Lord of the North

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  He shuddered slightly and took another deep draught. “Found something’ in that there hollow that put a shiver in my spine, and me, well, I ain’t the type to scare easy.”

  Either the man is a first-class actor, Ageyra thought, or what he’s seen has genuinely shaken him.

  “Hmmph,” she snorted. “And where is it we’ll be finding this thing we have to see?”

  He looked at her, considering for a moment. “I’m guessing we’ll be the rest of the day getting there and back,” he finally said.

  “Well, best we get moving then,” Ageyra drained her mug and thumped it down on the table-top.

  “Now hold on,” Taarven said. “I mislike you going off by yourself like this. Do you think it’s wise?”

  She grinned at her partner. “Well now, with a big, strong man like Merkell here looking out for me how could it go wrong? It’s not as if I didn’t manage well enough for a half-score of decades and more before I made your acquaintance, Taarven Redbeard.”

  Taarven frowned at her, then grinned. “I seem to recall you didn’t manage entirely well on your own, given the state we found you in.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That was an aberration. Anyway, if we need to know what this young man has found, I’d best be going, and no more argument from you!”

  *

  “Well,” she said, surveying the scene before her. “You were right. I don’t know as I’d have believed this if I hadn’t seen it.”

  She and Merkell had left the city through the Mid-North Gate and headed north, soon leaving the road and cutting into the hills. Along the way he’d pointed out the signs that had led him to this place, and while Ageyra was no tracker she’d hung around with Taarven long enough to understand what she was looking at. Lines on unshod prints from scores, maybe hundreds of dwarven feet leading away towards Taerneal. They’d stopped for a midday meal of the bread, cheese, and dried apples she’d carried, and shortly after, they’d found the hanging valley.

  As they’d crested the ridge and the valley came into view she could see a swampy mere stretching before them, its surface skimmed with a thin fog. A smell hung in the air, an unwholesome miasma of stagnant water mixed with corruption. Their breath formed clouds of vapor in the cold air that seemed to add to the mists rather than disperse. Looking at the tracks, she could see a trail that came down from the north and met with another group that had to be afmaeltinn. Their tracks accompanied the dwarven trail south. The Goblin’s tracks led into the mire and did not come out.

  Ageyra approached the mere cautiously, steeling herself to peer into the iron-grey waters. Between floating surface scum and the grey sky’s reflection, it took her eyes a moment to come upon the trick of focus that would allow her to peer into the depths. The first thing she saw was a face covered in black and red tattoos, distorted by death but still recognizably…

  “Baasgarta!” she spat. Looking about, she realized the bottom was virtually covered with bodies.

  “I figured that might be what they was,” Merkell said. “Never seen them before, but I couldn’t figure what else they might be. That water is ice-cold and loaded with minerals; I reckon that and the weight of armor is what keeps them from death-bloat that would float them to the surface. I done looked around when I found this place. There are hundreds of them.”

  He fingered a charm against evil with one hand and gestured with the other. “Seems like they came from the north, leading chains of dwarves, then handed ‘em off to these other fellows… before walking down into the water and drowning themselves. It ain’t natural!”

  That was a statement with which Ageyra could definitely agree. She didn’t need to extend her senses at all to feel the taint of evil here. She looked around at the eerie scene, shaking her head. What had possessed the baasgarta? Possessed, she thought, might be the correct word for what happened here. Certainly, no other explanation came readily to mind.

  They examined the area and it was as Merkell had said. The dead lay all across the bottom, as far as she could see, staring up through the dark, polluted water with blind, uncaring eyes. There’s a lot more going on here than some opportunistic slavin’, she thought. Damned if I can reckon what it might be, though.

  At last she stood, hands on hips, staring out over the haunted waters. “We need to be heading back. This is not a place I’d care to be after dark.”

  Merkell nodded ready agreement. “Fair to say. Hebert said it was important but now that you’ve seen it I’ll not be back this way. Wouldn’t be here now if’n it weren’t fer the color of yer coin.”

  Ageyra didn’t blame him. Not one little bit.

  *

  Taarven masked a shudder with another deep draught of his ale. The elderly stonewright had returned to the inn in time for a late supper and filled the ranger in on what she had seen. “Disturbing isn’t the word for it. What the hell is happening here?”

  Ageyra shrugged, glad to be back in the crowded warmth of the inn and far, far from that haunted valley. “How would I know? I’m just reporting what I saw.”

  Taarven shook his head. “There’s something much bigger—and much stranger—than opportunistic slaving here. This isn’t just a few greedy merchants grabbing the odd group where they can. We need to let Engvyr know about all this, and the sooner the better. Not that I think he’ll make any more sense of it than we have.”

  “At very least, he needs to be aware of the scale of the problem. Judging from the number of dead Baasgarta they must have already moved several thousand braell through the port. I can’t see any way that would be possible without collusion at high levels of the city’s government. Where they are taking them and what they are doing with them is another question; I’d think they’d flood the market if they tried to sell them.”

  Taarven looked unsettled at the thought. “The only thing I know about those markets is that they exist. Anyway, it’s time and past time we got back. Let brighter lights than ours illuminate the problem. Whatever is going on, the only thing that I am sure of is we’re not going to like it.”

  “Right there with you on that!” Ageyra paused, unsure how to proceed. She was not a nervous woman, but tonight she was jumpy. She had a strong feeling that they weren’t safe where they were. She couldn’t discover the source of the feeling, but she felt an urge to move, to get out. She wanted stout stone walls around her. She chided herself for being a silly old woman, but the feeling persisted and grew. Finally, she told Taarven, “I don’t know why, but I think we need to clear out. Head over to Hannes’ place and hole up, get out of town as fast as possible.”

  Taarven looked at her sharply. “Is this a Foretelling?”

  Ageyra shrugged uncomfortably. “I honestly don’t know; that’s not an ability I’ve ever had. Maybe I’m just being a nervous old biddy, but my gut is telling me we need to move.”

  Taarven peered at her searchingly for a moment, then gave a sharp nod. “Right then—your gut has kept you alive this long; if it says jump I’m inclined to ask, ‘How high?’ Let’s move.”

  Ageyra nodded, relieved. She’d spent scores of years in dangerous professions. Foretelling or not, she felt much better following her instincts. They repaired to their rooms, packed with haste, and made a quiet departure through the stable court. Their bills were paid up and they felt no compulsion to alert the staff, or anyone else in earshot, what they were about. Not that a pair of dwarves could cross an afmaeltinn city without being noticed, but they did their best to keep to back ways and not draw attention to themselves.

  Arriving at the warehouse, they knocked on the door to gain entry, and told the warehouseman that they needed to see Hannes as soon as possible. He was at his son’s house and so joined them within minutes. When they’d finished revealing the full scope of their investigation, he swore like she’d never heard before, and she’d heard him swear plenty. Ageyra agreed heartily with the sentiment.

  “How are you set for goods for the return trip?” she asked. “Best we be on our way as soon
as may be.”

  Hannes, distracted, made a vague gesture. “Oh, no issue there. I’ll recall the other drovers; if we load overnight we can be on our way in the morning. Hebert. See to that, and waste no time if you please.”

  The young afmaeltinn nodded and left at a jog. Hannes sent word to the house and within the hour the wagons were pulling in. The warehouse staff and the drovers worked like the well-drilled team they were, getting the loads sorted and into each wagon with practiced ease. By midnight the load-out was complete. A half-dozen wagons had been sent ahead to the caravanserai at the edge of town. The remaining wagons were parked nose-to-tail in the central aisle of the warehouse, ready to be rolled to the back door and mated to the teams of oxen that would be brought in from the yards at dawn. Everybody bedded down as best they were able, mostly among the goods stacked in the wagon-beds.

  They woke as the first light of day showed in the sky, well before dawn. Kolgríma and their servants brought them a massive kettle of porridge and several loaves of rich, black rye bread. They broke their fast quickly, grateful for the hot meal, and then the drovers departed to fetch their teams.

  Aegir called them outside and pointed north to a dirty orange glow surmounted by a column of black smoke. “That’s in North Harbor unless I am badly mistaken.”

  Taarven, Hannes, and Ageyra exchanged glances. It was hard to be sure, but she thought the fire looked to be at the site of their inn.

  The caravan got underway just as the sun broke over the horizon in the east, rolling slowly through the growing crowds in the streets as the city awoke. Ageyra felt terribly exposed, with an itchy sensation between her shoulder blades as if they were being observed. She restrained herself from checking and re-checking the carbine tucked beneath the wagon’s bench. None of them flaunted their weapons, but Taarven also had a carbine near to hand and she knew the others in the train well armed and ready.

  Within the hour, they had rendezvoused with the wagons at the caravanserai, formed up, and taken the road. The guards merely nodded as they passed through the gates, and Ageyra heaved a silent sigh of relief when they’d left the city behind. We’re not clear yet, she reminded herself. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she’d feel truly safe until the doors of Engvyr’s great hall were firmly barred, with her on the inside.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Fishing can be a profitable venture, but if success was assured, they’d call it not ‘fishing,’ but ‘getting’. “

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Considering the matter, Kevrenn decided that the easiest way to move quantities of slaves into the city would be to simply bribe the guards at one of the gates. That being the case, he took a walk the following afternoon to peruse the various entries to the city. Given that the Baasgarta lands were to the north he started in that direction. The North harbor gate wasn’t promising; it was relatively small and led into The Breakers. Speaking to the locals, he found that the gate was locked at night, and theoretically one could only pass with a special permit from the council.

  “Are those common?” he asked a fruit-seller in the small square near the gate.

  “Not so far as I could tell you,” he replied. “But then I make myself scarce mighty quick towards sundown. Streets aren’t any too safe at night hereabouts.”

  He bought a passable-looking apple and idled about as he ate it, examining the gate. It was too small for a freight-wagon; really too tight for any but the smallest carts. You’d not be smuggling anyone in that way, and leading chains of dwarves in through The Breakers just outside the gate would have people talking in no time. There were also no routes from the gate that led near where he had seen the string of captive dwarfs. He marked it in his mind as “unlikely” and moved on.

  The North Gate was far and away the largest, right at the edge of the North Harbor district. Not too far, in fact, from his salle, it opened onto a large plaza that hosted a daily market. While it did provide access to the streets and alleys the slavers had used, anyone entering the gate at night would have to cross a large open area to reach them. This was practically his own neighborhood and Gudrun shopped at this very market. He was pretty sure from the wealth of gossip that she brought home along with the groceries that if anything that odd was going on around there he’d already have heard.

  The Mid-North Gate was another matter. It led straight onto the main street and, moreover, was not far from where he had the sighting that had started this whole mess. The area outside the gate was cleared, but there were no habitations or businesses nearby. It’d be a simple matter to bring up the slaves under cover of darkness and slip them through into the narrow streets and alleys of the district. There was an inn only a few doors down from the gate; he stopped in for a pint and engaged the innkeeper in conversation.

  “Thinking about relocating,” Kevrenn told him. He was dressed as a common laborer in a well-worn tunic and his shabby grete-cote. “Know of any rooms to let?”

  The innkeeper looked him up and down. “You might check with Halgrima, the seamstress over on Bergenstreet. I hear she sometimes has a room to let.”

  Kevrenn took a sip of his thin, sour beer. “Much obliged. How’s the neighborhood?”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Not bad in daylight, if you know what I mean. Nighttime, maybe not so good. Been killings of late, mostly vagrants.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the man. “That’s odd, then, isn’t it? Not like they have much to steal. Why kill ‘em?”

  “Beats me,” the innkeeper said. “Anyway, the beggars have started to steer clear, so it’s not all bad.”

  The conversation moved on to other aspects of the area, but Kevrenn paid little attention. Kill or drive off the homeless and there would be no one to see any of the late-night comings and goings along the street. He ought to see if he couldn’t find a place to keep watch but there was just so much one man could do. Between teaching classes in the day and the poking around he’d been doing at night, he was getting worn down. He had no one he could trust with doing it for him, either. Not who he would be willing to risk, anyway. If he simply tried to hire someone from the neighborhood, word would too likely get around. It might be that he was being paranoid, but he had a bad feeling about this affair. Sure, I am paranoid, he thought, but am I paranoid enough?

  He had managed to identify the most probable point of entry, and for the moment that was as much as he was likely to manage. He returned to the salle by a meandering route, keeping an eye out for followers. If any were present, they were too adept for him to spot, and at length he returned home. He spent the remaining time before supper writing a report to Lord Albrekk, detailing his finds and suppositions.

  After supper he retired early. Being a man of a certain age, he rose in the midnight hours to relieve himself, but instead of returning to bed he crept into the sale, disguised himself, and departing through the secret exit. He made his way to the great North Gate and was able to pass out of the city without difficulty. The guards were there, after all, to control traffic coming in. He’d added a pack of the type worn by itinerant traders to his disguise. The guards took him for what he appeared to be; a drunken vendor of some kind, heading home late after stopping off for a tipple or two. Aside from a not unfriendly nod of greeting from one of them, they made no comment as he passed through the portal into the darkness beyond.

  Farmer’s fields ran hard up against the wall west of the gate, making good use of land that would have had to be cleared anyway for the city’s defense. He went for a time along the lane that ran parallel to the wall, then cut across the fields to the wall itself. He was mindful to stay well away from the farmhouses and outbuildings; the farmers kept dogs or, even worse, geese to sound the alarm if someone were to come poking around. Finally, he came within sight of the Mid-North gate.

  The winter wheat had yet to be harvested, so he found a position on the back side of a hummock that allowed him a good view of the gate while being well concealed in the darkness. He pulled a ground-cl
oth out of the pack and settled down to wait. It was cold. He wrapped his scarf round his mouth to prevent the fog of his breath telling his position. He was dressed warmly, but after a time the cold seeped into his bones, and it provoked the occasional shiver.

  A small number of people came and left shortly after he’d settled in, but as the hour grew later, all movement through the gate ceased. The half-moon provided more than adequate light by which to see.

  Finally, light began to touch the sky and the stars faded. Moving stiffly, he rolled up the ground-cloth and stowed it away, retracing his path back to the North Gate. Entering the city, he crossed the market square, stopping only to buy a fresh loaf of warm bread before slipping back into his quarters. He would have been lucky indeed to succeed on his first night out, he reflected as he snuggled into his warm bed to catch a couple hours of sleep. He wished that he were younger and more resilient. He was in excellent condition for a human of his age, but that was still a relative thing. It took some time for the cold to leave him, but that did not keep him from finding sleep.

  When he woke, he could hear Gudrun moving quietly about at the hearth, trying not to wake him. He felt a flash of irritation at her caution; he was not some invalid that needed coddling. It was an unworthy thought, and he chided himself for it; the woman was simply showing consideration. When he stirred and sat up in bed, he reconsidered embracing that invalid status after all; spending the night on the cold, hard ground had left him stiff and sore. He stretched carefully and decided that he would probably live.

  He washed and dressed quickly and sent Ullerek off with the letter he had written and instructions to wait for a response. There was no morning class that day and he decided to follow up on the idea of investing by paying a visit to Hannes Gutman. Jarrod had sent along the merchant’s address with a note instructing him that even if the trader was not in residence, his son Aegir, who was his factor within the city, would likely be present and available.