Lord of the North

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  Without warning, the doors to the chamber burst open to admit the panic-stricken council Herald, who interrupted with a shout. “The dwarves have entered the city in force, and they are coming here!”

  Chaos erupted as the various council members shouted questions, exclamations of outrage, or incoherent babble with no apparent purpose except to make noise. Several started for the door but were thwarted when the council Guard closed ranks to cut them off. Albrekk watched the council Chairman pounding his gavel on the table to see if the head of the mallet would fly off before order was restored. He was mildly disappointed when it did not.

  When the room returned to a semblance of order the Chairman turned to Captain Gevrell, the commander of the City Watch. “How did they gain entry to the city? Never mind, we must deal with the threat first. You have leave to depart—stand your men to arms and defend our city!”

  The Captain made no move to comply. He picked up a goblet belonging to one of the council Members from the table, took a drink, and cleared his throat. “That will not be necessary, My Lord Chairman; our city is in no danger. As to how the dwarves gained entry, that is simple: the gates were opened to them at my command.”

  In the ensuing outcry, Albrekk heard the word “treason” several times, shouted by several different voices. Once again, the head of the Chairman’s gavel remained in place despite vigorous pounding. When sufficient order was restored that he could be heard over the din, the Chairman fairly growled, “Perhaps the Captain can explain to us why he has allowed foreign troops entry to the city?”

  The Captain sat up, blinking in an admirable parody of confusion. “But My Lord Chairman, I have not! These are not foreign troops; they are our allies, observing and assisting the Guard in its legal duty to enforce the law. Having brought the evidence of a criminal enterprise within our city, they have generously offered their assistance in apprehending those responsible. I have accepted their aid, and as we speak our combined forces are moving to shut down the ring of slavers.”

  Inevitably, this resulted in more outcries, but the Chairman shouted them down.

  “By what authority did you grant this invasion of our sovereign territory?” he asked finally, rage written in the tension of his face and frame.

  Captain Gevrell squared his shoulders and answered in a calm but firm voice. “By my authority as the Captain of the City Guard. It is my duty to act in the defense of this city, and to uphold its laws. To protect the city against attack. I have done no more than my duty to the people of this city, and could you of the ruling council say the same, I would have had no need to act as I have.”

  There was a murmur of protest and Albrekk was pleased to see the Captain stare them down before he continued. “In addition to inviting our allies to assist us in cutting this cancer from the bosom of our city, I have ordered the harbor closed, and have manned the war engines that protect the entrance; no ship will be allowed to depart until it has been searched for contraband and slaves.”

  There were more exclamations of outrage at this, even a few calls for the Captain’s arrest.

  “Why then,” the Chairman asked, “did you not consult with the council before taking these extreme steps? Surely the matter was not so urgent that there was no time to consult with us?”

  Albrekk stood. “Begging the Chairman’s pardon, but I believe that I can answer to that, if the honorable Captain will yield the floor?”

  Captain Gevrell nodded his assent.

  Albrekk nodded in reply and returned his attention to the Chairman. “The good Captain did not consult with this body because I told him that doing so would be futile. The Ruling council itself is compromised, and there are members present who are complicit in the slave trade. It was and is my belief that these members have suborned elements of the Guard, and would act to impede any resolution of this situation.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, “As I told you yesterday, I have been pursuing my own investigations for some time. I sent an envoy to the dwarves to share the results of that investigation. This was after the dwarves’ own investigators were attacked on the road by members of our Guard, suborned by one of our own number. Most of these men were killed, but the survivors were apprehended upon their return and put to the question. None could say at whose direction they acted, save that they were obeying orders ‘from the council.’ Ask yourselves this, Ladies and Gentlemen: who among us could credibly give such an order, could be viewed as having the authority to speak on behalf of the council?”

  There was another stir as the council considered the question, many of them glancing around the room, considering.

  “Before my agent left the city,” Albrekk continued, “there was an attempt to assassinate him, which thankfully he survived. Among those that didn’t survive the attempt was a young nobleman, one Beyork Admunson, who possessed a reputation as a rake and scoundrel. While his immediate family is not directly involved with the Ruling council, they are related by marriage to those who are. Hardly surprising, of course; I doubt we could find anyone of noble birth without some connection to the council.”

  Several asked after that connection but before Albrekk could reply the door to the chamber opened slightly. A Herald, poked his head in the door, wide eyed. “Begging the council’s pardon, my Lords and Ladies,” he announced in a tremulous voice far different from his usual, ringing tones, “but um, the dwarves are here. Lord Warden Engvyr himself is with them, and is demanding an immediate audience!”

  As one, the council members turned to the Chairman.

  Albrekk watched the color drain from the chairman’s face and suppressed a smile. This would be yet another interesting day…

  *

  It was well after dawn when the battalion of dwarves assembled and marched to the city. The day was clear and sunny but still cool. Engvyr himself was mounted and dressed in full plate armor, as were the hundred-strong troop of Cavalry at his back. They assumed road-march formation and proceeded to the main eastern gate of the city. A platoon of mounted infantry peeled off north to watch that gate there, and another rode to the south.

  Engvyr could see the guards along the city wall moving about, and the occasional flash of a looking-glass as they approached, but as expected no alarm was raised. The few people along the road, walking or driving wagons towards the gate, looked at the dwarven force and prudently moved aside. Engvyr pulled up at the gates of the city. Behind him, he could hear the Sergeants shouting “halt” all along the column at his back. A Taerneal Guard Officer was waiting for them, and saluted Engvyr.

  “Lieutenant Garvin, My Lord, Commander of the 3rd Guards Foot Company. My men and I are at your service.”

  Engvyr returned the salute. “Thank you, Commander. Colonel Gertred will liaise with you directly. My soldiers and I will proceed to Council House to meet with the Ruling council. Shall we?”

  The lieutenant nodded sharply. “As you wish, My Lord. Sergeant Freiden’s squad will accompany you.”

  The Sergeant was introduced, and Engvyr and the dwarven cavalry passed through the gates, following the detachment of guards through the city. They turned left after crossing the square inside of the gate. He reckoned that most days it was probably a market, but today the square was occupied solely by soldiers, standing neatly at attention by squad and platoon.

  People gathered along the road to watch them pass, and seemed impressed. The dwarfs had left behind their lances, for they would be of little use in the closed confines of the city. Instead, each troop carried a carbine across their saddle bow, with right hand securing the weapon’s action, and left holding the reins. Reactions amongst the watching civilians were mixed; some cheered at the sheer spectacle of it, others glared. Engvyr knew that whichever camp the city’s people were in, they all had to be wondering what in the world the dwarven forces were doing there. Seeing their own Guards heading the procession might be quelling the worst of their uneasiness, Engvyr thought, but they must still be wondering…

  He co
uld see as they rode that soldiers had been stationed along the way ahead of them to clear a path, and they also cast wondering looks at the dwarven formation as it passed. Arriving at the council House, the dwarves pulled up in the fore-court of the grand building. The platoon dismounted with Engvyr, and leaving a squad with the horses, the rest entered the building behind him.

  Though they were now cavalry, each of the men was a veteran, and well familiar with marching and drill. Thirty strong, they moved in perfect lockstep; as if no longer individuals, but rather the component parts of some great war-machine. Their plate armor was oiled and darkly gleaming, and their weapons, carried at port-arms, were spotless; the truncated stocks practically glowed from recent waxing. Though the tallest among them stood barely chest-high to their afmaeltinn observers, all who beheld them drew back, fearful of the armored juggernaut passing through their midst.

  A former infantryman himself, Engvyr knew that his dwarves were marching more heavily that they required, fairly slamming their feet into the floor. It was a technique used deliberately when a formation of soldiers sought to create maximum spectacle—or simply to intimidate. No one had taught them to do it; it emerged naturally when the circumstances called for it.

  The council Guards were a separate entity from the city watch, with their own command structure. As the dwarfs rounded a corner into the final hallway before the council chamber, Engvyr saw a squad of rifle-armed men in half-armor awaiting them. When the dwarves were twenty paces away, they brought their weapons to port arms, and their leader commanded, “Halt in the name of the Ruling council!”

  Engvyr held up his left fist and the dwarves at his back stopped instantly. The perfect rhythm of their marching halted at once, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

  The Lord Warden did not speak, but raised an eyebrow at the leader of the council Guards. Before either could speak, the council Herald bustled between them. To give him credit, he was determined to do his job, despite the fact that he was obviously terrified.

  “My Lord Engvyr,” he announced, “I bid you welcome on behalf of the Ruling council.”

  Turning to the guards, he made quelling motions. “Captain,” he said loudly, “the Lord Warden is a guest of the council!”

  The captain of the council Guard said dryly, “I was not informed that his invitation had been extended to include a heavily armed platoon of retainers.”

  Sergeant Frieden spoke up. “Captain, with all due respect, the Lord Warden’s men are present by the request of the City Guard as part of an ongoing joint operation within the city. They are here solely as a precaution, to guard the person of the Lord Warden.”

  Plainly, the officer had not been informed of happenings elsewhere in the city, but he was no fool; it was obvious that if the situation escalated to violence, it would go very badly for him and his men. “At ease,” he ordered. Turning to the leader of the dwarves, he said, “Your Excellency, how may we serve?”

  Engvyr acknowledged him with a nod. “I require an audience with the Ruling council.”

  The Captain’s brow furrowed at the curt phrasing of the request, but he turned to the Herald and dutifully said, “Please announce the Lord Warden.”

  The frightened herald gave a quick bob of his head and slipped through the door into the council chamber. Engvyr could hear him speaking to the people inside, and after a moment the door swung wide. Gathering the guard Sergeant with his eyes, Engvyr strode forward.

  *

  Bulewef Ungersson was nervous as his platoon moved through the city in the wake of a squad of afmaeltinn guards. He was too good a soldier to show it, of course, maintaining perfect formation, his eyes locked on the collar of the dwarf ahead of him. His slug-gun was unloaded at the moment; they were theoretically among friends, after all. Still, he had been relieved when they’d been ordered to fix bayonets before their party set off.

  Like most dwarves, he had never seen an afmaeltinn city, and he could not help but occasionally flick his eyes this way and that as they marched through the streets. It was not wildly different from a dwarven city; at ground level many buildings had shops opening onto the street, with apartments above. Vendors paused their sales patter to curiously watch them pass, then returned to business. Women with shopping baskets, alone or herding children, moved through the crowds or haggled over prices. In some ways it all seemed tame and normal.

  But in other ways…

  Everyone is so tall, he thought, then immediately felt foolish. Of course, they were; this was an afmaeltinn city after all. Likewise, the buildings seemed to stretch upwards precariously, scaled to the people. It seemed unnatural, and he was troubled by the sensation that the over-tall buildings would suddenly topple and bury them all.

  Though a young dwarf, Bulewef still had over a dozen years of service under his belt, and the habits of discipline held. He heeded but lightly the excited cries of children and the shouts of merchants, and he paid no mind to the damp, sour smell from rising from open gutters that carried the city’s waste to the sewers.

  They marched downhill toward the harbor, and gradually the businesses and tenements gave way to warehouses. The smell of the shore intruded as the odors of habitation faded, and far down the street he could see the brightness of water and the spidery rigging of ships.

  “Platoon… Halt!”

  They took one further step and stopped in unison. Around them, stone and brick walls of the warehouses towered above. Most of the warehouses along the street had their wide cargo doors open to catch the sea-breeze or to load wagons, and some of the workers stopped their labors to stare at the soldiers. The doors of the warehouse at their right, however, were closed.

  Bulewef could see the man in charge of the City Guard detachment speaking briefly with their own sergeant before moving down the street with his men. The sergeant turned back to Bulewef’s platoon and gave the order to load arms.

  Bulewef broke the action of his slug gun, folding the weapon almost in half to cock the piston. When released, it would compress the air to drive a heavy hollow-based slug from the barrel with armor-punching force. With the bayonet mounted, extra care had to be taken not to slice or stab one’s fellows, but the drill was such old hat that they’d have had to have drunk their weight in ale to incur much risk. He thumbed a 16-Bore slug into the breech and closed the weapon, returning it to port arms.

  “These premises have been identified as one of several staging points for the slavers,” their sergeant told them. “In a few moments our friends, the City Guard, will demand entry to the building, for the purpose of searching it, and to arrest any found within. We will be standing by in case they encounter resistance. You will take no action except as ordered. If we are required to assist, you will employ all due force as needed to secure the warehouse and prisoners, and to protect our friends of the City Watch. Understood?”

  “Yes sergeant!” they chorused in response, their voices echoing down the street. Several of the guard cast glances their way, then the afmaeltinn Sergeant hammered on the door with the pommel of his sword. “Open in the name of the City Watch!” he bellowed.

  His men stood ready to either side of the great door. Every fourth man was armed with a crossbow, and these stood at the front. The others, armed with short swords and shields, were close behind. Bulewef wondered what they would do if those inside refused; the broad doors were made of stout timbers and looked formidable.

  He had his answer moments later when the sergeant gestured. One of his men, unarmored and bearing only a short sword and dagger at his belt, stepped forward. One of their own party, a surprisingly elderly dwarven woman, joined him. She was dressed as a soldier, wearing a buff-coat but no breastplate, and carried a carbine in the crook of her arm. They conferred briefly with the sergeant, then the unarmored man stepped forward, rubbing his hands together as the dwarven woman and the sergeant retreated. He appeared calm and focused as he placed his hands against the wood. For a moment nothing happened, then Bulewef felt a pricking a
t the nape of his neck. Battlemage, he realized as the man gave a convulsive shove. With a mighty crack and splintering of wood, the portal flew open.

  The sergeant snatched the mage away and his men raised their crossbows and entered, the swordsmen at their back. He could hear shouting, the banging of crossbows and then pandemonium.

  Their own sergeant swore, then bellowed, “Platoon, at Double-Time… Advance!”

  The platoon took two steps and broke into a trot as a shattered body flew out the broad entry and impacted on the wall on the opposite side of the street. The sergeant called “halt” as they drew abreast of the entrance, then “right-face.” They turned and Bulewef got his first glimpse of the carnage within.

  There was a swirl of confusion as the Guard fought desperately. Their enemies, two darkly armored figures half-again the height of the afmaeltinn, towered over them, swinging massive two-handed flanged maces. Trolls? In armor? Bulewef thought disbelievingly. He was distantly aware of a prickle of fear, but he was too well trained to pay it much mind.

  “Target Right,” The sergeant bellowed. “Volley by Ranks! Fire!”

  The first rank knelt, each aiming at the giant armored figure on the right, and fired as one. The heavy slugs dimpled the creature’s breastplate and caused it to check its swing while it looked at the new threat. Bulewef was in the second rank; precisely two seconds after the first fired, they loosed their own slugs. The infantry slug-gun, a smooth-bore, was not a precision weapon but at less than twenty feet it was precise enough. The concentrated impact of the dwarves’ fire, hitting on top of the previous slugs, split the heavy armor. Portions of the soft lead slugs sprayed through to wound the armored giant, who bellowed in surprise and pain.

  The dwarf knelt to reload his weapon as the third rank fired over his head. His well-practiced hands worked as if of their own accord as he watched the volley impact. This time the slugs smashed through the weakened armor. Blood sprayed, and the creature bellowed in rage. Its great mace descended and caught one of the guards on the shield, tumbling him into the front rank of the dwarves to Bulewef’s right.