Engvyr looked around quickly to make sure that no one had overheard her and leaned forward, looking her straight in the eye.
“Ageyra Flint, I'll thank you to keep all that 'lord' business to yourself!” he said intensely, “I haven't taken up my title or lands and until I do I'm just Eng Gunnarson, a miner's son and a Ranger of the Mountain Guard. Folks knowing anything else will just muddy things up and get in the way.”
“As you like.” she said, “It's all the same to me… M'Lord.”
“Ageyra…” he growled warningly.
She held up her hands in surrender and Engvyr could see that Berryc was choking back laughter. The Master-Ranger changed the subject at that point and Engvyr mostly tuned out their discussion. I'd probably better mention that whole Lord business to Deandra, and sooner rather than later… he thought.
In fact he told her that night when she helped him to bed. She had blinked in surprise but had otherwise simply accepted it. Her expression took on a whimsical cast and she smiled, then looked at him.
“I suppose that while we are sharing secrets I should tell you why my husband's family disliked me so and objected to the marriage.”
He started to protest that she need not if she did not care to but she placed a finger on his lips to stop him.
“No, it's something that you should know. Here I am called Agustdottir, but Agust was actually my stepfather. I do not know my real father's name but as a child I was known as Deandra Half-Elfin. My father was of the Fey.”
Engvyr was not sure what he was expecting but it hadn't been that!
“How did, I mean…” he stammered.
“In her sixteenth year a Fey came to my mother at the Festival of Spring's Dawning in the guise of a boy that she fancied, and they went into the forest together,” she said, “Naturally there was quite a fuss when she returned to the feast to discover that the real boy had gone off with someone else! I was born the following winter.”
Engvyr knew that at Spring's Dawning couples often lay together in the woods or fields. Children born of those unions were considered blessed, with no stigma attached to them. They simply took their mother's name and that was that.
“As I was growing up people said that I was 'witchy' and fey and began to blame me for their misfortunes, which is ironic for if I have so much as a shred of magical talent about me I've seen no sign of it. Eventually my mother married a potter named Agust and they moved to Ternial, west of Dvargatil Baeg along the coast.”
“And when you became betrothed your in-laws somehow found out about your birth?” he asked.
“That and… Engvyr, how old do you think I am?”
He looked at her, surprised by the question, and thought of what he knew of Afmaeltinn.
“Well, I know that humans marry young. But for having met Brael I'd have thought you perhaps twenty, but I suppose that you must be at least twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age.”
“Sweet man!” she said with a smile, “In two years I will have seen fifty summers.”
He stared at her, mind awhirl again.
“How long do half-elfin live?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“I'm not sure that anyone knows… but in the end I might outlive you, love,” she said. Her face fell and she looked uncertain. “If you… I will understand…”
“Lord and Lady, love!” he exclaimed as he gathered her in his arms, “I wasn't put off when I thought that we might have only five or six decades. That we might live out out our days together makes me want to dance with joy!”
She beamed at him as he kissed her and they held each other for a long while. She was not offended when she realized that he had fallen asleep; he was not yet well after all. She lay him back on the bed and tip-toed out, easing the door shut behind her.
– **-
The week of Engvyr's recovery that followed was a busy one. Ynghilda called in the folk of the outlying farmhames and the great hall of the stead filled up. There were three rows of tables set up and they were full each at night, as were the sleeping benches that lined the room. The area around the hearth grew crowded in the evenings as people gathered to talk, tell stories and play or listen to music.
That being the case the 'Privy Council,' as Ynghilda had jokingly begun to refer to it, began to meet around the much smaller hearth in Ynghilda's sitting room. This consisted of the Master-Ranger, Major Eggil from the infantry, Taarven, Engvyr and Grael Makepeace, head of the militia and Ynghilda's cousin. Deandra was often in attendance as well as was Ageyra, who had taken service in the militia as their very own Battlemage.
They were not crowded as the sitting room had been designed with just such an eventuality in mind. Among other things they discussed the reports that now came in almost daily. The news was not comforting. There had been two lightning raids by Baasgarta cavalry in valleys to the east that had caught the farmers out in their fields and took dozens of captives.
Nearly every steading and clanhame on the northern border was hit with company sized attacks… except theirs. Most of these attacks were repulsed and the Baasgarta retreated with few casualties. They were part of a reconnaissance-in-force, probing for weaknesses and goading the dwarves into revealing their own forces.
One of the Baasgarta's attacks did not fare so well. They had attacked the Smilnedrad Clanhame, an old and well-fortified neighbor to the east. Once the Baasgarta were engaged the local commander had moved units of mounted infantry up behind them. The soldiers became a hammer to smash the goblins against anvil of the clanhame. By the time the enemy was able to break away they had taken fifty-percent casualties, and lost still more as they were harried from the clan's lands.
As soon as Engvyr could walk with a cane he and Deandra had better tidings for their friends than the news brought. They made their declaration of marriage, exchanging rings before the hearth in the dwarven tradition, and accepted the applause and congratulations of their friends.
Ynghilda quickly drew up a document of the marriage, which they all signed as witnesses. After they had done so, nothing would do but that she should drag them both into the great hall and announce it to all assembled. An impromptu wedding reception broke out immediately, with drink, music and dance. The folk of the valley had endured a terrible year that might well get worse yet and a marriage was all the excuse they needed. The release of their accumulated stress, at least for this moment, made for one of the most enthusiastic celebrations seen in those parts in some time. It was hours before the couple could slip away to celebrate their marriage privately.
They met with Ynghilda the next day to settle legal matters, a necessity because of Engvyr's as-yet unused title.
“I don't know if your title can pass to Deandra, she being Afmaeltinn,” Ynghilda said thoughtfully, “I guess that will be a matter for the Royal Court to decide. But I do know that she can inherit your property and land. That will make for some legal gymnastics if she doesn't retain your title but frankly that's someone else's problem. The law is very clear on inheritance between spouses.”
“I really don't…” Deandra began but Engvyr stopped her.
“War is coming love, and people will die. If I am one of them it will be a comfort to me to know that you are provided for.”
“Hmmm,” Ynghilda said, “If you don't file your claim there will be no lands for Deandra to inherit. I have a suggestion, if you are willing to do me the honor of becoming my neighbor?”
Engvyr looked to Deandra, who nodded.
“We'd be honored. What do you have in mind?”
She brought out a map of the valley and showed them.
“There's a section here, in the southwest of the valley. It's partly wooded and backs up to the mountains. We can cut out this section here- that looks to be about the size we need. There's good drainage and a stream…”
– **-
Engvyr returned to duty and he and Taarven probed the northern fringe of the Makepeace Valley, trying to penetrate into the goblin-held lan
ds. They were never able to make it more than a day's ride in before being chased out and the Master-Ranger called off these efforts the second time that the rangers were nearly trapped.
It was the consensus of the 'privy council' that either the Baasgarta were planning a major attack on the Makepeace Valley or wanted them to think that they were. Unfortunately there was no practical way to find out.
They discussed going down to the coast and then moving north before cutting back into Baasgarta lands but at this point there was probably not enough time. Even if they did find anything how would they get word out quickly enough? All they could do was lay their plans, make their arrangements and then wait and see.
They did not have long to wait. Just after midnight of the second-to-last day of summer Engvyr and Deandra were disturbed by a commotion in Ynghilda's sitting room, adjacent to the guest quarters that they now shared. Engvyr threw on a shirt and breeches as Deandra shrugged into a kirtle and they went to see what was happening.
Ynghilda was speaking with an army officer he didn't recognize. Grael and Berryc were there, having obviously been recently roused. Taarven was also there, dressed in the same fashion as Engvyr, his hair mussed from sleep. Oh ho! I suppose that's no great surprise, Engvyr thought. He cocked an eyebrow at Taarven, who shrugged and refocused on the officer's grim report.
Ynghilda looked up as they entered and said, “Deandra, good. Porridge and coffee, as much as we've got. We're evacuating the Stead.”
Deandra didn't even stop to dress, just headed straight out the door to the great hall.
The Steadholder had already turned away and was rolling out a map of the valley. Engvyr grabbed Taarven.
“What’s happening” he asked him as the others gathered around the map.
“The sentries from the north have come in. The Baasgarta are in the valley. They're assembling at the Eyrie and two other places in regimental strength or more.”
The long awaited storm had broken. War had come to the Makepeace Valley.
PART THREE: THE ANVIL
Chapter Twenty
“We dwarves set great store by our army, for we have long memories. We spend great sums of money to train and equip them. We pay them well, feed them well and treat them with respect, for we know that they stand between us and those that would harm or enslave us given the chance. But we never lose sight of the fact that in the end it is the people, each and every one of us that is responsible for the freedom and safety of us all.”
From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
Deandra shifted the Big 14 to her left hand and adjusted her pack. Engvyr had taught her to shoot while he was laid up, and heavy as it was she was glad to have it now. The gun would be of little use if the main body of the Baasgarta caught them short of the pass but it was a comfort nonetheless.
At the best of times it was nearly a half-days march to Cougar Creek Pass on the main road south from the Makepeace Valley. The refugees, over thirty-five hundred men, women and children, were strung out in clumps over nearly a half-league. She looked back and could see the glitter of pikes at the end of the column over a mile away. The main body of the 2nd battalion was bringing up the rear, as mixed platoons of pikemen and gunners patrolled up and down the line. Engvyr and the other rangers were scouting ahead.
The patrols seemed too little to protect the column, as the infantry platoons couldn't be everywhere at once. Engvyr had explained that the soldiers needed to fight as a unit to be effective, but she still would have felt better with an armed trooper walking beside her.
She was tired, having risen in the middle of the night. The kitchen staff had already been stirring when she was sent to rouse them. She had helped them make great pots of porridge and coffee. Gathering and packing their things, the dwarves sleeping in the great hall had been able to grab a hot breakfast before departing. Militia came in and took food and coffee to the others camping in the palisade. There was a tent kitchen in the camps south of the hold doing the same things for folks there. Everyone would have a chance for a last hot meal before they evacuated.
Engvyr had stopped in to drop off traveling clothes, a rucksack of extras and the Big 14. When she had a moment she dressed quickly, keeping the pack and gun near to hand.
Finally word had come that it was their time to move out. The dwarves in the kitchen simply left things as they were, though it took an effort of will to leave dishes and pots dirty. Deandra added an ammunition pouch to her belt, then slung on her ruck, grabbed the gun and joined the column of refugees.
She had looked about the great hall as she passed through, possibly for the last time. The massive beams covered in carving, the overstuffed chairs by the hearth, the benches and tables, it was all dear to her. It had been her home for months, and more than that it was the place that she and Engvyr's love had grown. As she passed over the threshold she had kissed her fingertips and brushed them against the doorframe in farewell.
They had passed out of the palisade and down through the tent camp. Wagons of supplies and drovers herding their livestock had left almost as soon as Ynghilda had decided to evacuate the valley. Hopefully they would make it through the pass long before the refugees arrived.
The column had assembled in the predawn light. Farmers carried axes or bill-hooks and many of the others had walking staffs. Some carried light hunting bows or crossbows, and many had wood-knives or other long blades at their hips. Of course they all had their sax-knives as well.
Deandra had grinned to herself. These Dwarves! She had thought, Common folk fleeing for their lives, and they were better armed than the peasant levies of some human armies.
She turned and started up the slope again. For all their friendly ways and kindness Dwarves were at heart a fierce people. She had been given to understand that long ago their race had been slaves, and each and every one of them took that personally. They were fiercely determined to remain free and to survive as a people. Most took training with weapons, or at least learning to fight with what they had, as a personal responsibility. They felt obliged to be able to defend themselves and their neighbors. She hefted the Big 14 and realized that she was one of them now, not of their race but of their people. Among humans a woman such as she would never bear arms, might even be afraid of them.
The straps of the rucksack cut into her shoulders and she shifted its weight for what seemed like the thousandth time since they began this march. The relief didn't last long as the cursed thing always seemed to settle right back into place. They were about two thirds of the way to the pass and her legs ached, her back was stiff and sore. All of that was forgotten in an instant as horns sounded along the length of the column.
Baasgarta cavalry poured out of the forest a few hundred paces east of the column of refugees, falchions raised high. She just had time to shrug out of the ruck and level the Big 14 before the nightmare was upon them. Goblin riders on what looked like jet-black rams. Then she saw the wicked teeth grinning from their elongated jaws. Ulvgaed.
There was no time for fear or panic. She simply did as Engvyr had taught her, focusing on the front sight, letting her breath half out and stroking the trigger. WHACK. The heavy slug punched through the beast's chest and it went down. The rider landed hard, rolling along the ground, and dwarves pounced from several directions, sax-knives flashing.
The main body of the cavalry tore into the column. But these were dwarves, and the column tore right back. What followed was a pandemonium that Deandra survived more by luck than skill. She heard a volley from the nearest infantry platoon and her ears were pummeled by the high-pitched shrieks of mortally wounded ulvgaed.
A kaleidoscope of images remained with her. A dwarf neatly side-stepped and cut upward with a broad-axe, shearing through the neck of an ulvgaed and into its rider's belly before their momentum tore the axe from his hands. He was struck down from behind a second later. A rider slowed and a woman threw her rucksack in the face of his mount. As the creature savaged the pack dwarves closed in pulling the
rider and beast down. A farmer plunged his pitchfork into the chest of another ulvgaed. It latched onto his shoulder and shook him like a terrier with a rat. Without thinking Deandra leapt forward, slamming her gun’s butt-stock into the creature’s skull. Another woman swept its rider from the saddle with a bill-hook before the goblin could cut her down. Then the Baasgarta had passed, leaving a full third of their number broken upon the ground.
She looked up and down the shattered column in shock. For two hundred paces the ground was littered with the dead and dying. People were shouting for their loved ones, kneeling beside the victims and hacking at downed Baasgarta and ulvgaeds. She couldn't process it, it was too big. It was as if her mind was a moth bumping against an invisible wall of reality and recoiling, over and over. She reloaded the Big 14, hardly knowing what she was doing. When a wounded Baasgarta tried to raise himself to his knees she shot him in the back without even a passing thought.
Suddenly the wall between her and the world vanished and her mind snapped back into function. She began to move among the wounded, tending to them as she could. After a time the platoon of medics from the battalion were there as well. Weeping dwarves were gently separated from their dead. Walking staves became the poles of litters. The mortally wounded were given fatal injections of extract of poppy, except the Baasgarta. The medics simply slit their throats and moved on.
“Deandra!” she heard a voice call. She had just finished tending one of the last of the wounded. She felt soul-sick and exhausted. She waved tiredly to Engvyr and Taarven as they rode up. She and Engvyr embraced, then separated again more quickly than either would have liked. She wanted to cry, to babble, to tell him what she had seen and done but she had no words. She looked deep into his eyes and knew that they were not needed.
“Well,” Taarven said, “I don't think they'll try that again anytime soon. There must be nigh a hundred of them dead.”
Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman Page 15
