“Then take you off, you and that traitorous jumped-up watchman and be about it!” the chairman shouted.
“If I may, Lord Chairman?” Albrekk said mildly before either Engvyr or the Captain could respond. “The Captain is a sitting member of this body, and vital to our interests in the matter currently at hand. His expertise should be central to any decisions of the council. In fact, I would consider it ill-advised to consider any resolutions concerning said matter without him present. That being the case, I move that the council adjourn until such time as the Captain is available for consultation.”
“Motion seconded,” said the Captain with a wolfish grin.
“This is absurd!” sputtered the Lord Chairman.
Albrekk stood and regarded Nialle with a look that was anything but mild. “M’Lord Chairman, a motion has been made and seconded. Either do your duty and call the vote, or we will consider the necessity of appointing a person less reluctant to exercise their office.”
The Chairman paled at this suggestion and visibly struggled to contain his outrage. In the end he did call for the vote, which failed of course. To adjourn the council at this point would have meant to abdicate their authority, and none among them were willing to do that, least of all the guilty, who likely still thought their power would insulate them from the consequences of their actions.
“Now then,” Albrekk said. “Since the Captain, and the Lord Warder, have a job to do that is of intimate concern to each of us I would suggest that we table all other matters for the duration and allow them to do that job. We can recess in place, so that should the situation require our input we are available. Under these exceptional circumstances, I move that we clear the chamber of all but the sitting members. We will observe events from here, and be present to consult with the captain as needed. We can reconvene at any time should action be required.”
This motion narrowly passed, and the chamber was cleared. Those remaining, the full members of the voting body, gathered in knots, talking quietly among themselves. Engvyr noted that a number of the councilors were agitated, and many seemed nervous. You should be nervous, he thought. We will find out who sanctioned this, and then Lord and Lady help you…
* * *
Bulewef was in the second rank as they advanced down the tunnel. The human Battlemage had cast some sort of spell to light the tunnel ahead, and though the illumination was dim, he could see well enough over the shoulders of the shield-bearers in the first rank. The dwarves ahead of him bore their short swords and shields, as did the two behind him. The tunnel was just wide enough for them to go two abreast, and though the ceiling was half-again his height, he felt confined and closed-in.
When trouble came it came fast, bounding toward them up the corridor: more of the twisted braell, boiling out of the dimness ahead and closing with shocking speed. Bulewef and Keeli, the other gunner, fired over the shoulders of the front rank. Bulewef's shot took one of the creatures square in the chest. His companion’s slug tore the face off another and it dropped. The remaining creatures trampled it in their haste to reach the dwarves.
The gunners stepped back and knelt to reload; the two sword-and-shield armed troops moved forward to cover them. While his hands were busy automatically reloading his carbine, Bulewef saw a creature latch onto one dwarf's shield and drag it down, even while being stabbed. A second lunged over the shield and clamped its teeth onto the dwarf's face while it tore at his body with talon claws. Another soldier stepped forward and beheaded the attacking creature with a sweep of his sword, but was himself seized by several others. They tore away his shield and slashed at his face with their talons.
Bulewef finished reloading and shot one of the creatures though the skull. There was no time to reload now, and he went to work with his bayonet, stabbing over and over, barely able to clear his blade of one impaled monster before another was upon him.
The creatures were berserk, fighting on heedless of any hurt short of a mortal blow. The scene was rendered surreal by the shadow-less mage-light and the silent fury of their attackers. It was over as suddenly as it had begun. Two of his fellow soldiers were dead and Keeli had lost three fingers from his left hand. He clutched at it, swearing, as more soldiers moved past them to secure the tunnel. Bulewef pulled a linen bandage from his satchel, tore off its waxed-paper wrapping and bound the wound.
“Maker-taken bastard grabbed my hand right off my gun, then bit my bloody fingers off,” Keeli said through teeth gritted against the pain. “And this after I put my spade into his guts twice!”
As he finished, Bulewef felt a hand on his shoulder. “Move up with the rest, soldier,” the Sergeant said. “The watch will take care of this man.”
He gave Keeli’s arm a squeeze, then reloaded and did as he was told. He was shocked to see there had only been six attackers, all dead now. There had seemed to be dozens in the confusion of the melee. As he caught up with the rear ranks of the platoon he heard the clash of arms ahead, and shouting. As they advanced, the tunnel opened out to the sides and he could see light reflected off water ahead. There were several shots, and then it was over.
The fleeing slavers had run full into a platoon of Guards at the harbor end of the tunnel, which opened into a low grotto under a warehouse built out over the water on pilings. With no more of their servants to protect them, the two slavers had been cut down quickly and now three-dozen braell cringed and whimpered in a group among the soldiers. Some of them were trying to reassure the slaves, but this appeared only to be making the broken dwarfs more agitated.
“That’s not going to work,” someone said. Bulewef looked up to see the dwarven battlemage standing with her hands on her hips. Both the afmaeltinn and dwarven soldiers stopped and looked at her. “First off, they don’t speak the language. Second, there ain’t no point in being’ kind to them just yet; they don’t understand it, and don’t know how to react.”
Turning to the rescued slaves, she barked something at them in a half-familiar tongue, and they all instantly turned to looked at her, then scrambled to their feet. She gave another command and pointed and they all moved to line up along one wall. They still looked frightened and some of them continued crying, but they did as she said.
Ignoring them, she turned to the afmaeltinn sergeant. “They speak a dialect of the Old Tongue; I learned some of it dealing with them back in Makepeace. These folks been slaves all their lives; they don’t understand anything else.”
The Guard sergeant said, “Yeah, but they are free now. Can’t you tell them that?”
She shook her head. “Wouldn’t mean nothin’ to them if I did. As far as they’re concerned, we just became their new masters. Best and simplest just to act like it until we can convince ‘em otherwise, but it will take some time.”
The afmaeltinn looked at the cringing, branded dwarves and shook his head. “A nasty business. Well, we need to get them to the assembly point, get them cleaned up and cared for. I’m guessing you’d best go along to tell ‘em what’s what.”
She nodded. “I reckon so.” She turned to the dwarves' commander. “Sergeant? I’ll need a couple a’ people to come herd them along.”
He nodded and looked around. “Bulewef, Keeli, go with them, and you can get that hand seen to while you’re at it.”
He nodded,
Keeli said, “If you’ll load my gun I can manage it with the good hand. I don’t want to be completely useless if it comes to more trouble.”
Bulewef cocked the weapon and slid a slug into the breech, then handed it back. The dwarf took it by the grip and laid the fore-stock across his left wrist to aim. He grimaced in pain, but nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Ready to go, Ma’am,” Bulewef told the elderly Battle-Mage.
“It’s Ageyra. All right, back into the tunnel then. You two take up the rear.” She turned to the braell and said something in the Old Tongue. The former slaves shuffled after her, and the two soldiers followed them. Bulewef thought, Lord and Lady, this is turning out to be one
hell of a strange day….
* * *
The Guards had left a squad at the warehouse to secure it, and Ageyra spoke briefly to their corporal before leading the braell out into the streets. They formed a double-column without being told—probably how they were used to moving when driven in groups by the baasgarta.
As they marched, Bulewef really looked at the braell for the first time. The former slaves kept their eyes glued to the cobbles at their feet. They tended to be shorter than the dwarfs he was used to, which was exaggerated by their cringing posture. They were more lightly built as well, and both men and women bore brands on one cheek and the back of their right shoulder; the rags that passed for shirts only covered the left. They limped, which he'd attributed to their mistreatment until he noticed that they each bore a scar—an large upside-down ‘v’—on their upper calf. He felt sick as he remembered hearing that they had been deliberately lamed.
Where previously the people of the city had watched the dwarven soldiers pass with interest and excitement, they now registered shock or distaste at the sight of the braell. Some also appeared alarmed as they took in the condition of their charges, saw the blood on their uniforms and the bandage wrapped around Keeli’s hand. Perhaps it was occurring to them for the first time that something more serious than a visit from a delegation of dwarves was happening.
Bulewef realized that he was scowling fiercely at the townsfolk and tried to assume a more professional expression. These people are just folks, he told himself. They aren’t the ones that mistreated or enslave these poor souls.
The column wound its way through the streets for some distance before coming to another warehouse, well inland this time. It had either been untenanted or hastily cleared for the purpose of caring for the newly freed braell. A field kitchen had been set up in one corner, and a savory aroma came from that direction. There were washtubs along one wall, and the City Guard soldiers standing by them were unarmed, and bore a round patch with a red teardrop in the center on the breast of their uniforms. There were dwarves with them that Bulewef recognized as his battalion’s Medics. Right—the patch must be a drop of blood. These are the City Watch’s medics.
One of these troopers came to meet them just inside the door. “I’m Corpsman Merkel,” he said. “I'm in charge of the Guard’s healers. You’re the first to come in; why don’t you bring your people over here and we’ll get started?” Spotting Keeli’s hand, he frowned. “Have one of your people see to that; we’ll be pretty busy with this lot.”
They steered the braell over to the washtubs. After some explaining that appeared to stretch the limits of Ageyra’s communication skills, they convinced the braell to strip off their rags. Though obviously terrified, the former slaves complied quickly enough, and several flinched when one of the helpers raised his hand in a gesture. Each one was bathed quickly and impersonally, and had their hair washed with a strong, medicinal-smelling soap.
After their baths they were each given a shirt. These appeared to be afmaeltinn garments; while they would hang to mid-thigh on the tall folk they almost dragged the ground when worn by the braell. When they saw how far the sleeves needed to be rolled up, one of them swore, and produced a knife and simply cut them off to length.
Keeli was quickly seated and the bandage unwrapped, the dwarven medic clucking over the wounds. In short order he’d been well-dosed with poppy extract, and his relief was written in the lines of his face, which smoothed noticeably as the potion took hold. He was able to watch impassively as the medic stitched up his hand, even exchanged a joke or two.
Local boys and girls, impressed or employed for the occasion, kept up a continuous stream of buckets, supplying water from the public well. Bulewef was impressed with the efficiency of the operation; it spoke well of the Guard’s training and discipline.
Ageyra clapped him on the shoulder. “Seeing as things are pretty well in hand, you might just as well get yourself fed.” She gestured to the kitchen area. “Like it won’t be fancy, but it’ll beat hardtack.”
Bulewef had to agree. The dwarven soldiers carried food with them in their satchels—hard biscuits baked with dry cheese and bits of jerky blended into the dough. They kept a long time and didn’t actually taste bad, but it was so much work to eat them he had sometimes wondered if it was worth the effort. He headed for the makeshift kitchen.
“Don’t get to break out the field gear often,” said the cook who was overseeing the food. “Ain’t much, just some broth with a bit of cabbage and bread, but you’re welcome to it.”
His look as he was handed a bowl must have been eloquent, for the afmaeltinn continued, “Figure these folks for the better part of starved; too much food, or too rich’d just make them sick. Get them used to eating regular-like and we’ll feed them up proper, have no fear.”
He nodded understanding and found a place to sit on sack of something or other. The food was in no way special, but it was well prepared and filling. As he ate, a continuous stream of carts bearing supplies were rolling in and being unloaded by civilian laborers. Bales of shirts and blankets, baskets of lentils and cabbage, slabs of bacon and who knew what else. Bulewef realized this was all being managed very much on the fly. His unit had only been told what was happening, and that they would be working with the City Guard rather than fighting them this morning. Likely the afmaeltinn only found out about this last night, he thought. They seem to have a handle on it all the same.
One of the Guards came in and spoke to Ageyra, and she nodded and came over. “Finish up, lad. The boys and girls have reformed to reinforce the platoon at the docks, and we’re to join them.”
Bulewef nodded. He mopped up the last of his broth with a crust of bread, handed his bowl back to the cook, and shouldered his gun. “Right then, off we go.”
* * *
Lord councilman Albrekk watched events unfold with calmly veiled satisfaction. They had left the table to Captain Garvin, his lieutenants, and the Lord Warder. Some council Members talked quietly among themselves as a stream of messengers came and went, and the Captain made notations on a large map of the city. Most had retreated to the gallery and more or less segregated themselves by faction. Many of the nobility clustered around Albrekk, and some fewer around Chairman Nialle. The Guild Masters kept mainly to their own, and the Trade faction split itself between the guilds and the Chairman.
Food and drink was brought in at midday, though the beverages were limited to coffee, fruit juice, and highly watered wine. As the afternoon wore on, more and more of the Chairman’s faction appeared nervous, and quiet conversation was replaced with urgent whispers. The balance is shifting, Albrekk thought, and those fools don’t even feel the ground crumbling under their feet.
He’d had a fair notion that the Chairman was involved in the slave trade, and his reactions in the past two days had done nothing to alter that opinion. He had also had suspicions about who the other members of the cabal were, and he guessed that most of those standing with Nialle had some level of involvement. He thought about what it must have taken to suborn him. He knew the Chairman had been a dynamic and charismatic leader in his day, but as the years passed he was increasingly impatient with any who disagreed or questioned his authority. As he had gotten on in years he had become a petty, venal man; money alone would not have sufficed to corrupt him, though it certainly must have entered into it. An appeal to his ego, and offer of power? Albrekk suspected they would know before the day was out, tomorrow at the latest.
They would need a new Chairman, of course. Someone who stood calmly when others were frantic. Someone who saw to the heart of things, and was not afraid to act on that knowledge.
Someone, in fact, very much like himself.
The Captain’s aides passed among them occasionally, keeping them abreast of developments. They heard about the raid on the warehouse, and were shocked and horrified when told of the abominations found therein. The standoff at the docks had escalated; many of the slavers' ships at anchor in the harbor had
pulled alongside the docks, tying off to the vessels moored there, adding their own crews to the force at the barricades. They could also be seen on the decks, assembling war engines to support their men. If they were to take the docks, a major battle would ensue. And that would be a chancy thing indeed; the warehouses along the waterfront were built to resist fire, but should it spread among them, the entire city could be affected.
Albrekk had positioned himself where he could occasionally overhear the conversations at the table. He heartily approved of the Guard Captain; he was a canny man and a good leader. It seemed that the slavers' best bet would be to fire the waterfront, and have a force of skirmishers overtake the Guards at the mouth of the harbor. Then they could lower the chains, so they could escape by sea. They would take losses to the ballista and catapults along the wall, but the bulk of them could likely make it.
In response, the Captain ordered the militia called up to reinforce the winch-houses, and their archers to man the walls with fire-arrows at hand.
Albrekk frowned a bit to himself. Such strokes and countermeasures made sense, but he had a nagging feeling that they were missing something, some critical factor that they were unaware of. The slavers had demonstrated their power over flesh, but if they possessed one unexpected talent, what other powers might be available to them? Of course, the guards' own mages and those of the dwarves stood ready to counter such threats, but who could say if they would prove up to the task?
Lord of the North (Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman - Book 2) Page 20
