Lord of the North

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  “Beg yer pardon, sir,” Gert interjected, “But best your friend do the talking now. The numbweed’ll take a bit a’ the sting out, but I doubt you’ll feel real chatty.” She held up a needle strung with gut meaningfully.

  The ranger nodded and gestured to Garrel to continue as he took the leather strap offered by the medic and bit into it. Gert began to stitch up the gash and the other ranger took up the tale.

  “Not much more to tell, really. We made it to the road and came east, keeping quiet and under cover until we came across your camp. If’n you don’t mind my asking, sir, are you comin’ or going?”

  “We’re out of Taerneal with a load of coffee, salt and textiles,” Hannes told him. “We’re expecting to overnight at Eastgrove before heading for the Makepeace stead.”

  The Taerneal Road connected the Makepeace Valley with the afmaeltinn city-state on the coast. Until the war it was little-travelled, as the north was sparsely populated. Hannes had built his business trading south through the mountains to mining camps and Ironhame, but now the north was growing up and Hannes had seized the opportunity to get in on the trade early. In fact, he planned to look into having a warehouse built at the growing stead.

  “We need to report to Makepeace Station as soon as may be,” Garrel said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ponies you can lend us? We’d hold them for you at the station of course.”

  Hannes shook his head. “If we had any you’d be welcome to ‘em, but we’ve just the oxen. You’re more than welcome to a ride though; give you boys a chance to rest up. You surely seem to need it. Likely you can get ponies or send a runner to the station from Eastgrove.”

  Garrel nodded. “Much obliged sir. We’re pretty near the end of our rope as it is.”

  Horrek spit out the well-bitten scrap of leather as Gert finished her stitching and began to bandage the wound. He was pale and sweating.

  Hannes tapped the woman to get her attention. “Gert, you put this man up in my wagon, and if’n you got something for his pain give it to him. He’s not likely to enjoy the journey and might just as well sleep through it.”

  She nodded and helped the ranger away as the camp roused and began preparing for the day’s travel. Garrel looked after his partner while Hannes thought about the ranger’s story. If the Tall Folk were venturing into slavery again, then the braell represented a golden opportunity for them. The military might of the baasgarta was broken, but vast areas of their territory were not yet under dwarven control. There would be tens of thousands of braell in those areas, and being slaves already they would be easy to manage, once their baasgarta masters were out of the way. He had to wonder if it had occurred to anyone else what a bonanza these people would represent to the afmaeltinn slavers from the far south.

  He frowned again as another disturbing thought occurred to him. A close ambush of a pair of rangers was not an easy thing; they were notoriously woods-wise and careful. Certainly he did not know of any group in the Taerneal area competent enough to surprise rangers in the forest.

  Garrel wound up dozing by the fire as the caravan’s drovers and guards filed through to get their breakfasts. Hannes busied himself with preparations for the day’s travel and they were on the road within an hour of sunrise. Garrel was comfortably ensconced on tarp over the bags of coffee and Horrek was peacefully asleep in Hannes’s own bunk.

  Much as they need the rest it’s a shame we didn’t have ponies for them, Hannes reflected as the oxen plodded through the morning. They were only two to three leagues from Eastgrove by his estimate, but it would be near sunset by the time they pulled in for the night. The virtue of oxen lay in their strength and stamina, not their speed. On ponies the two rangers would have been to the estate well before noon and probably made the Makepeace Stead by nightfall if they didn’t simply drop from exhaustion.

  The overcast day was a comfortable temperature, perfect traveling weather really, but Hannes was concerned. The guards were paying extra attention to the road behind, not the least because they were in unfamiliar territory. Hannes had been trading out of Taerneal for decades, but he had always approached from the south and returned the same way. This was only their second trip overland to Makepeace Valley; on the first trip they’d spent a fair bit of time and effort improving the road.

  He was already well established in the human city, with a modest warehouse and his youngest son, Aegir, and his wife, Kolgríma, acting as his factors there. Hannes’s own wife, Bergette, had passed twenty years before of pneumonia and his remaining oldest son, Hnaki, had been living in Ironhame, breeding and training oxen in addition to maintaining the family’s warehouse and trade in the city. Hnaki had not yet married and Hannes had his suspicions as to why, but the boy would tell him or not in his own good time. With a rueful internal grin he thought, Still, I’ll not hold my breath waiting on grandchildren from that corner…

  Shifting his mind to more germane matters, he thought of his current situation. An army may march on its stomach, but a dwarven army runs on coffee, and uniforms wear out, plus there are all those newly freed braell that will need clothes. With that thought in mind he had sent word to Aegir at midwinter to procure his current cargo. While no civilian traders were being allowed into the conquered territories yet, army quartermasters would be coming through in droves, and if a dwarf had feet on the ground when the former baasgarta lands opened up he might do very well indeed.

  Horrek was up and about in the early afternoon and joined his partner among the sacks of coffee. The company ate a cold lunch of hard sausage, cheese, and bread while on the move. As the oxen plodded up the winding mountain road the day passed without incident but for one exception. Shortly after noon they saw a troll regarding them from the edge of the road a few hundred paces ahead. More than twice the height of a dwarf and almost entirely covered in long brown hair, the creature watched their slow approach for a few moments before melting into the forest. Trolls were rarely seen, though their huge tracks were a fairly common sight in remote parts of the mountains. Those inclined to superstition took their rare appearances as an omen, but for his part Hannes suspected the creature was merely curious. Probably never seen so many wagons on this road.

  Normally the few traders that used this route ran pack-mules or unharnessed oxen, which, unlike a wagon, could step around small obstacles. The first time the caravan had come through, they’d had to cut away occasional deadfalls or widen the road even, but thanks to those earlier efforts, this trip was easier going. There was still a short bad stretch along the river where they might have to work to get the wagons through, but when they reached the spot it was evident that someone else was thinking ahead, for the road had been recently widened and cleared.

  His estimate of their progress had been good; the sun had dropped below the peaks, but true sunset was still some time off as they rolled up to Eastgrove. Why is it called Eastgrove when it lies at the west end of the valley? Hannes wondered. The place was apparently named for the ancient grove of Beech trees that stood near the great hall. Perhaps at one point there had been another grove further west? It didn’t really matter one way or another, and he dismissed his suppositions with a shrug.

  It was a handsome place, and well situated with the great hall set back into the hillside. No expense was being spared in its construction either, he noted. The main building was of fieldstone and was roofed in copper rather than the more typical thatch or cedar shakes. Fireproof, he thought, examining the lay of the place with a soldier’s eye. Once the lower court is walled our Lord Warden will have himself a tidy little fortress here.

  There was open meadow north of the hall where he ordered the wagons to pull up. Then, taking Korrel with him, Hannes approached the estate. A youngish dwarf armed with a long rifle noted their approach and broke off his conversation with the blacksmith to come meet him. He was wearing a coat cut like the Mountain Guard uniform, his hair and beard neatly trimmed in the fashion of a soldier. Hannes got a good look at the dwarf’s weapon as they approached
and noted it was an Infantry Long-Rifle. No expense being spared on the guard-force either, he thought.

  Hannes hailed him. “Ho there, I am Hannes Gutmann, Master Trader. I’d admire to speak to your Lord, if he’s available?”

  The dwarf stopped before him and settled the rifle in the crook of his arm with a slow grin. “You’re in for a bit of a hike yet, then, seeing as he is in Ironhame to the best of my knowledge.”

  Noting his confusion, the young dwarf grinned even wider, with a twinkle in his eye, and elaborated. “Seeing as I report directly to the King and all. I’m Engvyr Gunnarson, or Lord Eastgrove if you really must.”

  Hannes blinked in surprise, then grinned himself and accepted a forearm clasp from the Lord Warder of the North. “Forgive me, M’Lord Engvyr. In the south our lords are a little less… ‘Hands-on.’”

  “A little more full of themselves, I think you mean,” Engvyr said, still grinning. “We’re a bit less formal here in the Northlands. Well, that and until a few months ago I was just an ex-soldier and a Ranger of the Mountain Guard. Never had time for all that fancy stuff then, and not much inclination to it now, truth be told.”

  The young lord gestured to the nearby caravan. “Like as not you’ll want to be spending the night, so you might as well have your folk laager up right where they’re at. I reckon I can talk the kitchen into sending down a hot meal by and by, if you’re so inclined.”

  Hannes saw the younger dwarf’s eyes suddenly lock on something behind him and turned to see the pair of rangers approaching.

  “Horrek? Garrel? What are you boys doing here? Did you come in with the wagons?”

  “That we did. Found ourselves in a bit of a pickle, and Master Hannes here was kind enough to give both aid and transport,” Horrek informed him. “We were following a group of baasgarta and braell moving southwest. We found the goblins dead, but then we ran afoul of the afmaeltinn band that killed them. We escaped, but lost our mounts, so we hiked it to the Taerneal Road, where we met up with Master Hannes’s caravan.”

  Engvyr frowned. “Southwest you say? That’s well out of their territory; it almost sounds as if they were headed to the city. What can they be about?”

  Horrek shrugged. “They’re about dead now, and the braell are in the hands of the folk that attacked us. I’ve a thought they mean to slave ‘em out of the sea port.”

  “That’s madness! They can’t think we’d let them get away with it. And I can’t believe the Taerneal Council would approve.”

  Horrek took of his hat and wiped his brow. “That’s as may be. We’ll let Master Hannes here fill you in on the details, and of course you’ll get a copy of our official report. For now we’d be much obliged for the loan of some ponies; we’ve a powerful need to get to the Station and make that report.”

  “Of course!” The young lord turned to the Blacksmith. “Berrel! Take these boys over to the stable and see to it they get what they need, and send your apprentice up to the kitchens for a bit of something for them while they’re getting situated.”

  The Rangers headed for the stables and Lord Eastgrove turned back to Hannes. “Well then, Master Hannes. Looks like you’ve wrangled yourself an invitation to dinner. The missus and I will be expecting you at the great hall as soon as your folks are settled.”

  It was not a request, Hannes noted.

  “As you wish, M’Lord. My regards to her Ladyship, and you can expect me within the hour.”

  The younger dwarf nodded, dismissing him to his duties, and turned on his heel toward the stables. Hannes did as bidden and went to get his people settled in for the night.

  The Lord warder’s table was as unpretentious as the dwarf himself, Hannes noted. The folk of the estate dined in the Great Hall, and neither rank nor station seemed much of an issue. Dinner was simple fare: a rich pork stew with sour-cream gravy, served with black bread and wedges of sharp white cheese—plain food, all, but well made.

  The trader was seated at the high table with the Lord and his Lady, and over the course of the meal he relayed the ranger’s tale as he had heard it. An excellent memory was an asset in his trade, and he was able to relate their story practically word for word.

  Engvyr was visibly disturbed by the account.

  “Hard to think what they might be about if they aren’t planning to enslave the braell. Best we alert the Taerneal Council to keep their eyes peeled. I expect they’ll be eager enough not to cross us; with the North opening up they’d stand to lose significant trade, and come to it we’d be better off staying on good terms.”

  The Lord Warder exchanged a significant glance with his wife and continued. “As it happens we’ve some personal correspondence headed that way. We’d be obliged if you could stop by on the return trip for them and a message to the council.”

  Hannes nodded. “Of course, M’lord. I’ll have my own folk keep an ear to the ground once we’re back in the city as well.”

  “Thank you,” Engvyr said. “I don’t think it occurred to anyone that to some afmaeltinn the braell might represent a significant opportunity for slaving; especially as we haven’t got the whole of the country under control, nor anything better than a guess of the braell numbers. Damn stupid of them, but their lives and memories are short.”

  “This could be an isolated incident,” Deandra put in. “A few hooligans that saw an opportunity and took it without thinking it through. I think we might want to include an amnesty in that letter to the council; as long as such people turn the baasgarta over to us, promptly and unharmed, we’ll be willing to forgive and forget.”

  Engvyr nodded. “That might do if this turns out to have been an individual error of judgment, especially if the council puts the pressure on and makes it difficult for them to sell them off.”

  Deandre leaned forward and took his hand. “That’s that, then. But enough, perhaps, of weighty matters? We need not occupy all the evening with affairs of state; I think there is aught more pleasant we might discuss with our guest.”

  The Lord Warder agreed, and they passed the remainder of the evening discussing the news of the season and the war and exchanging questions about life, family, and business. Hannes was impressed with their wit and the quickness of their minds, as well as their openness and good humor. He had been startled on first realizing that the Lord Warder had taken an afmaeltinn wife, but as the evening went on he realized they were a good pairing; they complimented each other. The north, he reflected, could do worse than having its fate placed in their hands.

  Chapter Five

  “In the end, the braell were just folks, so you cannot really say of them that they were one way or another, but the tendency among them once they were freed of the baasgarta was to be independent and prideful, asking nothing of no one that they didn’t feel they’d earned. “

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Squirrel Storvelhoffin raced down the road to greet the approaching riders, and Deandra smiled, both at the boy’s enthusiasm and how much he had grown over the winter. When she had first seen him, he had been undersized from malnourishment but after more than a half-year of plenty he had shot up like a weed. He was flushed from his exertions, making the brand on his right cheek stand out.

  Squirrel was one of the braell, the former slaves of the baasgarta. The goblins had brought a group of them to the Makepeace Valley to excavate an artifact, but Squirrel had escaped and been rescued by Engvyr and Taarven. The boy represented the first proof that the baasgarta were not only keeping dwarves as slaves, but had been doing so for generations. This sparked a rescue mission, but they failed to save the bulk of the braell. The baasgarta excavation was complete, and to avoid the cost of feeding slaves on a long journey home, the baasgarta were slaughtering them when the rescuers arrived. In the end, of the more than three hundred braell slaves who entered that valley, only five-score survived.

  The boy was jumping up and down with excitement as he greeted her. “Lady Deandra guess what the goats have had four more babies goat ba
bies are called kids did you know that and Big Mattock and Single Jack plowed four whole fields yesterday and Double Jack is due to have her baby any day now and Brait is going to have puppies ‘cause it turns out he’s a girl dog and Big Mattock said…”

  “Hold on, slow down,” Deandra interrupted, laughing, “plenty of time to tell me the news. Where is Big Mattock now?”

  “Um, sorry Ma’am,” the boy said with a sketchy half-bow as he remembered his manners at last. “Welcome to Storvelhoffin Stead. I think he’s in the south fields plowing—shall I get him for you?”

  Deandra suppressed a smile at his sudden, belated formality and nodded to acknowledge his bow. “That would be good. Please have him meet me at the stead-hame, would you?”

  “Yes ma’am!” With another half-bow the boy bolted away on his errand.

  She shook her head and exchanged a grin with Hildrida who was the leader of Deandra’s escort of half a dozen householders. Deandra still wasn’t used to being so accompanied whenever she left the estate. It made even the simplest of excursions into a production, and part of her resented it even as she understood the necessity.

  The stead-hame was a low-walled structure of fieldstone with sharply peaked roofs to shed the heavy mountain snows. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney of the central hearth and Cook stepped into the doorway as they approached, wiping her hands on a towel as she called out a greeting.

  “Halloo! Welcome, welcome, there’s fresh bread and cheese, and the coffee is on! Come in, come in!” She gestured to them to enter and disappeared back into the Hame. Deandra had her own gun in-hand; it was well and good to have bodyguards but she would not leave her own defense entirely in their hands. She slid the weapon, an ancient 14-Bore “Barrel-cocker” that Engvyr had inherited from his father, into her saddle scabbard before she dismounted. One of the Householders took charge of Deandra’s pony and Hildrida proceeded her into the Hame. After a quick look around, she nodded for her mistress to enter. Deandra suppressed her irritation; after all, the woman was just doing her job. As if any in this place would wish me ill! Deandra thought.