Weeks ago many crews had been brought forth from The Pit and set on the road. They had been quietly joyous, for they must be going to The Farms. After all there was nowhere else. But instead they had marched for days. Those that sickened or faltered were killed, food for the Masters.
At length they came to this place where there was neither Pit nor Farm and were ordered to dig. There were no rats for Squirrel to chase so he helped the crew moving dirt. They slept at night huddled together under their blankets in the lee of the pile of dirt. It was boring work and it left Squirrel with much time to reflect.
On the journey he had seen many strange and wondrous things. Some of them he had heard of, like trees. They had seen streams, rivers and mountains. Animals that were not ulvgaed but looked much the same, with coats of white and brown instead of all black. He had seen something else too: The Masters had lied to them. This was the thing he could not make himself not think about.
All of his life Squirrel had been told that Dwarves were born into this world to pay for a great sin they had committed against God in a previous life. Here they must labor to make up for that sin. It was a world of Pit and Farm. Those with the greatest sin were born into The Pit. Others whose sin was less were born to The Farms, where they grew food for all. But if the Pit and the Farm being all the world was a lie what else might be?
After a week of digging the dwarves had long since cleared away the earth. With the Masters using their magic to break up the rock, work was progressing quickly. He decided that it was time to see these new dwarves for himself. He simply walked along the edge of the newly forming pit, past the crews until he was not in a direct line of sight of the dwarves and Masters. Being but twelve years old he had not yet been given the leg-cut that restricted his elders to short steps, so he was able to quickly dart among the trees.
He did not know this sort of environment, but four years as a ratter had taught him plenty about stealth. The thick carpet of needles fallen from the trees was a good surface for sneaking, and he moved quickly from tree to tree, always watching to insure that all heads were turned away from him whenever he moved.
At length he came within sight of the Master's encampment. There, past the tents and cooking-fires he saw them and felt a tide of excitement rising within him. Dwarves like him, yet like no dwarves he had ever seen. They were bound hand and foot but he could see that they bore no brands across their cheeks. If their shoulders were branded it was hidden beneath their clothes. They were indeed dressed like Masters, or similarly at least, for they wore great-cotes, trousers and boots. The hair and beards of the men were long, not cropped short in the way of his own people.
He watched them hungrily, absorbing every detail about them. By their very existence they proved the lie of his life and everything he had been told. There were Dwarven Masters! He did not yet know what this meant, or what he should do. In one stroke his world was changed forever.
“What are you doing here?”
He had been so caught up he had not noticed a Master approaching him from behind. He spun to face him and was knocked to the ground by a backhand blow. His mind spun off into panic- he could not imagine what his punishment would be for this, but it would be severe. The Master reached for him and Squirrel instinctively kicked out, his foot catching him in the groin.
He scrambled away desperately as the goblin folded up gasping in agony. He'd first been caught, then had done the unimaginable. He had struck a master! Panic took over and he fled blindly, away from the digging, the camp and the Masters.
He did not know how long he ran. When he slowed to catch his breath he heard the horns sounding behind him and he panicked again, running until he thought his lungs would burst. Suddenly he was trying to run in mid-air. He barely had time to register the white-water rushing towards him and hold his breath before he hit.
The river swept him along, dashing him against rocks with bruising force, turning him over and over in its current. He snatched a breath when he could, only to have it driven from his lungs by the impact with the next boulder. He heard his left arm crack and pain spiked through him. Finally he was able to struggle to the surface and float along, taking great tearing gasps of breath. The current was still strong but he was able to make his way over to the far bank and lay collapsed against it, gasping. Pain pulsed from his arm. He was sure that it was broken.
Pulling himself up the bank with his good arm, he tucked the other into his shirt to support it and tried to think what to do. Returning to the dig was out of the question, but where should he go? The early autumn air was still warm, in the daytime at least, but he had no food, nor any idea where to get some with his arm hurt. The only thing that he could think to do was to get as far away from the Masters as possible. They had come here from the north, so he would go south.
Perhaps he could find the dwarven Masters? Perhaps they would take pity on him. It was a thin thread of hope but it was all he had. He pulled himself to his feet and began to move through the trees, away from the river. He looked around and established his bearings, then moved off to the south. He moved cautiously at first, darting from tree to tree and looking around carefully before moving on. But as time went by he moved with less caution. He couldn't stop staring at everything. Trees, birds, plants… he'd never seen them so close up, or so many of them.
He was so preoccupied he almost walked straight into a pair of Masters on ulvgaed on the trail ahead of him. He froze instantly when he spotted them and then eased behind a bush, watching them intently. He waited for them to leave but they seemed to be in no hurry, simply sitting patiently and waiting. He knew from years of hunting rats that the eye is drawn to movement, so he held perfectly still as their eyes passed over his hiding spot. He was tempted to back away and try to sneak off but he knew this game too well.
A horn sounded behind him and to his right. The Masters looked, then turned their mounts and rode in that direction. As soon as they were out of sight he darted across the trail and hurried on. When he heard the horn again it was much nearer and he began to run. Down a wooded slope, across a stream and along the edge of another, steeper slope.
He heard an excited shout to his left and drumming hooves. In fresh panic he turned away and slid down the hill on his bottom, bouncing off a tree. Losing control he rolled the rest of the way down. He bit back a scream at the savage jolts of pain from his broken arm. Coming to a stop he realized he was on a trail and staggered to his feet. Hearing a crashing from behind, he looked back to see a rider come down the slope in a shower of displaced rocks and dirt. Squirrel tripped and found himself lying on his back, unable to catch his breath.
The ulvgaed leaped towards him as the Master riding the creature sawed at the reins to hold it back. The goblin grinned cruelly as he raised his horn to signal the other hunters. But before the rider could sound the alert he was swept from the saddle in a spray of blood by a red-headed dwarf with a two-handed axe. The ulvgaed wheeled and lunged but the dwarf spun the axe to stab the iron-shod butt into its teeth as another dwarf hurtled forward and sank a long, broad-bladed knife into the back of its neck. The ulvgaed fell and the second dwarf turned to look at the boy as he wrenched his knife free.
Bright blue eyes locked on his as the dwarf spoke, but the boy could make no sense of it and shook his head, terrified of the fierce blood-spattered figure before him. Then the dwarf with the axe said something. The other shot a quick glance at him and nodded. He sheathed his bloody blade then snatched Squirrel to his feet by his good arm. As the dwarf threw him over his shoulder pain, shock and exhaustion overcame the boy and he passed out.
He came to himself slowly with dim memories of being carried. He remembered being thrown to the ground and the sounds of fighting, followed by more jolting and pain. There had been conversations that he could not understand as he passed in and out of consciousness.
When he opened his eyes he beheld the tallest woman that he had ever seen. She was pretty though startlingly thin, and her eyes were full
of concern. She spoke to him and while he couldn't understand the words he could tell it was a question. He sat up on the pallet he'd been laying on and scrabbled away from her, his back to the wall as his eyes locked on hers. She reached out slowly and gently touched the brand on his cheek, then turned to speak to someone else. He looked around the room and saw the blue-eyed dwarf standing near a doorway, and an older woman wearing a shirt of metal links sitting in a chair nearby. Candles lit the stone room and he realized that he was warm. The pallet was soft beneath him, as was the blanket that he'd displaced when he sat up.
He hurt all over and his arm throbbed with a dull ache. The break had been splinted and was bound tightly against his body under a clean shirt of finely woven fabric that reached to below his knees. The tall, kind-eyed woman patted his good shoulder gently and stepped away to talk to the others.
He had found them, the dwarven Masters! Or rather they had found him. He did not know where he was but he slowly relaxed. Clearly they meant him no harm and it came to him that he was safe. He shook with reaction and tears began to flow, then he was sobbing uncontrollably. He felt strong arms gather him up and hold him while he cried, pouring out the accumulated fear, the stress of his flight and injury. Finally he lapsed into exhausted slumber.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“We like to say that you can't break a dwarf's spirit, and that is even true of some. But the Baasgarta had found that they could twist that spirit, turn it back against us so that we forged and were held by chains of the same spirit that had made us indomitable. In many ways this was the worst of their crimes against Dwarves. “
From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
“At first we thought he was someone's child that was missed in the evacuation, but the scars on his cheek and shoulder tell a different story,” Engvyr said, “When the Baasgarta caught him, well, what else could we do?”
Master Ranger Berryc waved a hand dismissively.
“Oh you did right, there's no doubt a ‘that,” he said, “I've a feeling that the lad in yonder room is a key to this whole affair. It'd be nice if we could talk to him.”
“Well, even if we can suss out his speech it's going to be a while,” Deandra said briskly as she emerged from the room where the boy was being kept, “He's traumatized, exhausted and finally sleeping. It's a miracle that he hasn't already taken a fever so I'll thank you not to disturb him until he wakes.”
Engvyr smiled at her tone of command and extended a hand to her, which she took as she moved to stand close to his chair. He felt a thrill at her touch and comfort in her nearness. Besotted, he thought with a grin, that's the word. She squeezed his hand as if sensing his thought. With an effort he returned his attention to the conversation.
“It sounds to me almost like the old tongue,” Engvyr said, “or a dialect of it anyway. I'm just not familiar enough to say.”
Ynghilda nodded agreement and said, “It seemed so to me, too. I've sent to the camp for Harryl Gymlison. He learned the old tongue as a student in Ironhame, so if it is a dialect he's got the best chance to figure it out of anyone local.”
“In the meantime it seems likely to me that the boy is an escapee from the Baasgarta,” Said Colonel Oakes, commander of the 3rd Rifles, “I can't really see where else he might have come from.”
Ynghilda nodded, “They've been taking our folk. We've suspected they might be keeping them for slaves, but this boy isn't one of our own. Might be from somewhere else along the North taken years back but I don’t know anywhere they speak that tongue. That'd mean the Baasgarta have been taking dwarves for a lot longer than we thought. Hell, he might even have been born there.”
“Well,” said the Colonel, rising to depart, “We're not likely to figure it out by jawing over it all night. I need to get back to the camp. If'n you're able to find out anything be so kind as to send a rider to fetch me there.”
He nodded to them all and departed.
“The boy is likely to sleep through the night,” Deandra said, “I'll set with him so he doesn't wake alone.”
She kissed Engvyr good night and he watched her go with regret. They were newlyweds after all, and had gotten to spend precious little time together since the war started. Ynghilda also retired, Taarven in tow. Taarven scowled at Engvyr, daring him to comment but he just grinned. With a sigh he settled himself deeper into his chair by the fire and closed his eyes.
“What's the news?” the Colonel inquired as he entered.
Engvyr rose and poured the officer a cup of coffee and said, “Nothing yet. The boy's eaten and they've been in there an hour or more. They sent for you as soon as that fella’ figured out that he could talk to the boy, after a fashion at least.”
“Might as well pull up a chair,” Berryc told him, “No telling how long they'll be at it.”
Not that much longer, as it turned out. Ynghilda and Taarven emerged. They both appeared shaken by what they had heard. Ynghilda held up a hand to forestall their questions and fetched herself a cup of coffee. Taarven waved off Engvyr's questioning look and went outside.
Ynghilda settled herself into a chair and collected her thoughts before she spoke.
“First thing the boy did when he could make himself understood,” she told them, “was to beg us to be his new masters, and to tell us he was the best rat-catcher on his crew.”
The implications of that simple statement sank in quickly and the colonel began to swear softly. Engvyr felt his own fists clench in reflexive fury.
Ynghilda noted their reactions and continued, “He was a slave of the Baasgarta alright, but it's worse than we guessed. He was born to it as his folk have been from time out of mind. Seems like those goblin bastards have done a better job keeping dwarves as slaves than The Master ever figured out how to do.”
They heard someone chopping wood outside. It sounded like he was trying to kill the logs, not just split firewood. Taarven, at a guess. Nothing in the world would anger any dwarf as much as the idea of his folk being enslaved again.
“Seems they teach 'em from the time they can talk that they are being punished for sins in their past lives. The Baasgarta have made a religion of it, and by the time they're old enough to work they think it's no better than they deserve.”
They all digested that in silence for a moment.
“Anyway, weeks back they brought a bunch of them here, to a gully up north and set them to digging for something. The boy, his name is Squirrel, by the way, didn't know what they were looking for but it seemed almighty important to the Baasgarta.”
“How many are they, could he tell you that?” asked the Colonel.
“From what the boy told us there are several hundred slaves and maybe a couple battalions of Baasgarta,” Ynghilda said. She thought a moment, a disturbed expression on her face, then continued, “I think that for the moment we'd best keep this among ourselves. We don't need folk getting' in a bother and haring off after them on their own, and once this becomes common knowledge you know they'll want to do just that.”
Engvyr understood completely; he was almost overwhelmed by the desire to do something, anything, right now. Wait…
“Uh, brought them here? From where?” Engvyr asked.
Ynghilda scowled and said, “A place called the Pit, deep inside the Baasgarta kingdom. Apparently there are two types of slaves- farmers and miners. There are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of enslaved dwarves in their lands.”
Berryc swore with rage that they all understood and shared.
“We're going to have to keep ahead of this thing, alright. We also need to get word to Ironhame; this is going to mean a general mobilization. More immediately was the boy able to give you any clue as to where this dig-site is?” the Colonel asked.
“Well, bein' as he had no clue as to what a map was he could only describe it. There's a gully up in the northeast edge of the valley that people avoid, think its haunted or some such. I can't be sure but it sounds like the place,” Ynghilda said.
They c
onsulted over her maps of the valley for some time, but finally decided that they must wait at least a few days for more of the rangers to report in before moving. It would not do to give in to their rage, act prematurely and find themselves blindsided by an unexpected force.
“That may also give time for the 4th Heavy Infantry to arrive,” The colonel said, “They have been sent up to reinforce us and to help force a breakout when the time comes. Looks like that time may have come sooner than any of us expected…”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“We had expected the usual sort of war. Basically we would fight the Baasgarta and eventually achieve some sort of balance and a negotiated peace. But after news of the slaves got out that was all dust in the wind. This would be a war of eradication, if not of the Baasgarta as a people then certainly of their culture. The dwarves of Dvargatil Baeg would not rest while a single one of their brothers or sisters labored under the lash of slave-masters.”
From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
As the first blush of light touched the sky the dwarves of the 1st Mounted Infantry regiment fixed bayonets and prepared for the assault on the Baasgarta. They were outnumbered two to one and their enemies were in prepared positions. Worse yet even the light repeating crossbows favored by the Baasgarta had a longer effective range than the infantry's slug-guns. The dwarves didn't care. They were mad as hell and by the Lord and Lady they were going to crush the goblins. They were not so mad that discipline failed; their commanders had told them enough in advance so that the first flush of rage had passed. Now they were coldly angry and determined.
Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman Page 17
