It was pretty unlikely; the braell in the valley practically worshipped her. It had been Deandra, then working for Ynghilda Makepeace, who had first met them and set their steps on the road from slavery to freedom, seeing them clothed and fed and taught to live as dwarves. Though she was herself afmaeltinn, she had lived among the dwarves for years and knew their ways.
After a time, when the braell had learned the common speech and how to care for themselves, they were moved from Ynghilda’s great hall to vacant farm-hames. The baasgarta attack on the valley had left dozens of homes standing vacant and it only made sense to see them put to use. The braell had been allowed to form into family-groups, each occupying their own farm with an advisor in residence to teach them the day to day operation of the farm and household. While there had been some shuffling around, most had stayed with former crews from their old days as mine-slaves.
"Storvelhoffin" roughly translated from the braell’s dialect as "Big Mattock Crew" and when they moved to the farm they took that as their family name and the name of their farm-stead. Most of the newly settled braell had family names that ended in "hoffin."
Deandra ducked through the low doorway into the hame’s common room as the family’s adviser entered from the door to the kitchen-court. Bayorrek Kilison had lost his family and his lower left leg during the invasion of the valley, and his peg-leg and cane thunked on the floor boards with each step as he limped forward to greet his liege-lady. She looked around the room curiously. The room’s central hearth opened on one side to the room she was in and on the other to the kitchen. Rather than the conventional furnishings to be found in a dwarven home, there were cushions scattered around the hearth and about a low table. It had been decided that as much as possible the braell would be allowed to determine their own manner of living, and as slaves the braell had not had furniture. Now they actually found chairs to be both uncomfortable and unnatural; even in their new homes most of them chose to squat or sit cross-legged on cushions, which they thought were perhaps the best invention ever.
“M’Lady,” Bayorrek greeted her, “Welcome to our home. Please, have a seat─ Cook wants to show off her skills while we wait for Big Mattock and the others to come in.”
A wordless and indignant sound of protest came from the other room. Deandra smiled and settled herself on a cushion near the table. Bayorrek seated himself on a stool kept as a concession to his disability. Hildrida quietly moved to stand inconspicuously in a corner where she could see all of the entrances to the room, her slug-gun tucked casually into the crook of her arm. Most of the Householders opted for the lighter and handier carbines, but the female bodyguard stuck with the big 16-bore she was familiar with from her days in the mounted infantry.
Cook bustled in bearing a tray laden with slices of warm, fresh, black bread smeared with creamy goat-cheese, steaming mugs of coffee, and a plate of small dried-apple tarts. She fussed about seeing the two of them served, then stood by Bayorrek with her own mug, her other armed draped casually over his shoulders. Deandra concealed her smile with a bite of bread and cheese. Oh ho, she thought, there’s an interesting development. Well good for them! In truth she was glad to see the two of them together. Bayorrek had taken his losses hard and it was good to see him getting on with his new life. She was even more pleased with the acceptance of the braell that this implied.
They chatted about inconsequentials until Big Mattock and Single Jack arrived. Like all the braell, they were rather shorter than their southern cousins. When they had first been liberated they had been thinner, too— almost emaciated. They had filled out now, and Big Mattock was showing some impressive muscle.
Both were armed, Big Mattock with a baasgarta heavy crossbow and Single-Jack with one of the light repeating crossbows. The stocks of both weapons had been carved with knot-work motifs of the sort decorating the woodwork of the house. Each of the dwarven men also carried a broad-seax—a long, heavy single-edged fighting and utility knife—and this was in addition to a smaller seax-knife of the sort carried by every dwarf in the northern highlands. The two put their weapons in a rack by the door before greeting their guests.
“Lady Deandra, welcome to our home,” Big Mattock said, beaming proudly and bowing to her before dropping onto one of the cushions. Single-Jack bowed as well, then squatted nearby, and the two helped themselves to the snacks and coffee. They talked for a time of the business of the farm—which crops were going in, what supplies had been used, management of livestock, and the health of their people. In the midst of this, Squirrel arrived, flushed and out of breath. Boy-like, he made straight for the treats laid out on the table, but a look from Cook stopped him like an unseen wall. She pointed, and he disappeared into the kitchen without a word, only to emerge minutes later with his disheveled clothing brushed and straitened and his hands and face freshly scrubbed.
Other braell filtered in as they talked, nodding their greetings. Cook gave Bayorrek’s hand a squeeze and returned to the kitchen. Deandra watched the interactions among the "family" as the conversation progressed. Though generally quiet, and always respectful, others present had no fear of chiming in when they had something to add. Double-Jack, her belly swollen with child, entered and sat with Builder, a diffident dwarf with a weedy blonde beard and expressive green eyes. When the braell had first come to them, everyone had assumed that Big Mattock was the father, as he was in charge of the crew. But before they had moved from Ynghilda’s great hall, Double-Jack and Builder had asked to marry.
Deandra's attention was drawn back to Big Mattock’s words as he something about the braell’s debt.
“I beg your pardon, but could you repeat that?” she asked.
“I said that now that we’re settled and getting crops in it seems a good time to discuss our debt to M’Lord Engvyr and yourself.”
Deandra frowned and looked at Bayorrek, who shrugged. “Aside from your taxes," Deandra said carefully, "which are not due until after your crops are in this coming autumn, I am not aware of a debt.”
Big Mattock assumed a stubborn expression and gestured to the room. “We’ve come to realize the value of all of this; our home, our clothes, our weapons and farm equipment. We are free people now, and free people pay their debts.”
Deandra blinked in surprise. I suppose I should have expected this. She thought for a moment before replying “How long were you a slave of the baasgarta?”
The dwarf was taken aback by this apparent non-sequitur. “Um, around seven decades, M’Lady.”
“Are you aware that after seven decades working in one of our mines, you would have been able to afford much of what you have? Certainly among your entire crew you did more than enough labor to afford all of this and more.”
Big Mattock looked confused. “But we were working for the baasgarta,” he protested, “not for you.”
“Do you know what happened to the fruits of all of those decades of labor you all performed?” she asked.
“I…I don’t know M’Lady. I’ve never considered it,” the dwarf admitted.
“What wasn’t stockpiled was used to construct buildings and facilities now owned by our King. And the stockpiles are being removed as we speak, with all proceeds to benefit the braell, who, after all, earned them with sweat, blood, and lives. The baasgarta owe you this,” she said, making a gesture to encompass the entire farm, “and we, in effect, are making them pay.”
Deandra looked around the room at the faces of the braell, which were registering bemusement, confusion, or surprise. She continued. “Also this farm was standing vacant. We needed someone to take it over. In fact, we are fortunate that you were available to do so; if there is any debt, it is ours; a debt of gratitude.”
She had to suppress her mirth once again. Clearly, this was something that had never occurred to them; that their collective lifetimes of work had value. Finally, Big Mattock looked to Bayorrek, who nodded slightly. Then he spoke, “This… is a thing that we had not considered. We will need to discuss it among ourselv
es.” The others nodded agreement.
The life of a slave doesn’t reward foolish pride or bad decisions, Deandra reflected, confident that after consideration they would come to see things her way.
Deandra and Ynghilda watched with satisfaction as the men and women ran their razor-sharp shears over the bodies of the sheep, lifting away great pads of wool with each stroke. The Jarl had arrived that morning with a dozen of her people in tow to help with the shearing. She and Deandra were allowed to shear a sheep apiece, but when they made to do more, their folk would not hear of it.
“It’s fitting that you should start the shearing,” explained one of the women, “for luck. But to do more? That’s not the place of Ladies.”
“One word changes, and it’s as if I hadn’t been shearing sheep for the last ten decades,” grumbled Ynghilda.
Deandra grinned at her friend. “It’s a deceptively big word, ‘Jarl.’ It changes the way folk see you, even them as have known you your life long.”
Ynghilda snorted, but was too pleased with the day to continue grumbling. “So the Storvelhoffins are settling in well?”
Deandra nodded. “They’ve known naught but back-breaking work from the day they could walk,” she said, “So a farmer’s life seems almost a holiday for them.”
“Is the hobbling affecting them much?” Ynghilda asked, referring to the ritual crippling of one leg that the braell had been subjected to as slaves of the baasgarta.
“Not as much as you might expect,” Deandra said, “At need they can skip along at a pretty good pace.” She shifted and changed the subject, brightening. “Oh, and there is more glad news— before long there will be a new Storvelhoffin.”
Ynghilda glanced at the younger woman shrewdly and raised an eyebrow. “Besides Double-Jack’s child, you mean?”
Deandra nodded and said, “Their advisor, Bayorrek, has taken up with Cook, and they are to marry come midsummer. He’s decided to take the family name.”
The older woman blinked, then grinned as the implications sank in. “Oh my. That will be a big step towards folk accepting the braell, won’t it?”
“Indeed. Bayorrek Kilison has always enjoyed the reputation of a solid dwarf—if a bit conservative. For him to join a braell family will say more to folk than a thousand words from us. How are the other families doing?”
With the exception of the Storvelhoffins the other new braell families were on Ynghilda’s lands or in her employ. “They’re doing well enough,” Ynghilda said, “some better than others of course. Them as had good crew-chiefs are doing the best, but none are doing badly. Those as took service with me seem to be adapting well; Aunt Gerdy, “she said, referring to her elderly chief cook and de-facto head of her staff, “won’t stand for any nonsense, as you might imagine.”
An image of the old dwarven woman standing in the kitchen door, glaring with cleaver in hand, flitted through Deandra’s mind and she grinned. “I’d imagine not. Have they been inclined to misbehave?”
“Not so much misbehave as to be slave-ish, and she won’t have it. Treats them the same as anyone and chews them up one side and down the other if they don’t stand up for themselves and look folk in the eye.
“Mind you, there’s been some in the valley inclined to look down their noses, and I put a stop to that when and as I can, but you can’t force people to feel one way or the other. We can only hope they’ll come around in good time.”
Deandra let that pass. She’d lived in the world for nearly five decades and had a good grasp of human nature. That she could pass for half her age was owing to her father, one of the elfin-folk. Likely enough there were those that would always regard the braell as "less than" themselves. There were always folks that blame misfortune on the victim, and would feel the braell had somehow deserved their slavery because of some failing within them.
That’s as may be, she reflected, as long as most don’t feel that way. Given the fierce attitude of the Storvelhoffins, those that look down on the former slaves had better just mind their manners!
Chapter Six
“They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and that’s as may be. But dwarves aren’t dogs, and a man that cannot move with the times will find himself left in the wake of history.”
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
“You’re not in your armor, M’Lord,” Gedric observed.
Engvyr grimaced and responded mildly, “No, I’ve business at Makepeace today, and likely overnight. How are the new recruits doing?”
He gestured to the assembly area by the makeshift barracks where even now the new class of cavalry troops were falling into formation. The sound of their sergeants chivvying them into place drifted on the wind. Gedric shrugged.
“Well, we’re not completely at square one; they’re all of them from the army so we don’t have to teach them the basics. They know how to march in formation and understand the rules. They also know the importance of maintaining their gear and discipline. Frankly M’Lord, it’s the things they know that form the biggest hurdles at this point.”
Engvyr frowned, looking out over the assembled troops, absent-mindedly bringing his pony to heel when it shifted restlessly. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well,” said Gedric, “More’n two thirds of them are from the mounted infantry or skirmishers, the rest are leg infantry. The infantry don’t know ponies, so they listen and then do as you tell them. The others? Well, they been dealin’ with ponies and the like for years. They figure they already know it all, so they only half-listen. They do as they always have rather than as you tell them, and that isn’t always right.”
Engvyr nodded his understanding. “How big a problem is this?”
Gedric waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, it slows things down a bit when they have to do it over, but it’s more a nuisance than anything.”
He gave him a sharp look and asked, “You’re not riding all that way alone, are you?”
Engvyr sighed. “No such luck. I’ve been informed by He Who Must Be Obeyed that my days of riding alone are past. I’ll have a couple of the Householders riding with me.”
There were days that Engvyr wondered if he was really in charge of anything. Other days he knew—no, he wasn’t in charge. Biphur, the aging majordomo assigned to him by the Prince, was in every way the correct, polite, ideal right-hand. Knowledgeable in every aspect of keeping an estate, schooled in courtly behavior and protocol, with a sharp mind and an eye for detail, he ran Engvyr’s household with an iron hand and he always, always got his way in the end.
Gedric nodded at a pair of approaching riders. “And here they come now.”
Engvyr looked and saw his watchdogs approaching at a trot. Grima and Klement were a pair of former rangers, and if they were well into middle age they hadn’t lost their edge yet. They each bore a carbine and wore Engvyr’s house colors. That, at least, was a matter in which he’d had some say, and he'd chosen colors suited to the country: rich-earth brown with trimings of sage-green. And if the colors failed their heraldic purpose of blazoning his troops distinct, at least his men weren't glaring targets painted on the landscape.
“Mornin’, M’Lord,” Grima greeted him as they drew up. Klement gave him a simple nod. The Householders, his family’s personal guard, knew all of the proper forms and courtesies associated with their position and Engvyr’s status. They also knew when and when not to use them; their lord was not one to stand on formality when the occasion didn't require it.
“I expect we’ll be back tomorrow mid-day, Gedric. If you need anything or encounter problems, speak to Biphur.”
The tall man acknowledged this with an obedient nod, and Engvyr and his guards turned their ponies towards the road to Makepeace steading.
“Congratulations!" said Engvyr to Ynghilda, the new Jarl of the Makepeace Valley. "But I suppose, given the circumstances, it was inevitable,”
Taarven laughed with honest delight at the chagrin on his lover’s face and said, “Inevitable, maybe, but yo
u could have knocked her over with a feather when the delegation arrived bearing Royal Warrants. It was the first time I’ve ever seen Ynghilda struck speechless!”
Ynghilda Makepeace, the Valley’s namesake, looked torn between irritation and embarrassment. The latter won, and she admitted sheepishly, “It did rather take me by surprise.”
Ynghilda’s family had settled the valley more than three centuries earlier, carving a farm and grazing lands out of the valley perched high in the mountains at the extreme north of Dvargatil Baeg, the dwarven kingdom. In time others had joined them, settling the land with the blessings of her family. By the time she had inherited the steading there was no question that she ruled the valley, even though she had no official position or Royal authority to do so. She organized the local militia, mediated disputes, and enforced the King’s Law. It was just the way the people of the valley did things, and if the crown hadn't seen fit to recognize her dominion, her people had certainly had no such qualms. Now with the war and the opening of new territories beyond the valley, her steading had become an important conduit for troops and supplies to support the war effort, and with so many outsiders coming through, the crown had at last recognized the importance of her position and status with a fitting title.
Engvyr grinned at the older woman. “It was more a matter of them acknowledging the status quo than anything else. It’s not like you hadn’t been doing the job for decades already!”
Lord of the North (Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman - Book 2) Page 5
