Using their savings, the wergild for his uncle and the proceeds from the sale of the hame they bought oxen and a pair of wagons. The oxen were not the great lumbering beasts used in the lands of the Afmaeltinn, but smaller animals with long hair and short horns. Hearty and strong, they were bred to live in the harsh conditions and high altitudes of the mountains. The wagons were strongly built of planks with a cabin of canvas stretched over a frame on top. At need they could crowd in among their goods for protection from the weather.
They also bought supplies and Engvyr was shocked at the sheer quantity of food they must carry even for the first leg of their journey. They were but three adults, himself and the twins yet they must carry barrels of flour, great bags of beans and coffee, slabs of bacon, dried beef and sausages, barrels of dried fruit and casks of water until the wagons fairly groaned under the weight.
Of their household effects they took little but what was needed for the journey, their clothes, cooking gear, tools and a few keepsakes. Their furniture was too bulky and heavy and it was easier to simply replace it at their destination.
The day of their departure they rose at first light and broke their fast with stew left over from the night before and mugs of coffee. Before they left their little hame for the last time his father pulled Engvyr aside while his mother and aunt cleaned and packed the breakfast dishes.
“There's one last thing that you might be needing on the trip, son,” he said as he placed a new sax-knife and sheath in his son's hands. Engvyr was delighted with the gift and examined it carefully. The scabbard was of thick hide, waxed to rock-hardness and covered with deeply tooled knot-work. There was a sturdy and elaborately engraved bronze frame along the top of the scabbard, with two loops to hang it horizontally below the belt.
He drew the knife and examined the stout single-edged blade of fine dwarven steel. It was eight inches in length and shaving-sharp. The carved handle was stag-horn and had a slight curve to it that felt natural in his grip. The hilt was topped by a bronze plate with a lanyard ring.
Engvyr thanked his father profusely, and stood proudly as his father threaded it onto the front of his belt so that the hilt hung close to his right hand. His father smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder.
“You'll be doing a man's work on this trip, so I thought it time you had a man's blade,” he told Engvyr.
As they set out the last of the winter snow was still piled along the shoulders of the High Road, but it was melting day by day. Traffic was sparse but regular, with wagons of food and other supplies bound for the southern towns and trains of ore heading north to the great foundries at Ironhame.
The road was broad and well-paved and they made good time. Often they walked alongside of the wagons to spare themselves the rattle and jolting of the hard seats or simply for something to do. They passed farms and fields for days, spending their nights along the road or at caravan camps.
As they made their way through the wide open valleys they occasionally encountered parties of Afmaeltinn traveling to or from Ironhame to trade for the products of the great smelters and forges of the city. They looked very strange to Engvyr, like dwarves stretched to a third again their proper height. Some of them towered as much as six feet tall or more! Even the women among them were more than a foot taller than a dwarf.
The novelty of the journey quickly wore off for the twins. Keeping them amused and jollying them out of their fussiness was a chore for them all.
The land gradually grew more rugged as the days passed and they encountered more and more uninhabited country as they neared Ironhame. This seemed strange to Engvyr and he asked his father about it.
“'Tis by design,” his father told him, “For if the nations of men come against us we must be able to move our troops quickly, thus the southern roads are very good. But when we first took these lands for our own it was decided that the capital should be in harder country, without sources of food nearby to feed an invading army.”
His father gestured to the roads and lands around them. “This untamed, broken country provides less of what an army needs: freedom to maneuver, supplies and shelter. The High Road moves along the edges of hills and tunnels through the shoulders of the mountains. Can you guess why?”
Engvyr thought about it, studying the land. To the east the land fell away into narrow river-valleys. To the west it rose steeply, its slope varying from difficult to impassable. Occasional towers and fortifications were carved into the hills overlooking the broad highway. He thought about the stories told by his father and the Sergeant-Major in the long winter nights by the fire. After a few moments he nodded decisively and pointed to a nearby fortification.
“They've established choke-points; they can fire down on an invading army while it has few options to flee and cannot reach them easily.” Gesturing down the road he continued, “Tunnels can be collapsed and between the hill forts and blocked tunnels we can force them into the valleys, which are hard going and can be attacked from above or even flooded.”
“Exactly so!” His father said, beaming. “You've a good eye for these things; you'll be a credit to The Regiment if you choose that path.”
Engvyr fairly glowed with pleasure at the praise. They talked of this and many other things; indeed there was little else for them to do as they walked or rode through the long days. The road, while still as good as ever, was rising steadily now and they could not cover distance as quickly as they had in the flatlands of the broad southern valleys.
As they travelled his father taught him to load and shoot the handgun and the big 14-bore shoulder-gun. The two guns were similar in that each had a bulky compression tube under the barrel containing a powerful spring-piston. When the trigger was pulled this piston would be released and compress the air very rapidly to drive a projectile out of the barrel at very high speed. The Big 14 had a smooth-bore and could fire hard-waxed paper cups of shot for birds on the wing and small game or it could shoot heavy slugs for larger animals.
They took to hunting marmots, rabbits and pheasant for the pot in the evenings after making camp. One time when Engvyr had the big 14 in his hands they came upon a deer. He started to aim but stopped when with father put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
“Never shoot more than you need,” his father said. “That deer is big enough that half the meat would spoil before we could eat it all.”
He nodded and they watched the deer a few moments before quietly moving on.
As the days grew longer the climb became more steep. They'd eaten enough of their supplies that while they labored under the load their oxen weren't overtaxed by the slope. Marking stones counted down the distance as they approached Ironhame at last. Engvyr looked at his father as they passed the final league marker, his brow furrowed with puzzlement.
“I thought we'd see the city long before now!” he told him.
“Patience, lad,” his father admonished him with a chuckle, “you'll see it soon enough!”
Indeed it was not long after that they rounded the corner of the mountain and there stood the Great Wall of Ironhame, not a mile away across the shallow valley. The first leg of their journey was at an end.
Chapter Three
“Ironhame! The capital of the Dwarven Kingdom and perhaps the greatest fortification in all the world is a city of secrets. Born in slavery, our folk were reborn in freedom with a fierce determination: that no one of our people ever again suffer chains upon their wrists or shackles on their feet. But we are a race that lives or dies by our invention and devices so some must accept that their own liberty is the price of freedom for their people. The Masters of the Trades may never set foot beyond the walls of the Inner Ward of the city lest their secrets be at risk. 'Tis a gilded and comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless. This is their sacrifice, their gift to all their folk.”
From the diaries of
Engvyr Gunnarson
They stopped to regard the capitol city with awe. The Great Wall of Ironhame was of gleaming
white stone and bisected the valley like an immense dam. It was a full hundred feet tall if it was an inch and seemed to stretch a league or more across the valley, with five great towers topped with black iron domes spaced along its length. After crossing the valley, the road that they were on ran along a ledge on the face of the wall to the Grand Gate. That great portal was carved from the granite of the mountain at the wall's eastern edge. Perhaps a half-mile beyond the Great Wall rose another wall, even higher, with three towers of its own and still further beyond that were the grand spires of the Palace.
“They say that the Great Wall of Ironhame took a hundred Stonewrights and over a thousand laborers more than twenty-five years to erect,” his father said, “And that it contains more cut stone than all of the rest of the city and palace combined.”
Engvyr nodded. All dwarven children were taught the basics of magecraft so he knew that Stonewright's magic allowed them to 'feel' stone and know its properties, strengths and flaws, but more than that they could influence its structure to get the results that they desired.
As they continued around the shoulder of the mountain the High road descended down a long ramp to the valley floor. The granite face of the valley's wall along this stretch had been flattened ruler-straight and smoothed to a high polish. But now the surface was pock-marked with hundreds of craters, from just above the road to head-height along its entire length. Each crater was around two feet across and nearly a foot deep. He looked a question at his father, who favored him with a grim smile and gestured to the towers.
“The Tower-Guns of Ironhame, “he explained, “An unsubtle reminder to visitors to mind their manners.”
Engvyr imagined an army trying to make its way down that long ramp under the merciless hammer of the guns and shuddered.
They made their way across the valley, joining the throngs queuing to enter the city through the Grand Gate. Ore wagons from the south, traders, travelers and pilgrims to the great shrines. All Dwarves came to Ironhame sooner or later, or so they said.
As they passed through the gate he stared in unabashed awe. Each of the sections of door was of the finest steel, more than a foot thick. When the leaves were closed another foot-thick panel dropped straight down behind them in grooves cut deep into the rock of the mountain. No battering ram, no boulder or bolt from any siege engine made by mortal hands would ever penetrate those mighty doors.
They moved with the stream of traffic through a high, wide corridor under the great wall to a second set of gates. His father spoke briefly to a guard, then clucked to the oxen and they passed into the city proper. They had to pause to wait a moment while his Aunt also spoke to the guard before moving the second wagon up to join them. Engvyr took the opportunity to look around.
They were within the Outer Ward, and it was filled with people. Dwarves of every description, tall, lanky Afmaeltinn, even a party of Goblins!
The Goblins wore broad-brimmed hats and scarfs, long coats and gloves. Not a single square inch of them was exposed to sunlight, which Engvyr understood was harmful to their kind. They wore long knives at their belts but were otherwise unarmed.
“I can't believe they let those filthy creatures in here,” Engvyr said, “They ain't fit to be among decent folk!”
His father stared straight ahead for a second and then looked at him thoughtfully.
“Didn't know that you knew any goblins,” he said.
Engvyr was surprised, and quickly said, “I don't know any goblins! How would I know any of them?”
His father shrugged.
“Well,” his father said slowly, “They don't look particularly filthy, and I can hardly see them under those get-ups. Certainly not well enough to form an impression of their character.”
For all of his mild speech Engvyr could tell that something was wrong. His father was acting strangely. I suppose it's natural, Engvyr thought, seein' as to how they killed his brother and all.
“I just mean that they kill our folk, and eat people... and...”
He trailed off, not sure exactly what he meant. His father was staring straight ahead as he guided the wagon through the crowds. His father's fists clenched and un-clenched on the reins for a moment before he spoke.
“You know where goblins come from, don't you?”
“Of course,” Engvyr said indignantly, “They were created by the Maker, same as dwarves. Everyone knows that.”
His father nodded.
“That's right, the same as us. Are all dwarves thieves and murderers?”
“Of course not!” Engvyr said, “Folk aren't all the same.”
“That's right,” his father said. “Folk aren't all one thing or th'other.”
He turned and stared his son full in the eyes and Engvyr recoiled. His father was furious!
“So what gives you the bloody right to assume that all goblins are the same?” his father asked with quiet intensity, “To judge those folk yonder, call them filthy and say they aren't good enough to walk the streets?”
“I... I guess I never thought about it,” Engvyr said, “I mean, about goblins being like other folk...”
His father heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he returned his attention to the road.
“I suppose that it's my own fault,” his father said, “For not teaching you better than that. So I'll tell you now don't ever, ever judge a man solely because of his race. Judge him by his words, his actions and the company he keeps but not by his race. You hear me?”
Engvyr nodded, subdued. He'd seldom seen his father angry, and the thought that he had made him so mad...
“You know that the Maker made Dwarves to be his slaves,” His father said, “He made us short and strong to mine the hard rock for the ore he needed. He channeled our magic so that we would have the talents to help build his empire, to be Stonewrights, Metalwrights and Woodwrights. But what he couldn't make us was obedient. We rebelled against him, time and again. So he gave up on us and created the goblins to replace us. He made them clever at mining and machinery, but he also made them so they couldn't tolerate the light of the sun so that they would be stuck beneath the ground. He made them eat their own dead because it was efficient. But he also made them hunger for the flesh of dwarves, so that we would never band together to oppose him.”
Engvyr nodded. He'd never thought about it, but it made sense.
“Thing is those goblins had no more choice than we did. They can't help their appetites any more than we can help growing beards,” his father said, “Though most a'them have mastered that hunger, exceptin' a few renegades now and again. They're an odd folk, notional you might say, but no more likely to be good or bad than any man. So we let 'em come among us and trade, toys, clocks and instruments mostly and they behave themselves about as well as most folks.”
Engvyr thought about this as his family slowly worked their way along the broad, crowded avenue past the great trading houses and warehouses of the Outer Ward. Occasionally along the cross streets he glimpsed the walls of the valley, stacked with hames of the sort he was used to, presumably where the folk of this district lived.
As they rounded the corner of a broad cross-street he could see a great open space some distance away between the buildings. Awnings, banners and a great mass of people filled the space, their combined voices an inarticulate roar.
“The Great Market,” his father told him, “Goods and commodities from all over the world are traded there.”
At length they approached another grand gate that passed through the Inner Wall. The avenue dipped downward as it went through the portal into a huge tunnel. His father indicated the opening with a nod and explained.
“This is The Underpass. It takes us right under the city and palace to the Upper Ward and its markets. Through them the road leads to the Central Valleys beyond. This great passage bypasses the Inner Ward of the city that holds the mines, smelters and workshops of the Dwarven people. The Inner Ward is forbidden to humans, goblins or anyone else for that matter unless you h
ave an official pass.”
They were questioned by another guard before being allowed to enter The Underpass. The broad, high-ceilinged passage was amazingly noisy within. The creaking of wagon wheels, booted feet on the stone floor and countless voices assaulted their ears. The great passage was dim after the bright daylight of the Outer Ward, with the lamps of the merchants, inns and taverns that lined the walls supplementing the large skylights set into the roof at intervals.
Engvyr looked around until he thought his head might swivel right off of his neck; there was so much to see! Anything a traveler might need was on display, but there were also colorful bolts of exotic fabrics, glittering jewelry and weapons, richly tooled leather goods and finely carved wood. He felt he could have spent days in this tunnel and not discover all of the wonders it held.
At last they passed out into the daylight of the Upper Ward. This part of the city was filled with low buildings- breweries, stables, and shops. Engvyr also caught the distinctive smells of a paper-mill and a tannery. The streets were narrower and if anything even more crowded than those in the Outer Ward.
Darkness was falling as they made their way to a caravanserai near the outer wall. This was simply an expansive, walled space filled with wagons and corrals of oxen, mules and ponies. A covered area at one end was filled with tables and benches. Even the smells of the livestock could not entirely overwhelm the savory aromas wafting from that end of the compound. This was some feat, for even though dwarves with carts moved among the wagons and corrals scooping up manure and spreading sawdust they could not entirely banish the ancient odors of too many animals in too small a space.
Opposite the eatery was the bathhouse and washing facilities. Engvyr was ecstatic when he discovered that the family planned to make full use of those. Dwarves at home were a cleanly folk and bathing and washing along the road had been catch-as-can. The idea of a proper bath and really, properly clean clothes was nearly as exciting to the young dwarf as the thought of fresh food cooked in a real kitchen!
Dwarven Rifleman Series: Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman Page 2
