure. That way you get the punch from your crossbow.’

  ‘I’d shit myself,’ observed Beautiful.

  ‘I’d still like to see that,’ said Coyle.

  Beautiful responded with a gesture that sent a ripple of laughter through the group. Father Michael smiled.