Lord of the North (Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman - Book 2)

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  “Looks like the bolt from a crossbow punched through the buff-cote and cut your shoulder—not deep, but you’ll want stitches. Another seems to have creased your helmet ; must’ve been from a heavy crossbow. You’ve a scalp laceration, but it's more messy than serious.”

  The afmaeltinn grabbed his chin and looked him in the eyes, one after the other. “You don't appear concussed, but there’s a fair goose-egg; you’ll need padding before you put a helmet back on.”

  The surgeon beckoned and a middle-aged woman in rough clothes brought a basin of something smelling strongly herbal. She washed the cut thoroughly, and whatever was in the basin burned like acid in the wound. “Don’t you worry a bit, young man. I raised four boys, and not a one of them but didn’t need lacing-up a time or two. We’ll have you back together in no time.”

  She fished a short length of rope from her satchel and thrust it between his teeth. “Bite down on this, honey. This ain’t gonna be pleasant.”

  It wasn’t, and a couple of times he thought he might bite clean through the cord. After she’d bandaged his shoulder she washed the blood from his hair and wrapped the head-wound. When she finished she sat back and looked over her work. “Right then,” she said. “Get some willow-bark tea in ye and you’ll be right as rain.” She gave him a pat on his good shoulder and stood. “You’ll find it with the coffee and vittles; have a full cup now, and mind you drink down every drop, or I’ll come looking’ fer ye and pour it down your throat my own self.” She gave him a hard look, then moved off to another patient.

  He shrugged back into his buff-cote, strapped his breastplate over it, and then looked ruefully at his helmet. He was going to have to pound that dent out before it was wearable again. He shrugged and, hanging the battered helmet from his belt by the chin-strap, went to stand in line for his tea. His stomach rumbled, and he was surprised to realize that it wasn’t much past dawn; it felt like it ought to be much later. This is going to be a very long day…

  ***

  “Never seen the like,” Engvyr said. “These baasgarta, they’ve always been mighty determined, but this… this is crazy.”

  Captain Garvin shook his head and said, “It’s like the only thing that matters to them is getting into the city. They push in, they die, and they just keep right on pushing. At this rate they’ll soon be able to climb the bodies of their own dead to the top of the wall!”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. The whole massive force seemed to have one goal in mind, and no care whatever for their own lives. As if something was driving them. Maybe something is, Engvyr thought, remembering the report of the bodies in the mountain lake. Maybe somehow, these Stepchildren had set hooks in the minds of the baasgarta soldiers and were just reeling them in. Is that even possible? He knew that dwarven mage-craft could not do this; they could work with stone, metal or wood but not living creatures. He had heard that Woodwrights could influence the growth of trees. But to compel so many to rush to their deaths? It was inconceivable and terrifying. But if the Stepchildren’s Fleshwrights can control just anyone there’d be no fight, he thought. They’d just make us do as they pleased. And if they could shape the flesh of anyone they cared to they could turn our own into creatures like the giants, or the ones in the warehouse.

  Certainly if they could change the populace they would. Magic took energy, of course. Maybe they simply didn’t have enough power? That being the case he couldn’t imagine they’d have enough to control a quarter-million baasgarta.

  “Terrill?” Captain Garvin said, addressing the commander of the guard’s Battle Mages. “Could this be some sort of magic? Something new?”

  Terrill frowned in thought, “There’s definitely something at work here that we don’t understand. There is an aura of magic over this horde, but it’s very faint. I cannot imagine how such a weak effect could possibly influence so many. That being said, this is like nothing we’ve encountered before.”

  He paused and his face assumed a thoughtful expression, as if rolling a sip of wine or coffee around his mouth to test its flavor. “No, no… I stand corrected,” he said at last. “It’s very faint, but it almost has the taste of the workings we sensed at Skappensgrippe, though that was enormously more powerful. Before the Dead God was roused, I mean. But while that was like an ear-splitting scream, if you’ll take my meaning, this is only the barest hint of a whisper.”

  “If it is some sort of compulsion,” Engvyr said, “Can you interrupt it? We’d be ahead of the game if these fellas were a bit less suicidal.”

  “Interrupt it? No. It’s taken us all morning just to confirm that it's really there,” the mage said with a frown. “We’ve not the slightest idea of what it is, or how so little power could possibly affect their minds. I’m sorry, your excellency, but this is entirely alien to our experience. And it’s entirely possible that this aura has nothing to do with their compulsion.”

  “An entire nation doesn’t just turn suicidal," said Engvyr. "Fanaticism, zeal, determination, yes—we’ve seen those right enough, but this is well .”

  They watched for a moment as the baasgarta at the wall scrambled over their dead comrades, trying to set siege-ladders or climb ropes. They were utterly heedless of the arrows smashing into their flanks, fired by the archers in the turrets. Those that fell were borne under the tide; there was no effort to aid the wounded. They just piled up their bodies and kept on coming. There were already thousands crushed against the face of the wall, and the horde still stretched as far as the eye could see.

  We can’t hold against this, Engvyr thought, no one could. That afternoon or sometime in the night they were going to lose the wall. Lord and Lady help us all when that happens…

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  “A dwarf does the best he can, even if his best is not enough. Sometimes it’s especially important for him to do his best when he knows it won’t be enough…”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  The sun was westering and Bulewef was exhausted. He had been to the wall three more times, and each time it was the same. The baasgarta came, the defenders killed them, and they kept coming. The dwarf’s back, neck, and shoulders ached, his feet hurt and he felt as if he had been beaten with clubs.

  They’d stopped pouring lead on the attackers; instead there were a hundred or more civilian volunteers using it and the dwarves’ molds to cast ammunition as fast as they could. And they would need it; even though the regiment had brought with them several tons of slugs and rifle bullets, they would soon run through that stock.

  The fighting along the wall was intense now. There were no more massed volleys, just sporadic shots and a lot of clashing steel. It won’t be long now, he thought, and felt a wave of exhausted despair.

  “Alright,” bellowed Sergeant Gevyr. “New orders. Get these people…” he gestured to the civilians crowded into the streets, “…moving south. We’re evacuating North Harbor. First squad, take Tanner’s street, second and third dyer’s quarter. Fourth will be with me in the warehouse district. The militia will be assisting.”

  He paused, then said, “Be as gentle as you can, but get them south. We haven’t time to cajole people; if they won’t move, leave ‘em. It’s their funeral— don’t make it yours too. Let’s go!”

  Bonfires were being started all along the street that paralleled the wall. To light the fighting on the parapet perhaps? Bulewef didn’t know and was past caring. The squad began shouting and moving down the broad street. The smell of fear mixed with the intense odor of the tanneries and the overloaded sewers. The long shadows of sunset and the fires flickering at their backs made it a scene from a nightmare. The folks in the street began moving readily enough; the houses were another matter. He hammered on a door with his gun-butt and yelled for the people inside to get moving. He couldn’t hear anything inside with all the noise in the street, but he thought he saw movement at the window. He hammered at the door again.

  “Leave them!” Gevyr shouted in his ear. “We don’t have time for thi
s! Keep moving.”

  Bulewef did as he was told. Some people were like horses rushing back into a burning barn; they stuck with what felt safe against all reason. But Gevyr was right, they had to worry about the people that they could help, not the ones that wouldn’t let them. Maybe they’ll come along before it’s too late, he thought. He hammered on more doors. At the next one a man stuck his head out of an upstairs window almost immediately. “What’s doin’?”

  “We’re losing the wall, grab what you can and move south,” Bulewef shouted. The sounds of fighting intensified. “I’d waste no time!”

  The man nodded, ducked inside and the dwarf moved on. They chivied the people in the streets, pounded on doors and shouted at the residents. The watch were right there with them, which seemed to reassure people. He was hoarse by the time they reached the main street that marked the edge of the district. Militia in motley gear guided the refugees across the thoroughfare to streets that were not yet barricaded.

  Spotting Gevyr he made his way to him and asked, “What now. Corporal?”

  “Get them past the barricades. We’re going to hold here, for what that’s worth.” He gestured up and down along the road. “We need this clear! This is going to be swarming before long.”

  They worked up and down the street, keeping the afmaeltinn moving. Eventually, all but a trickle of stragglers had crossed the broad avenue, and they began to barricade the few streets that remained open. Bulewef and the other dwarves lent a hand, and then the platoon gathered behind one of these improvised defensive works. He was not confident about with the arrangement. “They do a wave attack here like they been doing’ on the wall and we won’t last a minute,” he said to Gevyr quietly.

  “Orders are to make sure we’re all on this side of the street,” Gevyr said. “Word is the mages have some’at cooked up to help.”

  Just then dwarven whistles shrilled in the distance, followed by horns from the guard.

  “That’s it then,” Bulewef said. “They’re over the wall. Whatever they’re planning it had better be good…”

  ***

  “Time to go, M’lord,” the Householder corporal said.

  Engvyr peeked through the embrasure on the tower. The dead were piled against the wall like a snow drift, so high the baasgarta were able to swarm up it all the way to the parapet. The only thing slowing them down at this point was that the defenders were plugging the embrasures with the enemy dead, but that would last only moments. “Right then, let’s move,” he said. I hope we haven’t left it too late…

  Entering the tower they moved quickly down the spiral staircase inside, taking care on stairs designed for folk longer of leg than themselves. Reaching the bottom they found a very nervous looking dwarf holding the reins of their ponies. The noise of fighting above them intensified, and suddenly a body smashed into the cobbles next to them. The ponies reared and started, and Engvyr grabbed the reins to help get them under control again as he caught the red-and-black facial tattoos on the body from the corner of his eye. Whistles and horns shrilled a warning as the Householder corporal bayonetted the fallen body in the throat to be sure. Engvyr swung into the saddle of the still restive pony. A crossbow bolt bounced of his shoulder armor and he looked up to see baasgarta soldiers looking back. He raised the heavy pistol from its sling and carefully shot one of them in the face. The others disappeared, and the pony lurched under him. He looked down and saw the corporal had grabbed the bridle and started them moving. Engvyr dropped the gun to dangle on its sling and took up the reins himself. The small group entered the maze of streets and moved south as fast as they could in the uncertain light.

  Maker take me, he thought. …And Lord and Lady bless those we leave behind. He felt physically ill at the thought, but the dwarves and afmaeltinn soldiers still on the wall were doomed. Their sacrifice would buy him the time he needed to escape, and his responsibilities wouldn’t allow him do anything but accept it. That hurt. The curse of command…

  They passed civilian stragglers and soldier’s carrying litters or helping the wounded. He felt a stab of guilt that he couldn’t stop to assist. Only a year before he would likely have been one of those on the ground. But this was the cost of his position; the estate and royal stipend were poor payment for how he felt.

  In a few minutes they broke out into the broad avenue that marked the boundary of the North Harbor district. It was forty paces wide, in normal times accommodating stalls and shops along its edges with plenty of room for heavy wagons to move to and from the harbor. Dwarven soldiers and the afmaeltinn watch were chivvying civilians across the street. The buildings housed shops on their ground floors and living quarters above. The doorways were now blocked with heavy timbers, and the streets between barricaded and manned with a mix of the watch, militia, and dwarves.

  They could hear fighting echoing from the streets they had just left, and Engvyr was heartened to hear volleys of gunfire mixed in with the screams and clash of arms. Some dwarven unit is retreating in good order at least, he thought, but even as he did the volleys became ragged and broke up into the sounds of sporadic firing. The enemy had caught up with them, pushing forward despite the murderous fire. He felt a flash of sick, impotent rage; those dwarves would quickly be overwhelmed.

  “M’Lord, we must move!” the Householder corporal said. “The baasgarta will be here in moments.”

  He looked at the other dwarf and gave a curt nod. They rode into one of the few open streets. A handful of civilians were ushered in behind them, then the afmaeltinn militia began moving a barricade into place. Engvyr paused to watch, and the corporal, with a flash of irritation, moved close and said quietly, “M’Lord, we need to go. If these barricades hold for more than a minute I’ll be very much surprised. We must keep ahead of the enemy!”

  Engvyr made a quelling motion, and said, “You might indeed be surprised. I’m told the mages have cooked up a bit a’ something for our visitors, and I'm keen to see it’s effective.”

  “It better be a bloody big effect,” the corporal muttered under his breath. Yes indeed, Engvyr thought, Because I think my bodyguard was optimistic in thinking these barriers could hold for even a minute.

  ***

  “Not exactly military geniuses, these baasgarta of yours,” the guard cavalry lieutenant said as he lowered the spyglass and handed it back to Sergeant Hemnir. He had to reach down considerably to do so; the dwarves mounts were several hands shorter than his own.

  “Quantity has a quality of its own. We could kill full half of them and they’d still have more than enough to overwhelm the us,” Sergeant Hemnir said. They were on a rise northeast of the city, with their men hidden in the depression behind them. They had watched the massacre at the walls, but that was not the focus of their observations. They were looking at the baasgarta guarding the braell that the enemy had brought with them.

  “There’s what, maybe a thousand of them?” Hemnir turned the glass on them and examined the guard force yet again. At a guess there were upwards of forty thousand braell captives, mostly sitting dully in place. Far enough away that he, thankfully, couldn’t make out detail even with the spyglass, there was an abattoir where some of the baasgarta were butchering the dwarven slaves and sending the meat forward to the fighters a league and a half away.

  “That’s near ten times our number, even so,” the lieutenant said. The platoon of the city’s cavalry had met up with the dwarves after they left Taerneal on the Lord Warden’s instructions. Most of the afmaeltinn cavalry was further south, supervising and protecting the column of refugees. When the dwarven sergeant had explained their mission he’d quickly volunteered to join them.

  “Yeah, but look at ‘em,” the dwarf said. “They’re armed sure, but not one in five has armor to speak of, and they don’t handle those weapons like soldiers. I’d bet m’life they're civilians pressed into service to guard the braell.”

  “You’re betting all of our lives,” the lieutenant reminded him dryly. “Still, I like our chances
even so.”

  “Well then,” Hemnir said, “No time like the present, eh?”

  They turned their mounts and retreated to where the remainder of their troops waited. There were a hundred of the heavily armored dwarves mounted on their long-legged southern ponies and another thirty of the city’s cavalry. Hemnir addressed them.

  “Right lads, you know the plan. Sweep across the edge of the braell and take out the guards. Don’t piss on their boots, kick their arses! Any that drop their weapons and run let ‘em go, unless they are in the way. Half of us dwarves are going to drive through to the slaughter pits and have a word with the boys there. The rest a’ you get those braell moving back into the gap and through. Think a’ it as herding sheep, and don’t muck about. You get a straggler here and there leave ‘em. The main thing is to get them out of reach of the baasgarta and keep ‘em. Once we’re through the gap there’s a company of rifles and a Battlemage to help hold it. Things are likely to get past hairy; these folk seem powerful interested in gettin’ the braell onto ships and away, but if we can hold ‘em back, it’ll take some heat off the city.”

  He looked at the assembled folk, tall and short, and nodded. “Likely we’re a buncha’ fools riding to our deaths, but if we can pull this off they’ll be writing songs about us. On my signal, charge, and Maker take the hindmost!”

  e was satisfied that they were as prepared as they ever would be. Only a handful of the dwarves had actually fought mounted before, but they were, each and every one of them, veterans of foot combat, and they weren’t going to get any readier.

  Hemnir drew his long, heavy cavalry saber and raised it high. “CHARGE!”

  They crested the hill in a mass, but quickly settled into a V-formation. Hemnir, at the point of the V felt a wild elation as they charged through the dusk. It was reckless, maybe even stupid; in the twilight, the horses couldn’t pick their footing as well. He didn’t care. There was a sense of abandon, and he felt a deep satisfaction as the terrified baasgarta stared at them, trying to make out who and what they were. He could tell when they realized what was coming— many of them dropped their weapons and ran, some even ducking in among the braell for shelter from the onrushing storm.