Lord of the North

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  Albrekk spoke into the ringing silence that followed the dwarf’s words. “M’Lord Chairman, if I may?”

  Niall, who seemed relatively composed in the face of this fresh crisis, nodded his assent.

  “Members of the Council, Your Excellency, if I may, this is not the time for recriminations or blame. This is a time for us to stand together against the threat we face, and we have much to do if there is to be any hope for us. There will be plenty of time later, but only if we weather this storm, which we can only do together. I move that we table all matters not directly related to the current crisis until it has passed.”

  One of the noble council members nodded to him and said, “Seconded.”

  Chairman Nialle said, “A motion has been made and seconded. All in favor?”

  If the vote was not unanimous, it was close enough to make no difference.

  Albrekk noted a new assurance in the Chairman today, and could not help but wonder what occasioned it. Either he was rising to the challenge of the situation or he had received some sort of reassurance.

  “The Ruling Council has spoken. There’s much to do, m’Lords and Ladies, and less time than we’d like in which to do it.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  “Standing a siege is a brutal business. Overcrowding, shortages. Tempers flare and it’s hard to maintain order. Sanitation suffers, and disease and starvation exact a toll almost as severe as the enemy might…”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Inns, rooming houses, and tenements— every lodging in the city was packed to overflowing. The people of the countryside had been encouraged to flee to the south, but many of them had insisted on packing themselves into the city instead. The safety of the walls was a compelling illusion. The 12th Foot Regiment had arrived after a grueling forced-march and now occupied the commons and every market-square in the city. It didn’t matter; supplies of food-stuffs had sold out, or been confiscated by the city to be distributed as needed, and there was little desire for other commerce.

  Scouts from both the Guards and the 12th reported that the baasgarta would arrive shortly. The dwarven soldiers were getting what rest they could after the brutal journey, with the exception of the engineers. That was fair enough; they had ridden in the wagons of their own supply train, and so were marginally fresher than the foot-soldiers.

  Almost immediately upon learning of the threat, the city’s own engineers had begun tearing down empty warehouses. The great beams and other lumber from these was placed at the disposal of the dwarves. They had brought tools and fittings that allowed them to quickly assemble war engines from the materials at hand. Catapults and ballista went together with record speed and were placed throughout the city. The stones from the warehouses’ foundations and smaller pieces of their construction became ammunition.

  The fields and open ground within bowshot around the city had been seeded with sharpened wooden stakes and thousands of caltrops. The small, vicious metal devices had four points, so that no matter which way they landed one always stuck up, ready to split the hoof of a mount or puncture the foot of a soldier. They were a nuisance meant to slow the advance of an assault rather than to produce serious injury, but in the rush of battle some that fell would be trampled.

  Smoke rose from dozens of places along the wall where fires heated great iron pots of lead, ready to pour down on attackers trying to mount the walls. Winches raised pallets of cobbles torn from the streets that the defenders could hurl down on the heads of the enemy, and great bundles of arrows were brought out of storage and distributed to strategic points.

  At least we’ve less concern about fire than some places, Engvyr thought as he looked out over the preparations with his spyglass. City code had for decades prohibited thatched roofs. Buildings in the poorer neighborhoods were roofed with slates. In the wealthier districts they used ceramic or copper roof-tiles. Large-scale use of incendiaries was rare at any rate; Battle Mages could detect and ignite volatile liquids at a distance with disastrous results for those attempting to employ them.

  They were as ready as they could be, yet Engvyr worried that they were not ready enough. With so many baasgarta they might simply swamp the defenders, who were outnumbered at least five-to-one. Hasty barricades had been set up in crucial streets, and the full militia had been called out to man them at need. If the goblins took the walls such measures would only delay the inevitable.

  “Manger is a fool,” said Albrekk, naming the councilman that had berated Engvyr. “Given the numbers of baasgarta and their placement in the mountains, they can only have meant to come here, and would have regardless of your presence.” He looked down at the Lord Warden. “The more sensible of us realize this, of course, but Manger has never been counted among that number.”

  “Makes no never-mind now,” said the dwarf. “Here we are, and here we’ll be until this ends, one way or the other. I forget who said it, but ‘we must hang together, or we will be assured of hanging separately.’ Seems appropriate to the moment.”

  Albrekk gave a snort of amusement. “They will be here any time now, I’m guessing.”

  Engvyr nodded. There was a hill at the southern mouth of the harbor, and the palatial Council House stood squarely at its peak, so the upper floor balcony gave them an excellent view of the city, and with a spyglass provided a fair view of the lands about. But when the Baasgarta arrived there was no need for a spyglass; they emerged from the hills to the north and spread like a stain across the recently abandoned fields. It didn’t stop either; more and more kept coming in a seemingly endless stream.

  Down in the city the guard and the dwarven regiment moved to positions on the walls. They had plenty of time; it took hours for the goblins to approach to within a half league, where they simply stopped in an arc that stretched halfway around the city. They did not make camp, or wheel up siege engines and towers. They simply stood in place while the fields filled in behind them. Engvyr winced inside as he watched the newly sprouted crops trampled, then ground into dust. Albrekk echoed his own thoughts when he asked, “Why aren’t they surrounding the city? Or at least setting up camp?”

  “Because they plan to make their beds inside these walls,” Engvyr said grimly. “And I’m not sure they won’t. It’s worse than we thought.”

  “How much worse?” Albrekk asked.

  “It looks like there are perhaps a quarter-million of them.”

  “Lord and Lady protect us! Can we resist such a force?”

  Engvyr was peering through his spyglass, and said, “If they’d brought siege engines we wouldn’t last a day. As it is? I just don’t know.”

  A page appeared in the archway leading inside.

  “Begging your pardons, m’Lord, your Excellency. You are needed in the council chamber.” Albrekk nodded, “Yes, I rather expect we are. Shall we, your Excellency?”

  ***

  “That’s a powerful lot of ‘em,” Bulewef said, looking out over the seemingly endless sea of goblins.

  “Good,” replied Sergeant Gevyr, his squad leader. “I was concerned that we’d run out of targets too quickly.”

  The younger soldier shook his head and grinned. “Still, it don’t hardly seem fair, does it?”

  “They called the tune and came to us. If’n they wanted fair they should have brought more of ‘em.”

  “Lord and Lady, Gevyr, I don’t think there are any more of them!”

  Their regiment was spread along a section of wall. The Captain had decided that they would do better to focus their strength, rather than doling it out in penny-packets. Bulewef’s slug gun was a smooth-bore, and only effective against an individual target out to about a hundred paces. Earlier runners had placed markers at two hundred. Against this massed enemy it would be difficult not to hit someone even at that range. Markers for the riflemen were at four hundred paces.

  The gunners stood with pikemen behind them in case the goblins gained the top of the wall. The parapets had sloped copper roofs that touched
the tops of the merlons, providing added protection for the defenders against the baasgarta’s crossbows.

  Bulewef waited patiently, as relaxed as possible under the circumstances. That was a thing soldiers excelled at— waiting. Endless drill, training, and boredom, punctuated by brief moments of terror, the dwarf thought.

  Something occurred to Bulewef, “Hey, where’s their cavalry? Usually basgaarta ride those goat-wolf things, don’t they?”

  Gevyr shrugged. “They’re not much use against fortifications. I reckon if they brought ‘em, they’re out screening, looking to see if’n we got reinforcements coming.”

  The younger dwarf felt a minor flash of embarrassment. Of course, he thought, I should have guessed that. He was just talking to fill time, he realized; to give himself something to do other than think about the coming battle. It did not look good; even the enemy’s lack of siege equipment wasn’t as much of a comfort as it should have been, given the sheer numbers of them. Whatever, things are like to get real interesting real soon. Then he frowned. Which begs the question, what exactly they are waiting for?

  ***

  When Engvyr and Albrekk arrived, the council was in session. Since the table was covered in maps and missives, the members were occupying the gallery and command activity had ceased for the moment, with Captain Garvin and his aids standing aside and observing.

  When everyone had settled in, Chairman Nialle cleared his throat, “Members of the Ruling Council, esteemed guests. A representative of the Stepchildren has petitioned to address this body. How say you?” Engvyr rather suspected ‘demanded’ was a more honest term, but held his piece.

  The assembly consented nervously, and within moments the council’s Herald conducted her in. She was the most singular woman the dwarf had ever seen, towering a full head above the tallest afmaeltinn present, slender and achingly beautiful. She wore a hooded robe of rich, blue silk, elaborately embroidered in black thread around the throat, cuffs, and hem, and belted at the waist. Over it was a long, open vest of dark brown leather that reached her to her knees. As she stepped forward, she drew back her hood to reveal close-cropped dark hair. At her throat, she wore a single jeweled pendant featuring a silky white stone that Engvyr did not recognize. Her fingers bore segmented rings like finely articulated silver armor. She surveyed the Council and its guests with a mix of indifference and arrogance.

  “State your name and business before this council,” Nialle demanded.

  A flicker of something like amusement passed over her face as she regarded the Chairman. “I am Aellyn, Speaker for the Stepchildren of God. I am here lay out the terms of, and to accept, your surrender.”

  She looked about, as though daring anyone present to speak. When the room remained silent, she continued, distaste evident in her expression, this time addressing the council rather than its chairman.

  “You will first kill all of the Forridyr, those you call dwarves, currently within your city. You will disarm your guards and militia, and disable all engines of war. You will open your gates to the baasgarta, lower the chains blocking the harbor, and allow our vessels to depart freely. All other ships currently present will be placed at our disposal. You will surrender your city to the rule of the Stepchildren and observe our laws on pain of death. All persons will acknowledge the True God and submit their will and their flesh to His purposes. All property of false religions will be surrendered, all of their statues, art, and scriptures destroyed, and their priesthood put to the sword. You will cease all commerce and congress with the Forridyr, and kill them on sight when they enter your lands.”

  She paused to allow a growing susurrus of reactions peak and then die down before she continued.

  She met the eyes of the various councilors before going on.

  “Understand though, this city and every other city will fall to us— today, tomorrow, or in the future. But a choice is before you: surrender willingly and embrace the ecstasy of submission to the True God, or resist us and suffer in ways you could never imagine. If you choose the sensible course, your people will enjoy priceless benefits under our rule: they will never sicken or age, and while the process of their alteration may be fleetingly unpleasant, they will come to cherish their new existence, to relish the pleasures of life in the service of the True God.”

  “Failure to accept our terms, however, is abominable and a rebellion against God. If you do not surrender, we will take your city by force. Before they are killed or altered to serve the True God, your men—you—will watch our servants amuse themselves with your women and children. The Juutahn, you might note, are driven by two hungers—both for flesh. They will sate the first hunger—a process unlikely to bring gratification to any but the Juutahn themselves—before devouring the ravaged bodies of your loved ones in satisfaction of the second.”

  “You have until sundown. Consider your answer carefully.”

  There was a rising babble, much of it, Engvyr was pleased to see, in protest or defiance. But some of the council members were quieter, whispering to each other or casting sidelong glances at the dwarves among them, trying to gauge his reaction to the woman’s death sentence for him and his men.

  “My Lords and Ladies,” said Albrekk, his voice cutting through the din like a scythe. “It appears that we have a proposal before us that needs discussion. My Lord Chairman?”

  Nialle blinked and said, “Yes, quite so. Milady?” he said, addressing the emissary tentatively, “Would you be so kind as to withdraw while we debate this matter?”

  “No. There is yet another matter to discuss ere I depart.”

  “And that would be?” he asked looking apprehensive.

  The woman turned and pointed at the Chairman. “You,” she said. “You have betrayed us. You assured us that our operations would proceed undisturbed. You have failed.”

  Silence fell and all eyes turned to Nialle. Engvyr could not see the woman’s expression as she had turned away from him to address the afmaeltinn, but the man she spoke to could, and the color drained from his face. He looked wildly around at the other councilors and exclaimed, “She’s lying! I don’t know what she’s trying to do here but…”

  “You have betrayed us, Chairman Nialle,” she said, raising her voice to drown his protest. Engvyr felt the prickles on the nape of his neck stir, and he shifted slightly away from the table to be ready for whatever happened next. “Do you remember what you asked of us in exchange for your protection? You wished us to show you the way of our power, and you wished to never grow old. Despite your betrayal I will grant you these boons.”

  The woman extended a hand towards him and abruptly the chairman screamed. All eyes went from her to him and they watched in horrified disbelief as his skin writhed, and rapidly grew across his mouth and nostrils, sealing in the scream. The Stepchildren’s emissary watched as his eyes bulged and he tore at his face, trying to draw a breath. He crumpled forward in spasms and fell to the floor.

  The emissary turned toward Engvyr and opened her mouth to speak. But the guns of the Council Guards spoke first and she twitched and jerked as she was riddled with balls. She collapsed in a heap where she stood. Albrekk and Engvyr rushed to the fallen Chairman’s aid, and after a shocked moment others joined them. Niall was suffocating. Engvyr slipped his seax-knife from its sheath and tried to cut Niall’s mouth open, but the point skidded across a plate of solid bone beneath the new flesh.

  Nialle’s eyes rolled up in his head and his whole body spasmed once before relaxing to stillness.

  “It’s no good, Engvyr,” Albrekk said, laying his own hand across the dwarf’s. “He’s done.”

  Engvyr allowed himself to be pulled away from the body, then nodded to Albrekk as he cleaned the knife absently on his cloak before sheathing it.

  Albrekk stepped back and looked at the woman’s corpse and the pool of blood rapidly spreading across the parquetry floor. “Well,” he said after a moment. “It seems she has her answer. You and you…” He pointed to two of the guardsmen and sai
d, “Get this out of here, and send for someone to clean up this mess.”

  He turned to the surviving members of the Ruling Council and said, “We’ve much to do and little time. Best we not waste any more of it. Shall we begin with nominations for a new acting Chairperson?”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  “Bad as it is to stand a siege, surviving a sack is worse. But the baasgarta had something different in mind for Taerneal…”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  “What the hell is that?” Bulewef asked, gesturing to the column of smoke rising in the west.

  “Don’t know,” said the corporal, craning his neck. “It’s outside the walls though. Hey Sarge!”

  Their platoon Sergeant looked up, then over to where the corporal gestured. Snagging a soldier he spoke to him and sent him along the wall to investigate. Approaching the squad leader, he said, “Looks like that village outside the walls is burning—the Breakers, I think they call it.”

  “Did they get everyone out?” Bulewef asked. The Sergeant shrugged.

  “Don’t know, but I reckon so,” He said, and squinted towards the sun, which was low on the western horizon. “After sunset the wind will shift to come off the sea; smoke might become a problem. I expect that flank is secure for now; it’ll be morning at least before those ruins are passible. If then.”

  “Did the guard fire it a’purpose?” Sergeant Gevyr asked.

  “It wasn’t part of the plans, but from what I understand that place was pretty ramshackle. Wouldn’t a’taken much for the whole thing to go up.”