Lord of the North

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  “Which is precisely what we are attempting to do,” Engvyr said. “There is little that I can do about those braell already been taken. That’s the Crown’s responsibility, and I’ll have a full report on its way to Ironhame within the day. His majesty will do as he can and sees fit. Our problem is local. The braell aren’t merely kin and kind; they are my subjects, and that by the authority of the King and the grace of the Lord and Lady. It is my sworn duty to put an end to this, and I mean to do just that. It seems apparent that this is an ongoing enterprise, and they are operating with the support of at least some faction of the council. That complicates matters, but doesn’t change anything.”

  Engvyr rose and moved to his desk. Picking up a pen knife, he sharpened a quill, opened his ink-pot, and began to write. He spoke as he did so. “We’ve four regiments in the north at the moment, and two more on the way. I’m ordering the 1st and 4th Heavy Infantry to move west to interdict the Baasgarta before they can deliver the braell to the slavers. That ought to put a crimp in things.”

  Taarven and Ageyra exchanged looks. “Uh, Engvyr?” said Taarven. “Can you do that?”

  The younger dwarf grinned at his former partner, but there was steel behind his eyes “I am the Lord Warden of the North; the terms of my position and exact duties may as yet be a bit vague, but one thing was made perfectly clear. When my mouth opens in my official capacity, it is the King’s voice that issues forth, and until or unless the King contradicts my orders I am the law in these lands. They can do as I say or so help me I’ll ride into their command tents with my cavalry and they can bloody well explain themselves in person. While examining the bores of our guns if need be.”

  Taarven had no doubt that he meant exactly what he said; while Engvyr was by nature and inclination easy-going, when he set his mind to something it tended to get done. At the moment he saw not his former partner, the young dwarf he had mentored and shared a road with for twelve years, but rather something of the tempered-steel at Engvyr’s core—his will laid bare for any to see.

  Then his friend’s expression softened and Engvyr spoke again. “There will be little entertainment value in watching me scribble my report to the king. Likely I’ll be half the night at it too; the pair of you might as well take your ease in the great hall with the others.”

  It was gently said, but Taarven and Ageyra had no doubt that they had just been dismissed. Deandra showed them to the door, then paused.

  “You two go ahead; I’ll stay to make sure it takes no more than half the night. Even the Lord Warden of the North needs his sleep.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Before you call the tune it’s best to know whether you or your enemy is the better dancer.“

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Kevrenn was tired and hungry from his long walk across the city. After visiting his patron, he was looking forward to a wash and change of clothes, perhaps a cool drink. As he entered the salle, he saw that he was not going to get his wish.

  Two men stood before him, with four more arrayed in an arc behind, all with drawn swords in hand. One of the men was in the clothes of a nobleman, though Kevrenn didn’t recognize him. The other was in half-armor and held his sword as if he knew how to use it. The sword-master swept his eyes over the other armed men, one of whom held Ullerek firmly by the arm. He met the boy’s eyes and raised a brow and, though obviously terrified, the servant gave an infinitesimal nod.

  The nobleman opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to command him to drop the sword he still held by its scabbard in his left hand. Kevrenn never found out; instead the intruders discovered what it meant to face a Master of the Brorsec Krigenblom with steel in his hands.

  His steps never faltered as he approached the two leaders of the group. Without warning he brought the scabbarded longsword up, reversing it to bring the hilt to his right hand. As he drew the weapon, he stabbed the metal-shod point of the scabbard into the face of the half-armored man and released it. As soon as the blade was clear, he whipped it about his head, bringing his left hand to the pommel just as the razor-sharp steel met the collar of the nobleman and sliced cleanly down through his ribs. Turning, he placed a foot on the breastplate of Half-armor, who had instinctively brought his hands to his damaged face, and kicked him violently back into two of the men behind.

  Ullerek slammed his heel into the instep of the man who held him, yanked violently against his captor’s grip and hammering a fist into the man’s wrist, he tore free and scampered away.

  Chubby and Scarface, as Kevrenn had dubbed them, tried to dodge the half-armored man hurtling toward them. Chubby raised his sword to avoid stabbing his companion, and the sword-master moved forward and struck, taking Chubby’s arm off just below the elbow and continuing the blow to remove much of the man’s face. Beard and Big Ears lunged from his right and he moved aside, deflecting Beard’s blade and extending the parry into a thrust that put six inches of his point into Big Ear’s thigh as he grabbed Beard’s sword-hand in his own left. Yanking the man close, he smashed his forehead into the bridge of Beard’s nose, then, as the man staggered back, Kevrenn opened his belly with his sword’s point. Not pausing to admire or elude the carnage, he extended that cut into a thrust that took Scarface—who’d been knocked back by his armored friend and was just recovering his balance—neatly through the throat.

  Kevrenn took another step and spun to face the remaining man. Big Ears stood rooted in surprise, shocked by the suddenness of the exchange, a hand clamped to his thigh where he’d been stabbed. To give him credit, his other hand still held his sword on guard, but there was naked fear in his eyes as he regarded the blood-spattered figure before him.

  Ullerek grabbed a spear from one of the weapon racks at the side of the room. Big Ears glanced towards the front door, obviously gauging his chances of making it out before he was struck down.

  “Surely you’re not thinking of leaving?” Kevrenn said chidingly. “The lesson isn’t over yet. Unless you’d care to discuss the terms of your present employment?”

  Half-armor began to rise and Kevrenn shifted the longsword to his left hand. Without taking his eyes from Big Ears, he gave a casual flick of the point and opened the great artery in the side of the Half-armor’s neck. Blood sprayed across the salle as the man collapsed. Big Ear’s weapon crashed to the floor seconds later.

  “Ullerek, bar the door,” Kevrenn commanded. While the boy scampered to obey, the sword-master stepped to a supply cabinet, withdrew a leather strap, and quickly bound the man’s hands. On his way back from the door, the servant grabbed the medical kit they kept on hand for the inevitable injuries that occurred during classes, and the sword-master bound the man’s thigh to stop the bleeding. While he was busy, Ullerek grabbed a bucket of ground clay to soak up the blood from the floorboards, then stopped in indecision as he realized how inadequate a single bucket would be in the face of the carnage that confronted him.

  “Leave off of that,” Kevrenn told him. “Fetch Gudrun out of her bolt-hole and tell her to pack clothes for several days, for herself and you as well.”

  Bruised bodies and egos made for resentment, and a sword-master produced plenty of both in the course of his work. That being the case, when he had first taken possession of the salle he had installed a hide-away behind a section of false wall as a place for his servants to hide in an emergency. Ullerek nodded, and with a last shuddering glance at the bodies and dismembered parts scattered across the floor, he darted into the apartment to comply. Kevrenn retrieved an oily rag from the supplies and began to clean the longsword.

  “Now then,” he said, turning to the captive, “Let’s hear your story, and mind you give me no reason to suspect that you are being less than forthcoming with the details.”

  Big Ears glanced nervously at the sword Kevrenn still held. “Well, we was hanging about The Rook this morning. You know The Rook?”

  Kevrenn nodded impatiently. The Rook was a large inn with an unsavory reputation a few blocks from the sa
lle. He gestured for the man to continue.

  “Well, we—Bayen, Aorek, Bisten and I—were there and this fellow dressed as a noble and his man come up and asked if we wanted to make us some money. They told us they meant to take you and ask some questions. We figured with odds a’ six to one you’d not fight; that it’d be quick an’ easy…”

  “Well, it was quick anyway,” Kevrenn said dryly.

  The man gulped and turned his eyes away from his slaughtered friends before he went on, “Anyway, that’s all we knew. That they meant to take you and question you.”

  “Question me about what?”

  “They never said, honest, sir. We figured it might be over a debt, or an indiscretion, but we didn’t care. We were just looking for a quick bit o’coin, you know?”

  Kevrenn questioned him at length about the man’s exact words, his mannerisms and attitudes, even the way he moved. At the end he was convinced that the “nobleman” either really was of the nobility, or at least steeped in their culture and habits. That was very bad news indeed; no matter what the provocation, the city’s authorities took a dim view of commoners killing nobility. His initial instinct had been correct; they’d have to flee. At least for a time.

  The trio scurried through the streets, to all appearances a family of the lower class; father, mother, and son. Heavily cloaked against the evening chill, they could have been anyone. Each of them carried a bundle, perhaps all of their worldly possessions. Seeing them, one might think them to be servants moving on to new employment. The less generous might think that they were changing quarters one step ahead of an irate landlord.

  They kept to back-streets until well clear of North Harbor, then moved along the main thoroughfares. South across the city, through the markets to the more prosperous districts. Eventually they once again took to side streets, not to avoid being seen but because the broad, well-lit main streets were reserved for their betters. They were not alone in this second network of byways; in their travels they passed carts bearing supplies, loads of trash, or fodder for the horses that resided in the walled carriage-yards to either side. Servants with baskets of groceries or other burdens hurried by, returning to their master’s houses through the back-doors or kitchen-garden gates.

  They stopped at one such door and Kevrenn knocked firmly. When the door opened he showed a token worn on a chain about his neck, and the trio were admitted forthwith. Shedding his cloak in the mud-room just off the kitchens, Kevrenn set down his bundle and said, “Please tell M’lord Albrekk that I am here, and await his pleasure.”

  The servant nodded and said, “At once, Master,” and hurried away through the kitchens.

  He gestured for Gudrun and Ullerek to sit on the bench along one wall of the small, dim room. “Wait for me here. If there is anything that you need, tell someone in the kitchens and they’ll see to it. I may be some time.”

  It was cold outside and perhaps too warm in the kitchens; the mud-room was comfortably balanced between, and if the accommodations were a bit plain, his servants would be comfortable enough for the moment.

  After a short time one of the staff returned and told him the Lord would see him. He followed her through the back-halls and upstairs to a private study. His patron awaited him with a sour expression, and as Kevrenn bowed, he said, “I suppose by your arrival at such a time and in these circumstances, that you bear no happy news?”

  Kevrenn was tired and on edge after the events of the afternoon, not to mention that this was his second trip the length of the city that day. He took a breath and tempered his response, keeping to the facts. “I returned from our meeting this afternoon, M’Lord, to find a half-dozen armed men waiting for me. It seems they had some questions for me, and while I was unable to determine the nature of those questions, I have my thoughts on the matter.”

  Lord Albrekk frowned at him, then snorted. “Idiots to beard the lion in his den. You killed them, of course.”

  Kevrenn inclined his head in assent. “All but one. Unfortunately, he was just a hired blade, and knew nothing of any use. The man who instigated the action against me was, to all appearances, a young nobleman. Not one that I recognized.”

  His patron rolled his eyes. “Oh, you just live to make my life more interesting, don’t you? I suppose I’d better have a full accounting, then.”

  “If it please you, M’Lord, my housekeeper and boy are downstairs, and have had no supper.”

  The older man impatiently called a servant and instructed him to see Kevrenn’s people fed and cared for. Seating himself behind his large, heavy desk, he looked at the swordsman, frowning again. “All right then. Spare no details.”

  Kevrenn did, and when more detail was needed his Patron asked piercing, pertinent questions. When finally they finished, the councilman sat back and tented his fingers in front of his face.

  “Well then. It seems evident that someone is interested in your enquiries. While it would be useful to know how they were tipped off it’s not really relevant at the moment. I’ll have some of my people stop by the salle and take care of things there. Discreetly of course. Perhaps they can identify the young nobleman, which would likely advance our investigation no small amount.”

  Kevrenn nodded, less in agreement than acceptance.

  The councilman sighed. “I assume that your captive is still in residence? Any thoughts as to his disposition? What promises did you make to compel his cooperation?”

  “Merely that I would not kill him immediately, M’Lord,” Kevrenn said. “Though I am fairly sure that he took from that the implication that he would survive the experience. Perhaps your men could set him on the road south, with some brotherly advice about the health benefits of seeking a different climate?”

  “Perhaps.” His patron said, nodding absently, then frowned at him again. “For your own part, it would be wise if you were to leave the city for a time, and I think that we can devise some useful purpose in you doing so. We can spread the story that you have been called away on ‘a family matter,’ and let people make what evil of that they will. As for your servants, well, they can easily enough be absorbed into my household for the moment. They’ll be well cared for and occupied while you are away.”

  Kevrenn accepted that too, then said, “One assumes that you have something specific in mind for my little holiday?”

  “Oh, very much so,” Lord Albrekk assured him. “Very much so.”

  Part 3

  Chapter Fifteen

  “We’d assumed that the slave-trade of the Braell was opportunistic, but it quickly revealed itself to be far more complicated than that—and more sinister.

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Kevrenn had been two days on the road when he encountered the Rangers. He had been traveling fast; with a spare mount in tow he was able to switch horses as needed and so far, had covered what would, at a more normal pace, have been a four-day journey to the Makepeace Valley. Now that he was nearing dwarven lands he was half expecting a challenge of some sort, and was unsurprised when he was hailed.

  The road was hard against the mountainside on his right, with a long plunge to a rapidly flowing river on the left. As he rounded the shoulder of the mountain he saw two dwarves mounted on ponies about twenty yards away. One of them barked out, “Hold fast, traveler, and state your business!”

  He drew up and examined the pair. They were dressed in what he recognized as a uniform: identical greatcotes open over darkened steel breastplates and broad-brimmed hats. Long blades hung from their saddle-bows and each had a gun of some sort held casually across their laps, not threatening but obviously at the ready. He had little knowledge of guns, but knew them to be lethal at much longer ranges than this. These must be the Rangers of the Mountain Guard of whom he’d been told. He touched the brim of his hat and gave a half-bow in the saddle. “Kevrenn Mikkelson, out of Taerneal and bound for Eastgrove on council business.”

  The dwarf examined him carefully, taking in his clothing and gear, then nodded. “An e
nvoy, then?”

  Kevrenn shrugged. The dwarf nodded, then moved his pony aside and gestured. “About two leagues along the valley opens out. Follow the northern fork of the road and you’ll come to Eastgrove right enough. Can’t miss it.”

  The sword master shifted his weight to start his horse moving again. “Much obliged.”

  The dwarf gave a sharp nod and when Kevrenn looked ahead the other dwarf had vanished. He looked back to discover the one he had spoken to had disappeared just as effectively. It was a sobering reminder that he was dealing with a very different people. By the time one of his own folk truly mastered a craft like swordsmanship, they were already past their youth and beginning to slow. But dwarves had very long lives; they had ample time to hone skills to expertise while still in their prime, and decades or even centuries more to refine their understanding. It would give them very different perspectives than those of his own folk—and that was something he’d best bear in mind while dealing with them.

  He rode on and ere two hours were past he was looking upon Eastgrove. The copper-roofed stone structure was impressive, and a well-made curtain wall enclosing the fore-court was nearly complete. To one side there were corrals full of ponies and some long, low buildings with stone foundations below walls of wattle-and-daub. Nearby, a number of mounted dwarves in armor were practicing cuts upon a variety of targets. If his intelligence was correct there had been nothing here but open meadows less than a half-year before. However much they might look to the long view; these dwarves could obviously move quickly when it suited them.

  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!”