Taarven nodded. “And done a fine job of it, but with all of these outsiders arriving or passing through, and them with no legal requirement to respect your authority, the Crown had to do something.”
As they spoke they moved toward the overstuffed chairs surrounding the hearth. Engvyr’s great-cote and gloves were collected by one of Ynghilda’s people as they settled themselves down by the fire. After the obligatory coffee was served, they continued.
Ynghilda regarded Engvyr a moment before commenting, “You realize what a twisted mess this makes for us, don’t you?”
He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement, then realized what she was referring to. Engvyr was, on the one hand, a Lord of the Realm, and as such owed fealty directly to the King. But in that role Jarl Ynghilda now outranked him, even though he owed her no fealty. On the other hand, the younger dwarf was also the Lord Warden of the North, in which capacity he outranked her, and she, too, was a crown Vassal, owing fealty directly to the King. She simultaneously outranked him and was outranked by him. Taarven, he noted, was watching with amused relish as realization dawned.
“Oh Lord and Lady,” he said at last, “This is a nest of snakes, isn’t it?”
Ynghilda acknowledged her lover’s amusement with a sour glance, and sighed. “You know what they say, ‘Feudalism is the worst form of government… except for everything else.’ We’re going to need to juggle our eggs carefully to keep all this straight.”
Engvyr nodded thoughtfully. “It shouldn't be too bad, actually. If it deals with the Makepeace Valley, you’re the boss. If it deals with internal matters on my own estate or with matters that concern the north as a whole, I’m in charge. And speaking of matters that concern us all, were you made aware of Horrek and Gerrel’s report?”
Taarven and Ynghilda nodded. Taarven said, “I’m actually here as a liaison in no small part because of that report. The Mountain Guard and the Northern Guard are working together to discover the extent of the problem.”
Engvyr shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It doesn’t seem likely to me that this ‘incident’ could be part of a simple crime of opportunity. According to the report, these afmaeltinn seem to be well organized and disturbingly competent. But that’s just supposition. How soon do you expect to have a report?”
Taarven and Ynghilda exchanged an indecipherable look as he asked the question. Taarven straightened in his chair and said crisply, “I fully expect that we will hear back from our patrols and from the Mountain Guard within the week, and we’ll be reporting to you straight away.”
Engvyr nodded distractedly. “Very good. If the taking of this group of braell and the attack on Horrek and Gerryl is part of a larger pattern, we’re going to want to move quickly to nip it in the bud. We can’t afford for the afmaeltinn to think we’re so distracted by the baasgarta that they can get away with this sort of thing.”
Ynghilda grinned at him, then at Taarven. “There it was again.”
Taarven returned her grin. “Yes, I caught it too. Our Prince is a canny man, he is.”
Engvyr looked back and forth between the two, frowning. “What on earth are you two talking about?”
“You, of course,” Taarven told him. “I never have to wonder when you are speaking as The Lord Warder; I just suddenly feel that I should come to attention and salute.”
Engvyr looked at his old partner searchingly, then at Ynghilda. She nodded. “It’s true. You’ll be talking along and suddenly this… air of command comes over you, and people just automatically respond.”
Engvyr peered searchingly at them, more than half convinced this was some sort of joke at his expense. Taarven looked seriously at him and said, “We’re not jesting, Eng; you’ve always had that something about you, even when we were partners. We’d be in the midst of a situation and you’d suddenly speak up, and it would never occur to people not to do as you said. No one ever argues with you in a crisis; it’s one of the things that made you such a good ranger.”
Engvyr blinked in surprise. He thought about it for a moment, watching his friends closely, but they seemed to be in earnest. He could think of nothing more intelligent to say than, "Huh," so he kept his mouth shut.
Ynghilda shook her head at his confusion and said, “Prince Istvaar didn’t make you the Lord Warder on a whim, Engvyr! I would imagine he’s had his eye on you ever since the Kaeralenn Retreat.”
When Engvyr had been a skirmisher in the elite 3rd Rifle Regiment the people of the city-state of Kaeralenn had decided to take some dwarven slaves to work their mines. Engvyr and his comrades had been sent to free them, and after they had succeeded, Engvyr and two other skirmishers had used their long-rifles to slow the pursuit and allow them to escape. Sniping at long distance, setting traps and ambushes, they had held off most of a battalion of Kaeralenn Dragoons for three days while the freed slaves made their way to safety. In the end, Engvyr alone survived, barely. For this the Prince had made him a Lord of the Realm and awarded a land-grant to go with the title. Until the previous year, Engvyr had not taken up his title or lands, but when he married he had been forced to do so to protect his new wife’s interests in the event that something should happen to him. With war brewing in the north it had seemed increasingly possible.
After the Battle of Skapansgrippe, the Prince had appointed Engvyr the Lord Warden of the North and sent him home with very little idea of what the job entailed. He had yet to receive any precise statement of his duties and responsibilities, but he was pretty sure that such a statement would include stopping the enslavement of dwarves in the north, including braell. He had some thoughts about that, though he’d need to wait to hear the report first before making any firm plans.
Engvyr shrugged. “I am sure the Prince had his reasons, but Maker take me if I can figure them out. Surely there were more experienced dwarves that could have taken up the post.”
“Right,” said Ynghilda, rolling her eyes. “Experienced at taking over a country a third of the size of Dvargatil Baeg, freeing an entire culture from slavery and integrating them into our own society. I’m sure he had just oodles of candidates to choose from.”
Taarven frowned at his lover’s sarcasm, then turned to Engvyr. “The Prince may play the fool at times, but he has uncommon good sense and a sharp mind. He trusts you to do the job, and more importantly to do what is right. Trust yourself, and trust your gut and I doubt you’ll go very far wrong.”
Engvyr shrugged and the conversation moved to other topics. There was plenty to discuss, and by the time they retired for the evening they had laid out a number of contingency plans. In the end they could only wait for the reports to come in.
When the report did come in, Ynghilda brought the news personally.
“It’s about as we expected, unfortunately.” They were settled by the hearth in Engvyr’s great hall, and Ynghilda's voice conveyed a concern that even the warmth of the room couldn't dispell. “There seem to be organized forces of afmaeltinn moving along the fringes of baasgarta territory north-east of Taerneal. The Northern Guards managed to intercept one group heading south with two-score braell in tow, but they were outnumbered too badly to stop them. Other scouts cut across trails of at least half a dozen other groups.”
Engvyr frowned. “How many braell have been taken so far? Any ideas?”
Taarven shrugged. “We don’t know how long they’ve been operating; they might well have been at this a month or more before Horrek and Gerryl caught wind of 'em. It’s only a guess, but thus far, they’ve likely taken captive between three hundred and a thousand braell.”
Engvyr swore.
Ynghilda nodded, “That’s pretty much what I said. The odd part, though, is… what are all the braell and baasgarta doing there? It’s almost as if they are bringing the braell to these afmaeltinn.”
“I can’t even guess what’s happening there. We just don’t know enough about the baasgarta and their lands. So where is this operation running out of? Taerneal? Would they really be that foolish?” Engv
yr asked.
“Hard to say,” Ynghilda said. “The afmaeltinn have short memories; they could be basing out of the city, or perhaps further north.”
“While there’s no decent harborage north of Taerneal,” Taarven said, “there’s plenty of places they could stand offshore and land boats. It’s possible they’ve set up some sort of fortified camp, but my money’s still on Taerneal.”
Engvyr frowned thoughtfully. “We’ll need to know for sure before we can move against them, and I have a thought or two about that….”
“Move against them with what?” wondered Ynghilda. “The Militia is tied up here in the valley. Aside from that we’ve a couple score Rangers and Northern Guards and a hundred half-trained cavalry.”
“You could look at them that way,” said Deandra, “or you could look at them as a hundred fully-trained mounted infantry and skirmishers.”
Engvyr grinned at his wife in approval.
“But even so,” Taarven protested as he nodded to acknowledge Deandra’s point, “while that might or might not do for an armed camp, we’d be helpless against Taerneal itself.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Engvyr said. “The first thing is to establish what’s going on. I can’t believe Taerneal’s Council would be stupid enough to be involved with this, at least not officially. I mean yes, our army is tied up in the North, but they’d have to know there’d be a reckoning sooner or later.”
“I’d guess that if they are involved it’s not the city as a whole, but rather some corruption or other in the ranks of the leadership,” Ynghilda said.
“Well, for now the Rangers and Northern Guards are under orders to follow the slavers discreetly and not to engage them. If they do have their own base in the North we should be able to discover it soon enough.” Taarven said. “And as for Taerneal, I’ve a thought or two about how to get the lay of the land there, too….”
Part 2
Chapter Seven
“The afmaeltinn are nice enough folk one-on-one, but it seems like you can’t get a bunch of them together in one place without that they start getting ideas about their ‘rightful’ place in the world. That place being, in general, just above your own”
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
Hannes scowled as the caravan approached the Land Gate. He was nervous, and that annoyed him. There’s no reason for it, he told himself, none at all. After all, people on the road changed jobs all the time. No one would find it the least remarkable that he had a new guard and drover. Even his own folk didn’t think a thing of it.
He looked up from under his brow to the guards leading the wagon train. Taarven blended in with the others perfectly, handling his worn crossbow as if it had been a part of him for years. Ageyra drove her wagon with the ease of a veteran. There was nothing to make them stand out. They weren’t even replacements; he had bought an extra wagon for this trip, and with the growing northern trade it was perfectly logical that he would do so. Naturally his senior drover was guiding the new wagon, with Ageyra driving one of the older rigs.
The walls of Taerneal varied from ten to fifteen paces high as the land beneath them rose and fell, but the barbican that housed the gate was a good twenty-five paces high and a full thirty paces deep. A moat ran around the outside where the river split at the base of the wall and encircled the landward side of the city. As they approached, a voice hailed him.
Looking to the source, he recognized one of the city guards manning the gate and waved lazily, drawing the wagon to a stop as he searched his memory for the man’s name. “Buren,” Hannes said, greeting him with a nod.
Buren ran his eyes along the length of the caravan, then returned the nod and said, “We’d not expected to see you again so soon!”
“Well, we’re trading out of the Makepeace Valley now, only a few days overland. If’n we hadn’t stopped to set up operations there we’d have been back two weeks ago.”
The guard nodded. “They say it’s a regular boom-town up there, what with all the traffic north. I expect we’ll be seeing a lot more of you?”
Hannes grinned. “So long as dwarven armies march on coffee you will!”
“Well, that’s good news for you then!” the guard told him. He lowered his voice and moved a little closer. “There’s been a fair bunch more ships up from the south than we usually see this time a’ year; the town’s fair swimming in the stuff, an’ don’t let them tell ya any different. I expect you’ll be able to set your own price.”
Hannes touched the brim of his hat. “Much obliged to you, friend Buren. I imagine standing watch is still thirsty work, is it?”
Buren winked at him. “You know it is. Enjoy your stay in our fair city.”
The guard stepped back and waved them through, and with much lurching and creaking, the wagons started through the gate into the city itself. Once they were settled, Hannes would make certain to send a keg of his finest to Buren. It was an old arrangement betwixt the guard and the trader; not really a bribe as such, just a friendly gesture when Buren had helpful news for him.
The wagons wound their way down the broad central street of the city toward the harbor and Hannes’s warehouse. The city was laid out in a crescent-shaped hollow wrapped around the harbor. At the mouth on the southern side was the Great Keep, the palace of the city’s High Council. Nearest the palace were the residences of wealthy trading families and nobles. Spread around the harbor were warehouses, inns and taverns to serve the shipping trade. North of the High Street down which they passed dwelt the less affluent: tradesmen, workers, and the families of sailors. And furthest of all from the homes of the wealthy lay the tanneries, paper mills, slaughter-houses, and other even more fragrant industries.
If the city were dependent on trade with the dwarves it would have withered long ago, for the southern cities were closer and easier to access. But Taerneal was the gateway to the overseas markets, so shipping came up the coast, bringing all manner of goods. The seaways to the Sgraylen lands were a closely guarded secret among the captains that plied those routes. They took shiploads of dwarvish iron and steel, coffee, spices, and textiles from the south and returned with holds full of lamp-oil, amber, and exotic furs or great curled tusks of ivory, gems, and precious metals. Hannes had originally established his trade here to have first pick of those overseas goods, but times were changing...
They rolled down High Street past shops and inns that catered to travelers and local inhabitants alike. The road ended in the Harbor Market. Some goods were for sale there, as well as food and drink, but most of the booths were traders looking to make bulk sales. Their open-fronted booths displayed shelved samples of the various goods they were trying to move, and other traders and factors circulated among them feeling the weave of textiles, sniffing or delicately sampling rare herbs, oils, and wines, or sipping tiny cups of coffee to try their flavor.
The caravan made its slow, careful way through and turned left onto South Harbor Street. This was the more affluent part of the district; the sewers went underground, and the smells of the city gradually assumed a more pleasant quality. Roasting coffee, perfumed oils, and the scents of herbs prevailed. To their right, great warehouses were built out over the water on pilings. To their left, more modest structures dominated, and one of these was their destination. It was a sturdy single-story building made of stone with a slate roof to guard against fires. A set of double doors broad enough to admit a wagon bore a bronze plaque reading, “Hannes Guttmann and Sons, Overland Traders.”
As the wagons pulled up, those doors swung open to reveal a broad, dim corridor, flanked by stacked barrels and piles of sacks, and terminating at an exit on the far end of the building. Several dwarves and a few afmaeltinn waited inside and his son, a stout blond dwarf with a long, braided beard came to meet him as Hannes slid down from the seat.
The two embraced, then Hannes slapped his youngest son on the shoulder. “You’re looking well, Aegir. How is Kolgríma?”
Aegir grinned and fair
ly swelled with pride. “Well enough, Da’… Given that she’s with child.”
“Ho-ho!” Hannes exclaimed, “You’ve finally seen fit to make me a grandfather, then? Well, congratulations lad!”
As the two chatted, the wagons were wheeled into the warehouse and unloaded. Coming from the mountains meant a different sort of cargo than usual. “There are ingots of steel and iron," he told his son, "but the bulk of the cargo is sweet honey-mead, ale, bundled furs, and wool—some baled and some as skeins of yarn.” Wool from the dwarven highlands was highly prized for its softness and warmth, and with the cold, wet winters in the northern harbor town, it would fetch a good price.
As the wagons were emptied, they rolled straight through to the street behind the warehouse. From there they would be taken to the northern edge of the city where oxen were stabled and wagons stored. The drovers and guards, including Taarven and Ageyra, would go with them. Once their work was done they would settle into the cheap inns and flophouses that surrounded the stockyards until they were summoned for the next trip.
Aegir checked that everything was accounted for and stored in its proper place before releasing the workers—all save the one who'd drawn first shift on guard. Passing through the back doors, father and son crossed the street to Aegir’s house, a modest hame built in the dwarven style. Hannes greeted his daughter-in-law, congratulating her in her own turn, and as all settled in for a celebratory dinner and a pleasant evening of catching up, the nervous qualms that had pestered him through the day were soon forgot.
* * *
Taarven frowned as he nursed a mug of the cheap house ale. His situation was far from ideal for gathering information quietly; for one thing the guards and drovers shared quarters at an inn that catered mainly to dwarves. For another, well, he was a dwarf, wasn’t he? That made him stand out in this city, whether frequenting the inns or prowling the streets. He winced a little, hoping that his quest wouldn’t lead him into the brothels. Ynghilda is an understanding woman, but there are limits.… He’d spoken to Ageyra earlier as she was tending to her wagon, and they agreed their best chance would be in the local markets on the morrow.
Lord of the North (Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman - Book 2) Page 6
