The enemy ahead broke and ran, but a pony is faster than a man and again it was fine work for dwarven sabers.
The more lightly armored afmaeltinn were in the center of the V, both for protection and because it forced them to hold to the pace of the slower ponies. Every few hundred paces a squad of afmaeltinn cavalry peeled off to start the braell moving north. There was a gap in the hills that was defensible, and Engvyr had judged that sparing a rifle company would not much affect the defense of the wall. The baasgarta had not encircled the city, and their single-minded focus on the assault had made it child’s-play for them to circle around and move into position. Their enemy had apparently assumed that no significant force could be sallied against them, and they were correct as far as the troops assaulting the wall went. With limited experience at a real war, the baasgarta had not considered that a small force might attack their supply train, or free the braell.
“It’s plain from their demands that what these Stepchildren want is the braell,” Engvyr had told him the previous evening, “At this point it’s all about them. If we can take them away we can divide their force, maybe even hold until the regiments come down from the north. It’s a thin hope, but better than none at all.”
Hemnir’s fierce exaltation had faded by the time they reached the abattoir. This isn’t a battle, he thought, it’s a slaughter. His arm still rose and fell mechanically, and his legs guided his pony to ride down the fleeing enemy, but it had lost its savor. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be sorry for his victims—after all they had enslaved and eaten his people—but by the time they’d cleared the last of the baasgarta he just wanted it to be over. He spotted a fleeing butcher in a blood-stained apron and sheathed his saber. Shucking his modified carbine from its saddle-scabbard he aimed and shot the fleeing murderer in the back and watched him plow face-first into the ground. A few other carbines spoke, but none of the dwarves rode in pursuit. Good lads, he thought, though several the riders were actually lasses.
He raised a whistle to his lips and blew the signal for assembly. The braell were staring at the strange metal beings in horror. Nothing had prepared them for this; they had no relevant experience, so not knowing how else to respond, they settled on their default: fear. He directed the dwarves to spread out and they began to move towards the slaves. They could not speak the braell’s dialect of the old tongue, but they could speak a language they understood too well. They bellowed at them, pushed them with the armored chests of their ponies and even struck them, carefully with the flats of their sabers. Slowly the braell began to move away from the terrible, dark metal creatures, and seeing the others that the afmaeltinn cavalry had already started moving, they followed after.
Hemnir paused and turned his spyglass to examine the baasgarta troops still pouring over the wall. By all appearances they had not yet noticed the activity to their rear, but they would soon enough. But when they did they would still need to cover a league of open ground before they even began to catch up with the slaves.
By the Lord and Lady, Hemnir thought, this might actually work… if we can hold the gap.
Chapter Thirty
“People go to war because they want something. If you can discover what that thing is, and ensure that they cannot obtain it, they lose the incentive to fight. But this only works if they truly deem their goal to be unattainable…”
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
Bulewef watched nervously from behind the barricade. The baasgarta had arrived several minutes before, but contrary to their attack on the wall they were staying under cover among or inside the buildings across the avenue. Occasionally they fired their crossbows at the defenders, but seemed to have no inclination to swarm across the open space to overwhelm the feeble defenses. Perhaps they don’t feel there are enough of them yet, he thought.
“What the hell are they waiting for?” Sergeant Gevyr asked, unconsciously echoing Bulewef’s thoughts.
“Frankly they can wait forever for all of me,” the soldier replied. “Someday I may dine at the Lord and Lady’s table, but I’d just as soon it not be tonight.”
“Well, if the mages have something planned for these fellas now would be the time. You know, before they stroll over here and kill us all.”
As if on cue a low rumble started and quickly grew in volume.
***
“What in the maker’s name is that?” the Householder Corporal asked as the ground began to shake.
“That would be our little surprise for the baasgarta,” Engvyr replied. With a gurgle audible from forty paces away water began to pour from the sewer grates across the avenue. It quickly overwhelmed the gutters and began to spread across the broad street, but the crown of the road kept it from reaching them. The flood quickly became a torrent racing down the hill to the harbor. The water lapped at the foundations of the shops and tenements, but for a moment seemed it would have little effect.
“Wait for it…” Engvyr muttered to himself.
While the corporal might be baffled the Lord Warden knew exactly what was occurring. The city’s sewers and each district’s drains fed into a single huge pipe. The collector for North Harbor lay directly across the avenue from them. These pipes were lined with stone to prevent them from washing out the earth from under the road and foundations along its length. Normally periodic maintenance insured that the stonework was sound. But dwarven Stonewrights were experts at making stone un-sound. So when the city engineers diverted the Taerneal river into that sewer the force of it, even though it was a relatively modest one, was far worse than the runoff from even the fiercest coastal storm. The weakened stonework began to fail with predictable results. Suddenly the water was sucked from the street with a mighty slurp and the rumbling increased. Stone burst with explosive reports and great cracks spread across the avenue. Then, with a roar, the far side of the street collapsed. Buildings leaned drunkenly, then shattered and fell in on themselves as the load on their structure became too great.
The roaring and shaking continued for several minutes, and the water rose as rubble began to choke the passage it had eroded under the city. The destruction went on, all along the avenue until the North Harbor district was entirely cut off by rushing water and twisted debris. Hopefully the damage won’t extend to this side, Engvyr thought. The city engineers were doing their best to manage the flow but it was a tricky business.
With enough time and energy it was not an insurmountable obstacle, but for now the baasgarta were contained. As long as they don’t simply bridge it with the bodies of their own dead, Engvyr thought. There has to be a limit; they lost tens of thousands taking the wall. Can it really have been simple fanaticism driving them thus far? He surveyed the twisted wreckage and shuddered. If the baasgarta really were under an irresistible compulsion, this wouldn’t delay them long…
The Householder corporal spoke up, echoing his thoughts. “M’lord, this may not hold them. We need to keep moving, at least get south of the river.”
The Taerneal River was the next major line of defense. Paralleling the High Street, its bridges were choke-points. The Dwarven engineers had wanted to plant charges of blasting powder to bring many of them down, but the watch captain and Engvyr had vetoed the idea. Though they had seen no evidence that the baasgarta employed battlemages, the Stepchildren certainly did, and the allies were uncomfortably ignorant of their powers. If they had set charges they might have found them detonated at an inconvenient time… like when the bridges were choked with refugees, or their own retreating troops.
They quietly withdrew and began to work their way south. The streets had been crowded before the evacuation of North Harbor and were worse now. They had to pick their way carefully, even with the Householders clearing a path. The smell of unwashed, fearful humanity was thick in the air and his bodyguards were cautious. Most of the afmaeltinn were in shock or entirely concerned with their own families and situation. But in the current crisis the crowds could become a mob in an instant, and it was not ha
rd for the dwarves to guess who the target would be. Understanding the precariousness of their position the dwarves were gentle and soft-spoken, showing kindness where they could. It made for a slow journey, but the safety of their charge was paramount.
As for the Lord Warden, their slow progress chafed at him even while he understood the necessity. He had little fear of them being overtaken by the enemy; rather his impatience stemmed from more personal reasons. He hated retreating to relative safety while his soldiers and the men and woman of the city held the line. Many of them would die as the battle raged on, and he could not help the feeling that he was abandoning them to their fate. He was, in his heart, a soldier, far more comfortable facing the enemy than directing the battle and ordering others to their deaths. But he served his King, his nation, and his people, and in their wisdom, they had thrust him into this role. It was a job he had never coveted, never sought, and in truth, never imagined himself doing. More than once he had wondered at his selection for this position, but in the end it didn’t matter. It was his to do, and he would do it. His King and country were depending on him.
Looking around at the people of Taerneal he understood it was not just his nation that he was doing this for. Tonight, the city’s residents were his people too. United in peril and mortality, they were depending on him as much as their own leaders to preserve their city and their lives. He saw their misery, their fear, their desperation and for the first time he felt their common humanity in his gut and in his bones. Freakishly tall, hasty, short-lived and often short-sighted, the afmaeltinn still felt the same things, had the same hopes, dreams, and fears as his own folk. He would not, could not fail them if it were within his power to save them.
***
“Why the braell?”
Engvyr had just walked into the great hall of the manor that had been temporarily given over as a forward command center when Albrekk had rounded on him. He had been in the act of removing his armored gauntlets and stopped, startled by the abrupt question.
“Why the braell? What do you mean?” he said, continuing to strip off his gloves as he moved towards the afmaeltinn. Two of the Householders entered behind him and separated, one taking his helmet and gauntlets, the other moving off to find refreshments for their master.
“Why all of,” —the Councilman gestured broadly— “this? We’ve been wondering how they managed it, how they knew to build the ships and come here right now, how they got the baasgarta to spend their lives like pouring water from a bucket. But the real question is ‘why the braell?’ What makes them so important that these Stepchildren will go to all of this effort, even go to war to obtain them?”
Engvyr’s gaze unfocussed as his mind latched onto the problem. After a moment he looked at Albrekk, “That is a very good question, isn’t it? I have no idea.”
The officers around the table continued their work, consulting maps and documents then dispatching pages or messengers on various errands. But Captain Garvin, himself only recently arrived, broke off from them and joined the conversation.
“I’d begun to wonder that myself,” he said. “If it were—my apologies, Engvyr—your own folk it might make sense. Dwarven craftsmen, hard-rock miners, and smelters are renowned. If those were the people being taken I could see it might be worth the expense and difficulty. To gain access to dwarven skills and knowledge… that might be a prize worth the effort.”
“But these are not skilled dwarven craftsmen,” said Engvyr. “Those who aren’t farm slaves come from open-pit mines. Aside from having been bred and trained to I know of little else to recommend them.”
“If it was slaves they wanted, they could have had them by the bushel from the south,” Albrekk said. “Of course, such would not come cheaply, not for tens of thousands of them. And the braell? Small, crippled slaves barely able to care for themselves. There would be precious little profit from such a venture, if any, especially given that the market would be flooded with them.”
An uncomfortable feeling was growing in Engvyr’s gut, one that hearkened back to an earlier conversation in the Councilman’s study. “I don’t know the slave trade,” he said slowly, “But what if the motive isn’t profit? Could so many slaves even be acquired in the southern nations? Is the market that big?”
Albrekk looked thoughtful. “You’d need to scour the markets all through the southern lands, and prices would increase rapidly as the supply dwindled. The expense would be astronomical. But what does one do with so many slaves?”
“The emissary of the Stepchildren said that all cities would fall before them in time,” Engvyr said. “Fleshwrights, slaves, a harsh, intolerant and uncompromising religion, the promise of conquests to come… there’s an ugly picture emerging here. Someone is building themselves an empire.”
“Someone who has rediscovered at least some of the powers of your people’s Maker,” Albrekk said. “It seems fantastic, but the evidence is mounting.”
“I think,” said Engvyr, “that I need to communicate this matter to the king as quickly as possible.”
He looked at the Householder Corporal and nodded. “Draft a message, include what we know and speculate. Send two squads of Mounted Infantry south by separate routes. Have them go to ranger stations to have the reports sent on to Ironhame.” The Corporal nodded and went to retrieve writing materials.
Captain Garvin shook his head slowly, and said, “I think we are on the right track here, but we’re still missing something. For the cost of this campaign they could have made an at least a good start on their needs in the southern slave markets. They could, in the normal way of things, have grown their forces of slaves by conquest. As a military man I think in terms of logistics, and even if this move makes some sense economically, it’s a logistical disaster.”
Albrekk nodded thoughtfully then looked at the dwarf. “Engvyr, you are far better versed in the lore of The Maker than we. Could the braell have some special quality, some innate characteristic that might make them peculiarly valuable to these Stepchildren?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” Engvyr admitted. “Maybe? The Stepchildren’s Fleshwrights have changed the Braell right here in the city. Why aren’t they changing the townsfolk? Or our soldiers? It would only make sense for them to do so, after all—to turn our own people against us. I suppose they could be, but wouldn’t we have heard something of it?”
Reports were coming in from across the city, and a messenger from the watch interrupted to speak with Albrekk. They conferred briefly, then the Chairman nodded and turned back to Engvyr and Garvin. “It seems the baasgarta have noticed they’re missing something. They had begun to assault our lines along the Great Road, but broke off just as they were on the verge of smashing through. They’ve retreated into Old Town and North Harbor.”
Captain Garvin grunted. “Nice that something is working. But even if they split their forces in half to recover the braell we’d still be badly outnumbered here in the city.”
“Yes, but we’re coming on to dawn,” Engvyr said. “The baasgarta will be a good deal less effective in sunlight. Even after they sort out their response to losing the braell, that will likely give us time to reinforce our lines. At very least we’ll get more of your people evacuated.”
Albrekk frowned, “We’ll get people to see to that. In the meantime, we’ll build up defenses along the river as best we can.” He lowered his voice and continued, “But even with their forces divided it looks as if we’ll lose the city if nothing changes.”
Engvyr said, “Then we play for time; the longer we can hold them off, the more time there is for something to change.”
“From your mouth to the Lord and Lady’s ears,” said Albrekk.
Chapter Thirty One
“No plan of battle survives contact with the enemy. The saving grace of this is that it applies to your enemy’s plans too…”
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
The braell weren’t quick to get moving, but move they did, as Hemnir and the othe
r cavalry chivied them north. Above the city, the foothills came right down to the sea, and the hills ahead sloped upwards, steeper and steeper until they were surmounted with stony cliffs. The gap ahead passed between these, and if they could get the braell through that gap, the dwarven forces could hold off their enemies, at least for a time. Unless they come at us like they did the wall, Hemnir thought. Then all bets are off…
It was most of a league to their goal, and half that again to the wall where the baasgarta were clustered. Now it was just a matter of how long it took them to notice that their property had been taken. If the braell were caught this side of the gap all would be lost, for the press of them moving forward would prevent the dwarves from mounting any effective resistance.
There were stragglers of course. The old and infirm mainly; while there were children among them they at least were not abandoned or allowed to fall behind. Riders would snatch them up and thrust them into the hands of other braell. As to the others the dwarven cavalryman had to harden his heart. They had no time to rescue the fallen. They must make it through the gap!
Hemnir heard a whistle and looked for the source. A rider several hundred paces to his right waved, and seeing he had the sergeant’s attention, pointed back towards the city. He reined up and turned to look. It was too far for details, but the baasgarta appeared to be pulling back from the walls. That could only mean the pursuit was about to begin if it hadn’t already. He looked to the north, trying to estimate their progress, but he couldn’t tell whether they’d be able to make it or not. There were hardly more than six score of them attempting to herd tens of thousands, and he didn’t know that they could drive them faster, but they had to try. He raised his whistle to his lips and blew the signal for double time. Other whistles echoed his up and down the line and he began bellowing at their charges, standing in his stirrups and waving his sword overhead.
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