He was hailed again as he approached the gate. A pair of dwarves stood to either side, dressed in buff-cotes and breastplates, kettle-helmets upon their heads. They wore seax-knives and short arming swords at their belts, and held long guns at the ready. “Stand and state your business!”
He leaned back slightly in the saddle to stop his horse, gave his name, and added, “Here to seek an audience with the Lord Warden on behalf of my master, Lord councilman Albrekk of Taerneal.”
The dwarf looked him over and nodded, then turned and called into the court. “Owain, see to this man’s horses.”
Turning back to Kevrenn, he gestured across the court. “Head on up to the Great Hall. Leave your things in the entry and tell someone inside why you've come. They’ll set you up.”
A bit nonplussed by the informality, he rode through the gate and dismounted, passing the reins to the dwarf who awaited him in the court beyond. As he untied his saddlebags, he looked curiously around the yard. Stables and a smithy stood along one wall, a chandler and some other, less identifiable structures along the opposite. At the rear of the court a broad stair ascended to the porch of the main house, where another pair of soldiers stood at either end of a patio overhung by the building’s roof. Informal or no, he thought, a visitor here had best be on his manners. Slinging saddlebags over his shoulder, Kevrenn nodded to Owain and set out for the stairs.
Aside from a quick nod of greeting, the soldiers on the porch ignored him and he found himself facing massive double doors. He had to put some back into the effort to even get a door moving; it was built of timbers bound in bronze and looked nearly as solid as the main gate. Beyond, he found a room, several yards square, that might best be described as a "mud room." Lined with pegs for coats and cloaks, as well as shelves where travelers could set their goods, it was not an arrangement one would find in Taerneal, but it seemed an eminently practical one here in the mountains.
Kevrenn hung his travel cloak and set his saddlebags on a shelf. As far as he knew, dwarves were as honest— or at least no more dishonest— than most folks but he doubted that he need be concerned about thievery here, in the Lord’s own hall. He brushed and straightened his clothes as best he might after his travels. Hopefully, he would have a chance to clean up before meeting the Lord Warden.
Turning toward what must be the entry to the great hall, he found doors less massive than the outer portals, but considerably more elaborate, being carved in panels portraying ranks of dwarven soldiers with long guns, scenes of battles or the hunt, and orchards with workers collecting fruit. The dark stain was fresh, as was the carving, and the doors swung silently at his pressure, on well-oiled hinges. Inside the hall, he found comfortably high ceilings—even by afmaeltinn standards—with massive timbers supporting the roof, and columns, heavily carved in knot work patterns, supporting the beams at regular intervals. Benches along the walls were interrupted by doorways, and two rows of trestle-tables ran down the center of the room. At the far end was a great hearth surmounted by a pair of antlers whose span would easily have equaled his own height. Surrounding the hearth were several cushioned and welcoming—if low—chairs and an assortment of benches and stools. A trio of small hounds of a breed he’d never seen lounged by the fire. They had coarse black fur and heads seeming over-large for their bodies. They did not bark or race to greet him as he might have expected, but stood, pricked their ears and looked at him intently. The walls were decorated with weapons, mostly hand axes and sheathed lang-seax, with a scattering of bows, crossbows and shields. Everything about the place was finely crafted and finished with care, but excepting the well-used weapons, all appeared slightly raw and unused, and he could smell fresh paint over the odors of coffee, wood, and tobacco smoke.
A group of eleven soldiers lounged on the benches at one side of the room. They were armed with seax-knives and had their weapons near-to-hand, but they had shed their breastplates, opened or removed their buff-cotes and appeared relaxed as they sipped from steaming mugs. They rose when he entered, and one approached. “Good day to you,” he said in a rich, deep baritone. “I’m called Gavin, Corporal of the Householders. How may I be of service?”
Kevrenn introduced himself, stated his mission, and again requested an audience with the Lord Warder. “You’re in luck,” the dwarf told him with a nod, “If I mistake me not, he's just here, in his office. I’ll fetch him.”
He turned and walked across to a door by the hearth and knocked. One of the other soldiers said, “There’s coffee if you care for it, or cider or beer if you’d prefer?”
“Coffee will do fine, thanks,” he said, and to his surprise the soldier did not call for a servant, just set off across the room and through a doorway he presumed led to the kitchens. The other soldiers asked politely about his journey and conditions on the road. He answered equally politely and within a few moments the door by the hearth opened and very pretty young woman came out. She was on the short side, but obviously not a dwarf. She was dressed well in the rustic style the dwarves favored, wearing a wealth of amber and gold jewelry. A large, ornate key hung from one of her brooches. She smiled as she approached him, her blue eyes as direct as the dwarves, “Good day to you. I am called Deandra, Lady of this household. M’Lord husband wasn’t dressed to receive visitors; he will be out in a few moments. I trust the boys have been taking care of you?”
The soldiers grinned at her and one of them spoke. “Er, yes, they have.”
At that moment the fellow who'd gone to the kitchen for coffee returned, follow by a matronly dwarf bearing a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of shortbread. Deandra turned to her, smile warming, and said, “Oh, thank you Gertie. I believe we’ll take that by the fire?” She cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Kevrenn and he gave a gesture of agreement. He followed her to the hearth and she sat. The chair was too short and she curled her legs under her. He eased himself down into another of the chairs, sitting somewhat awkwardly, his knees akimbo.
“Sorry about that,” Deandre said, “We have had few guests as yet, so we’re ill-equipped for Tall Folk.”
“Quite understandable,” he said, looking at her curiously. At a guess she was in her mid-twenties. He could not easily imagine her paired with a dwarf several times her own age, or even how she had come to marry one of Durin’s Folk. They sat and sipped their coffee, chatting of inconsequential things while he ate several pieces of the rich, buttery shortbread.
Before long a dwarf emerged from the door by the hearth. He wore his blonde beard short and neatly trimmed, and his clothes were well made from good fabrics, but his hands were calloused from work, his skin weathered. Kevrenn guessed him to be young, at least as dwarves reckoned age, and thought him some functionary, come perhaps to announce his Lord. He was surprised, a little shocked even, when the dwarf introduced himself. “I am Engvyr Gunnarson, by the Lord and Lady’s grace and the command of my King, Lord Warden of the North of the kingdom of Dvaergatil Baeg. How may I be of service?”
Kevrenn scrambled to rise but the dwarf waved him back to his seat. “Please! I am not so proud as to expect a travel-weary guest to rise just so he may bow again! Sit, sit!”
Kevrenn took a moment to gather his wits as the dwarf sat and secured a mug of coffee for himself. Finally he said, “I beg your pardon, M’Lord. My dealings with those of high station among my own people had led me to expect…”
“…A bunch of bowing and scraping? A dwarf lives long, my friend, but not long enough for such nonsense.” Engvyr sipped his coffee, his eyes dancing merrily in the firelight. “I’ll grant you, there’s enough of that sort of thing at court, but that’s worlds away from here and now. Two seasons past I was a ranger, and before that a soldier; I’ll not put on airs now just because the king thrust me into a job I couldn’t refuse. Now, what brings you to my humble corner of the world? The southerners trafficking in my kinfolk, I’ll wager?”
Kevrenn blinked. While such plain speaking was very much his own preference, he had not expected it from this d
warf, nor his casual disregard of his own rank within the kingdom.
Engvyr leaned forward and regarded him seriously. “I don’t know you, nor this councilman you say you represent. What I do know is that the agents of some power are enslaving my people and moving them through your city. I seriously doubt that they could do so without the collusion of your government. It is well known that we dwarves take a dim view of slavery and have gone to war more than once over the issue. We have never lost such a war, and those we have warred against have fared very ill indeed.”
The dwarf sat back in his chair and eyed him measuringly. “Taerneal is a valuable trading partner, but if we were to raze the city, slaughter every man we find within, and set their families on the road with no more than they could carry, it would be but a decade or two before a new city rose in its place, and all would continue as before. If I thought for a moment that there was a chance the lesson of this would be taken to heart and prevent such abominations in the future, it would be tempting.
Kevrenn tried to keep his expression still, though he could feel the chill on his skin as his face paled. The dwarven reaction was not, after all, unexpected. Would he have a chance to defuse it here, now? He maintained what he hoped was a polite silence and waited for the dwarven Lord sipping coffee an arm's length away to continue.
Which, after a pause that gave Kevrenn's heart ample time to begin racing, he did. "But the afmaeltinn sense of history is weak and vague, and they are loath to learn from even their own past. Waste and wanton killing are abhorrent to me when there is any option." The dwarf leaned back in his chair, his pale eyes measuring his human guest. "So, Kevrenn Mikkelson, envoy of Lord councilman Albrekk, convince me. Persuade me that such drastic action is not needed, that there is another road forward. You will not find the task heroic, for I am eager to find a less final solution.”
The dwarf's blunt candor left Kevrenn off-balance, but he rallied quickly. “We, too, have reached the conclusion that some members of our council might, indeed must, be involved. With that in mind, we must proceed cautiously, and not prematurely betray our knowledge and position. But if you do not know, M’Lord, the workings of our council, I must tell you. We have no monarch, and it is far from unknown for an individual member of the council to operate against the intents and interests of the whole. Such is the case here; enslaving dwarves is madness, and a sure path to disaster." He leaned forward, hoping the dwarf could read his sincerity. "My Patron, the Lord Councilman, has bid me and others beholden to him to gather evidence of this illicit trade for the purpose of bringing it before the full council. There is no doubt whatsoever that when this is accomplished they will put a stop to the trade immediately. Even the council member or members directly involved will not dare support the practice in open debate.”
The Lord Warden regarded him steadily, then looked to his young wife and raised an eyebrow. She nodded, and turned to Kevrenn.
“That is well, and a good start, but leaves open a number of concerns. Not the least of which is preventing the slavers from escaping, and bringing any members of the council in collusion with them to justice— justice that will satisfy the anger of our people.”
Kevrenn judged that she meant the dwarves rather than her own race. He was surprised that a woman of her youth displayed such thoughtfulness and maturity in her bearing. She was a soldier’s wife, new, he presumed, to the ways and means of power. He himself was new to diplomacy at this level, but he'd been recently coached by an expert, and he felt the mental exertion of every exchange. To this woman, on the other hand, diplomacy seemed entirely natural, as though she had been navigating political complexities for longer than she could possibly have been alive. Kevrenn reminded himself again of the dwarven perspective, backed by centuries of experience; if the powers that be had placed this young couple in the position they held, it must certainly be for good reason.
The Sword Master bowed to acknowledge her concerns. “M’Lord councilman has a plan to address these issues, and we are highly confident that the first can be resolved. Justice, however, is a trickier matter, and in this case subject to the decision of the council. M’Lord believes that he can bring prosecution against the persons involved but there is no certainty that this will succeed, or result in the sort of justice that your folk would accept.”
“Well, that’s honest enough,” Engvyr said. He looked to his wife, who gave a tiny nod. He looked back at Kevrenn. “Let us be frank with one another, and share what we know. Then we will have a firm basis from which to move forward. Perhaps between us we can find a way through this maze that avoids outright warfare.”
Chapter Sixteen
“When the time comes to act, you must act, even if you don’t have all of the information you need. Often enough, even doing the wrong thing is better than doing nothing at all. “
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
“We know how the braell are getting into the hands of the slavers, how they are being moved into and through the city, and how they are being taken south." Deandra spoke as she and Engvyr prepared for bed. "What we don’t know is who is behind it, who they are working with on Taerneal’s council, why the baasgarta are handing them over to the slavers, and why they are taking the braell to begin with." She sighed, her frustration evident to Engvyr. "So it seems like we know everything except what is actually going on.”
He nodded, frowning. “We’re definitely missing a lot of information here. Whatever is going on, it’s far more complicated, and I think dangerous, than some slavers making hay with the situation. But I’ll tell you this—I am not starting a war without more intelligence.”
Deandre turned down the covers and looked at him curiously, “But could we solve this with military force? Do we even have sufficient troops at our disposal to take the city?”
Engvyr shrugged into his nightshirt then shook his head. “At the moment, no. Since Skappensgrippe, we’ve been left with just enough to manage the North. The regiments have been recruiting and training all winter to replace their losses, though, so new formations are heading this way as we speak. If we really need to, we can divert some of those troops to this purpose. But I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”
The King’s policy with regard to slavery was well known, and for what it was worth Engvyr wholeheartedly agreed. No one would be allowed to enslave dwarves. Ever. And anyone who tried would find themselves facing the full might of the dwarven nation. The problem was that at the moment they were occupied with liberating the braell, and, frankly, their ‘Full Might’ wasn’t what it used to be. Their army had been decimated in the assault on the baasgarta capitol, with two regiments gutted and others sustaining heavy casualties. Going to war on another front would be problematic, particularly if the new campaign dragged on for any length of time.
That wasn’t his only source of discomfort with the idea, of course. Not that long before, as dwarves reckoned things, he had been a simple soldier himself. Casualties would not be measured in numbers, but in the lives of dwarves he had known—with whom he'd worked and beside whom he'd fought. He was acutely aware that even the ones he didn’t know personally were people with lives, families, and sweethearts. Some would die; some would be gravely injured, crippled. Such knowledge would not prevent him from doing what must be done, but it weighed heavily on him nonetheless. They had each and every one of them sworn their lives to the crown, but the obligation went both ways. If they had agreed to give up their lives at need, then their country at least had to honor that by not spending those lives recklessly, or at all, when a lesser sacrifice would do.
Engvyr had never aspired to power; when a soldier’s life hadn't held him he had moved on to the Rangers of the Mountain Guard and been happy roaming the land and enforcing the King’s Law. Despite having been ennobled for his actions, he had never taken up the mantle of Lordship. It was not that he had shied away from the responsibility, but rather that he was happy where he was, and could not imagine how he could better serve his peopl
e and his King as a Lord of some minor estate.
Then he'd met Deandra, a half-elven damsel in distress, and fallen head over heels. And with war looming, he'd at last claimed his lands and title so that if he fell, she would be protected. Shortly thereafter the Prince had thrust a new Office upon him—Lord Warden of the North. He could not refuse, but he had questioned the Prince’s decision. Not publicly, of course, but later, in private.
That had been a memorable and uncomfortable meeting. Prince Istvaar’s tent had been set up near the command post and he had invited Engvyr to join him there the evening after the Battle of Skappensgrippe. The interior of the tent was large and well appointed, though less luxurious than many might have supposed. Engvyr was seated in a comfortable folding chair at his host’s direction, and the Prince sat across from him. His flamboyant public persona abandoned, he regarded Engvyr with a serious expression.
“I know that you have many questions,” he began, “and we’ll dispose of those as best we may. Before you begin, though, let me speak plainly and perhaps answer what I may ere you ask.”
Engvyr nodded his assent, and the Prince continued.
“As you know, you drew Royal attention with your actions in the Kaeralenn Retreat, and a Royal reward as well. You drew further attention when you did not immediately file your writ and assume Lordship over your own lands; most in your position would have settled immediately and taken up the comfortable life of a gentleman. Yet you remained a soldier, and even after mustering out, you sought fresh duties as a Ranger. You must realize that was unusual?”
Engvyr shrugged uncomfortably. It had honestly never occurred to him that there was any hurry; he was young as his people reckoned such things, with much of his life before him. He had little experience with, and even less use for Lords. He acknowledged that they were needed, and good ones served their people and King well, but he had no desire to become one. He had always viewed it as something to be done in the dim future when he established a family and a life outside of his duty. A sort of useful retirement.
Lord of the North (Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman - Book 2) Page 13
