The presence of the slavers’ giants does cause some trepidation, for they are well armored and prodigiously strong. They seem to have been quartered among the vessels at anchor, for while there were but a few this morning, there are now a full dozen at least. I fear for our men if our allies’ rifles cannot quickly bring them down. Other creatures can be seen scampering among the rigging with inhuman agility; while they are smaller than men, I have heard from soldiers who fought them in the city, that although they are unarmed, they are fierce, and very dangerous.
As to the slavers, they seem not, as one might expect, desperate. They are acting sensibly and in good order, and while they seem confident, they are not yet initiating hostilities. It is almost as if they know of an infallible plan, or believe some force or mechanism will inevitably allow them to prevail. I mislike this certainty in them, and fear worse than we know is yet to come.
I will continue to observe events into the evening, and apprise you of any new information as I may.
The report mirrored Albrekk’s own concerns. The slavers were out of options and yet they remained calm. They are waiting for something, he thought. Some aid or threat we cannot see…
Between manning the walls and preparing for conflict at the harbor, the watch was fully engaged. Except for the cavalry out on patrol. With sudden resolve he found a seat and quickly penned a missive of his own.
Captain Garvin;
I am increasingly convinced that some additional factor is in play—something of which we remain unaware. It seems that the slavers are await some manner of outside intervention; I suggest it might be prudent to send the cavalry to scout the lands north, as well as all likely approaches to the city. And to keep a wary eye on the sea.
Catching the eye of one of the aides, he beckoned him over and slipped him the note. The young officer quickly scanned it, gave him a sharp nod and went to speak to the Captain. That will have to do for now, he thought. Little else to do but wait…
*
“Senior Ranger Redbeard? Rider coming in from the north!”
Taarven looked up to see a corporal standing in the entry to his tent. The battalion’s company of skirmishers had split off from the group heading for Taerneal and was scouting by squads in the lands north and east of the city. Though he held no military rank, he was the sole and senior representative of the new Northern Guard Rangers, and he was with the squad that had set up as a headquarters and clearing-house for the skirmisher’s reports. They were situated at the south-western end of a river valley a day out of the city. The slopes were thickly forested, but the floor was a mix of meadow and tumbled rocks, so the incoming rider could be spotted at a distance.
“What sort of rider?”
“Looks to be a Ranger with two ponies, and riding hell-for-leather right down the middle of the valley.”
Taarven set down the report he was perusing with a frown. Either the ranger was hoping to be conspicuous, or the need for haste outweighed any thought of caution; more likely, both reasons applied. “Best we go meet this fellow and see what’s what.”
He followed the soldier out and joined the group’s sergeant just as the rider was approaching. His gear showed the evidence of hard use, and both ponies were well-lathered. He pulled up before them and dismounted, flushed and sweating from his exertions.
“Horrek?” Taarven said. He had known the ranger for decades, but hadn’t known he was assigned in the north.
The Sergeant gestured to one of the skirmishers who’d come to see what the fuss was about. “You there, soldier—walk these ponies till they cool down. Don’t need them going lame.”
Taarven nodded approvingly, then turned to Horrek, who was starting to catch his breath and taking a long pull at a water skin one of the soldiers had handed him. “So, ranger, what’s this all about?”
“Taarven, good! Glad to see you. Gerril and me were scouting up north, an’ we come across a whole bunch’ baasgarta in a valley about a day, day-and-a-half north of here. Got a bunch’ braell with ‘em, using ‘em for food and the like. They was starting’ to stir when we come across ‘em, and look to be headed this way.”
That was no way good news. Taarven gave the ranger a moment for another drink, then asked, “How many of them?”
“All of ‘em,” was Horik’s reply.
Taarven squashed a flash of impatience. “No, I mean how many were there in this group?”
Horrek looked at him grimly and said, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We couldn’t get a good count, but at a guess it’s all of them.”
Taarven stared at him for a moment, then felt a shock like a sliver of ice to the heart as he realized what the other meant.
“Maybe a hundred thousand all told,” Horrek continued, “That we could see, anyway. Way the land was twisted about, there could be twice that. Can’t figure anywhere they could be heading but Taerneal. Gerril’s gone north to find the regiments, but Lord and Lady know if he’ll make it in time to do any good.”
The dawning realization and horror on the faces of the dwarfs around him mirrored Taarven’s own. Maker take me, Taarven thought, this is going to get ugly…
Turning to the Sergeant he said, “Send riders to the city, two going different routes. They can kill their ponies if they have to, but we need to alert the Lord Warder as quickly as possible. Send other riders to intercept the 12th Foot on the road to Taerneal. They need to push as hard as possible to get to the city; if the baasgarta catch them outside the wall they’re done for.”
The Sergeant pointed to two of his soldiers, “You two to Taerneal. Take extra mounts, and use ‘em up if you have to, but get there. You and you…” he pointed to two others. “Meet the 12th on the road. You heard the Ranger. Tell them to step it up, to be at the city… yesterday.”
He turned to Taarven and asked, “Should we call in the patrols?”
Taarven winced internally, but there was only one answer. “Sorry sergeant, but they’re on their own. We need the rest of your men to get to the regiments in the north and get them heading this way. The Lord Warden had shifted some of them this way; have your men find them and tell them what is happening. I haven’t got the authority to give them orders, but I expect they’ll know what to do. I’ll head for the city myself with Horrek. Tell your men to take what they need, but leave the camp as it is. There’s no time to tear it down and we’ll need the pack-ponies for remounts.”
The Sergeant nodded and moved off, barking orders.
Taarven went back to his tent to grab what he needed. He felt a sick sense of dread, and his head whirled with questions. How did such a large force get through our lines? Why attack the city? What the bloody hell is going on here? In moments he was saddling his pony; as he slung the saddlebags over its rump he thought, If we can get the 12th inside the walls, they might have a chance. If they can stand a siege until the northern regiments arrive, we’ll be golden….
Horik’s saddle had been shifted to a fresh pony, and they mounted up and moved out. But the question would continue to plague him every mile of their ride: Could the city, reinforced by the 12th Foot, hold the walls against so many?
They’ll have to, he thought. Lord and Lady save us all…
Part 4
Chapter Twenty Five
“Never think things are so bad that they can’t get worse; its like daring the fates to intervene…”
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
By sundown the situation at the waterfront was static; an offer was made to allow the crews of the vessels to take their ships and leave unmolested if they surrendered, provided of course that they turn over the slavers and their cargo of braell. This offer was declined, possibly because criminals tend to assume that everyone else is dishonest too, and they did not believe the agreement would be honored. More likely, Engvyr thought, because they were all slavers. If rumors were to be believed, they had arrived at a southern port en masse, commissioned the vessels, and then sailed them straight here.
“Other traders, from Garmish in Sutterlant, have confirmed this,” Albrekk said. “As you might imagine, it was a nine-day wonder last fall when these men arrived and put every shipwright and carpenter in the city to work building their fleet. They used up every board and beam of seasoned wood doing it, too. They have ten vessels trapped here in our harbor, and word is they have at least a dozen more in transit”
Engvyr pondered this intelligence as he sipped a mug of spiced cider. He and Sergeant Hemnir were closeted with the councilman in the study of his mansion, having accepted Albrekk’s hospitality for the night. They had left Captain Garvin still at the table directing operations, and it was now approaching midnight.
“This is neither a coincidence nor an accident,” the dwarf said, shaking his head. He earnestly wished that Deandra were here to consult; she had a mind for this sort of puzzle. “They didn’t go to all of this effort on the off chance that slaves might be available when they arrived. Though it seems impossible how they learned of them is a mystery, they obviously knew all about the baasgarta and Braell before we did. Even so, how could they possibly have predicted events since? It’s plain we’re only seeing a small part of the picture.”
Albrekk frowned. “The only thing that makes sense is that they knew the Braell would be available to them regardless of your people’s war. The bizarre behavior of the baasgarta bears out this notion; they have not only willingly turned their slaves over to these people, but they have drowned themselves or otherwise allowed themselves to be killed, as if they had fulfilled their purpose.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’Lords,” Sergeant Hemnir said. “But we’ve a lot of pieces of a puzzle here, and the way they fit together… Look, we’ve got the Baasgarta, who by all accounts have spent three millennia turning the Braell into perfect slaves. We’ve got folks from the south coming to get those slaves, folks as knew about them at least as soon as we did. Then we got mages among the slavers that can alter people—call them ‘Fleshwrights’—to turn them into those hound-creatures and giants and Lord and Lady knows what else. Now considering as we’ve only ever seen one being with such powers in all the centuries since we was made, and what does it all add up to?”
Albrekk looked baffled but Engvyr stared at the dwarf in surprise, his mind chewing it over. Sure, it was an obvious conclusion, but his mind rejected it. It was impossible… and yet… he could not deny the logic.
“You’re suggesting that somehow, some way, the Maker has returned? He was killed three thousand years ago!”
“That’s as may be,” said the sergeant. “But just last autumn we saw a god resurrected at Skappensgrippe, and likely it’d been dead a hell of a lot longer than that.”
Every fiber of Engvyr’s being rebelled against the notion, and he cast about for an alternate explanation. “Perhaps some adventurous souls have uncovered the Maker’s secrets? It seems more likely than a resurrection. I mean, an ancient god from before time is one thing, and while we don’t know the origins and nature of the maker, he appeared human. And whatever he was, he was very definitely dead when our ancestors finished with him. By all accounts the Maker’s territory has remained an untenanted waste populated by unwholesome creatures ever since our rebellion. But enough time has passed, especially for the short-lived Afmaeltinn, to have weakened that taboo.”
“I have but scanty knowledge of your Maker and your people’s early history,” said Albrekk. “But it does seem that re-discovery is more probable than resurrection. The simplest explanation is most often correct.”
Sergeant Hemnir looked relieved. “Yes, that’s sure to be it,” he said. “I had not thought of that.”
“Regardless, gentlemen,” Albrekk said. “The hour is late, and if we’re to be at the top of our game on the morrow we need our rest. So I bid you good night.”
“Yeah, I reckon we’d all better hit the sack,” Engvyr said. “Dawn comes early this time of year, and something tells me we’re in for it tomorrow. If nothing else, the standoff at the docks will require sharp thinking—if we’re to resolve it without burning down the harbor.”
Putting action to their words, they went to their chambers, but despite the comfort of oversized bed, for Engvyr, sleep was long in coming. The situation was far from resolved, and it touched on the stuff of nightmares. He did, at last, drift off, but was haunted by uncomfortable dreams, and woke feeling unrested to news that did nothing for his state of mind.
***
Engvyr woke groggily to a gentle but insistent tapping at the door of his sleeping chamber. He rolled over and put a hand on the grip of The Hammer, the handgun he had inherited from his father. “Enter,” he said after clearing his throat.
The door opened and an afmaeltinn child in livery peeked in. Pages, I think they’re called. “If it please your Excellency, you’ve visitors downstairs with urgent news.”
Engvyr swore silently to himself; people never seemed to present themselves at dawn with good news. “Tell them I will be down directly.”
“Very good, your Excellency. Your guests will await you in the study.” The Page gave a bow and departed.
The regiment had sent clothes and kit for him, and he dressed quickly. There was another page waiting in the hallway, who conducted him to the study where they’d talked the previous night. Seated in the oversized chairs with coffee and the remains of a hearty breakfast before them were…
“Taarven! And Horrek— Where’s Gerril?”
The two started to rise and he waived them back to their seats.
“Therein lies the unhappy tale,” Taarven said. He looked awful, thin and drawn. “The short of it is this-the Baasgarta are coming, maybe two or three days behind us. At a guess they intend to besiege the city, or simply take it. Gerril is trying to reach the regiments in the north—to bring them— and others are riding to the 12th Foot to hurry them along. One of the skirmishers alerted your Battalion here, and they’re breaking camp as we speak, to move within the walls.”
Engvyr swore, “How many Baasgarta? Enough to threaten the city, I guess.”
“All of them, we think,” said Taarven. “At least their entire military caste.”
Horrek nodded agreement. “Gerril and I saw them with our own eyes. There are at least a hundred thousand. Possibly more.”
“Maker take me!” Engvyr sank into a chair. “That’s enough to overwhelm the city’s defenses even if the 12th beats them here. We need to get everyone inside the walls. The Breakers will be razed for sure, and… but that’s not our concern, is it? Has the Councilman been informed?”
Taarven nodded. “We told him first thing, while they was getting’ us food and such. He’s already off to alert the Guard and Council to prepare for a siege. Not before extending the hospitality of his house, though. Which, beggin’ your pardon, we’ll be right happy to accept.”
“As well you should. Join me at Council House after you’ve had some sleep ” Engvyr turned to the page, who was standing just within the door, trying and failing to look impassive. “Be so good as to wake Sergeant Hemnir to attend me.”
“Yes, your Excellency!” the page said, and scampered off.
“I suppose I cannot show up in slops,” he said with a sigh. “I’d best get tarted up again for the Council. You two get some sleep and I’ll see you later.”
Well, we’ve been expecting the other shoe to drop, he thought, though I’ll own I didn’t expect quite such a large shoe…
***
“This is your fault!” the red-faced councilman bellowed. The target of his ire stood unaffected, as if the armor he wore protected him from the afmaeltinn’s wrath as well as from the weapons of his enemies. “If you dwarves hadn’t interfered we wouldn’t be in this spot! Now we’re all going to die, and it’s your fault!”
Engvyr raised an eyebrow, “Really? Now that’s Odd. I don’t recall allowing slavers to operate in your city. I don’t recall allowing foreigners to come into your harbor and transport thousands, thousands mind you, of my pe
ople into slavery in the southern lands.”
“They aren’t your people!” screamed the councilman. Engvyr had been told his name and district, but frankly he didn’t care enough to remember it. “They’re just a bunch of damn slaves, slaves that a year ago, you didn’t even know about. And now you have brought our city to the brink of destruction! Our people stand in peril on account of your tender sensibilities.”
Engvyr suppressed his own rage, took a deep breath and counted to ten before he spoke. “M’Lord Councilman. The people that you refer to as slaves are dwarves. That makes them my people. Let me say this loud and clear, in case you missed it the first time I addressed this council. We will suffer no dwarf to be enslaved. No dwarf. Ever. Period. We will seek them out, free them, and punish their captors, whoever and wherever they may be. And we will punish those who are responsible—even those who merely turned a blind eye.”
The councilman opened his mouth to respond but Engvyr said, “I’M NOT FINISHED!”
The afmaeltinn looked startled; Engvyr rather imagined that he was not used to being yelled at. He didn’t care; it was past due.
“Let me also remind you that we came here fully prepared, if necessary, to raze this city. If not for the good sense and cooperation of your Captain Garvin we would have done exactly that. Had it been left up to you, the widows and orphans of Taerneal would be on the road south with whatever they could carry, and their way would be lit by the ruin of this city burning behind them! If there were not hundreds, perhaps a thousand of my people in the holds of those ships in your harbor, we’d withdraw right now and let the baasgarta do the job for usvisit upon your city the wrath it deserves!”
He swept the council members with a cold glare. “But we won’t, because of those people, whom you contemptuously dismiss as slaves. It is because of them that you have even a slim hope of survival. Because of those slaves we will stand to defend all of the innocent people of this city. And you as well—you whose innocence remains in question—and this…” he swept a gesture indicating the room in general, “this Ruling Council, that allowed the atrocity against my people flourish!”
Lord of the North Page 21
