Lord of the North

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  Engvyr thought that the new combined arms approach was sound, but for the work ahead he might have preferred a Rifle regiment. You work with what you have, he thought, and no point in crying about it. He’d never commanded a force on anything like this scale. Sure, as a Ranger he and Taarven had occasionally led local militias against gangs of bandits or goblin renegades, but that was a far cry from this. One thing he knew—as leader of a force of this size, his best bet was to determine what needed to be done and let the unit’s own officers figure out how best to accomplish it. There were commanders that could see to the intricacies of every detail, but he had neither the knowledge nor the experience for that, and he was unconvinced that it was really the best way to . As a thirty-year veteran, he at least felt that he had a realistic estimate of the capabilities of the units under his command, and sense enough to consult their officers.

  He had to admit that the dwarven cavalry looked formidable in their plate armor. Made of the finest dwarven steel, he’d have bet against even a heavy crossbow penetrating it. Their ponies were also armored, though not as heavily. The thought had always been that dwarves could not field a mounted force that could compete with the longer reach and larger horses of afmaeltinn cavalry, but looking at them, he wasn’t so sure. Between their armor and their carbines, they might just account surprisingly well for themselves.

  As they approached Eastgrove near midday, they stopped for a break. The cavalry changed out their mounts, and while they ate a cold lunch, hot coffee was prepared and passed around. It had been suggested that they overnight at the estate itself, but Engvyr had vetoed that idea. He wanted to make the best time possible, however much he desired to see Deandra and sleep in his own bed. The stop took over an hour, much of which was spent changing over the armor on the cavalry’s mounts, rubbing down the beasts after it was removed, and feeding them a measure of grain. Time consuming but necessary if the ponies were to be in fighting condition when they reached their destination.

  The road took them past his estate, and as they rounded the bend they were greeted with a sight that raised Engvyr’s spirits considerably. The Householders were turned out on a knoll near the road, with his wife at their head. She was dressed in riding clothes adapted from the fashion of the Royal Court, but in their house’s colors: a short cote over a dress with flowing skirts and a fitted, long-sleeved top—and while the cut may have been formal, all was sewn of tough-wearing, tight-woven linen. She rode sidesaddle with the Big Fourteen in hand, its butt resting on her knee, and while not exactly a martial figure, she exuded strength and confidence.

  Sergeant Hemnir bellowed, “Company! At the March, Present… ARMS!”

  The Cavalry raised their weapons in salute with machine-like precision as they passed. His wife acknowledged them by raising her own weapon. Engvyr pulled up his mount as the formation marched by and grinned at her. As much as she had wished to accompany him, they both knew that she needed to mind things at home. With their estate just now becoming established and crops going in soon, they could not both be away. Engvyr was glad that she would be out of harm’s way, but knew his wife too well to let that factor into his arguments.

  As each unit passed, the command was given, and salutes were exchanged. Finally when the last of the troops had gone by, he gave her his own salute and, spurring their ponies, he and his bodyguards returned to the head of the column.

  Evening saw them past the last of the scattered fields and farms at the western edge of dwarven Lands. While their force was far too large to have any fear of outlaws, they set up a proper camp with ditches and spiked earthen banks for defense, with orderly rows of tents laid out inside the enclosed space. By sundown the mess tents were erected, and savory aromas had begun to waft across the camp.

  When in the field, the dwarven army nearly always put in the time to fortify their camp. It meant a couple of hours less travel time each day, but it had proven worth the effort time and again. There was also a lot to be said for the feeling of security and order it created. It was as if they were home, among friends and familiar comforts—or discomforts—wherever they went. A soldier slept in the same bedroll in the same tent each night; his tent was between the same tents as it had been the night before; and most nights, each soldier’s tent retained its position relative to the mess tent. At least in the south; in the mountainous north, accommodations to the local terrain were frequently required, but they did their best. Even when he was a soldier himself, Engvyr was always amazed at how quickly such a camp could be established.

  In the morning, because the mess tents were being disassembled and packed, the soldiers ate from the supplies that they carried and brewed coffee over their units’ fires. Even so, they were on the road from the time it was light enough to see. The average soldier in the regiment was the veteran of decades of practice at these procedures, and they were quick to spread their expertise to the new recruits.

  Engvyr was glad for the mild weather; they were now leaving civilized lands, so Sergeant Hemnir insisted that he don full armor. He was grateful now for the hours spent training with the cavalry; the tempered-steel armor was not as heavy as one might expect, but if he had not been well-used to the weight of it the ride would have been less than comfortable.

  He’d insisted that his armor was not polished to “please-shoot-me” parade plate standards. It was the same forge-black finish as the regular cavalry’s. Any beauty it possessed was in its exquisite craftsmanship. Indeed, it was so well fitted that the plates did not scrape or clash against one another, and it allowed him full range of motion even while providing near-complete protection from head to knees. His lower legs were protected by steel guards attached to the stirrup leathers, so when afoot, his calves and feet were protected only by his boots, which reached his lower thigh, just above the articulated steel cops protecting his knees. The boots were equipped with steel shin guards though, and separate greaves that could be strapped on for foot-combat. Regardless of the ingenuity of his armor, however, carrying an extra fifty pounds was fatiguing and he’d be happy to relinquish it come evening.

  That day they stopped only to eat and change amounts, and by evening they were no more than a day’s travel from the afmaeltinn city. They set up camp in a meadow commonly used by caravans and passed the night in relative comfort. Engvyr spent the evening closeted with his commanders, going over contingency plans and studying maps of the city.

  The next morning a delegation was sent ahead to secure a camp site. They would also alert the ruling council that they would arrive that afternoon, and that the Lord Warden of the North would await their pleasure.

  The people of the outlying farms stopped to stare as the column passed—those that did not bolt at the sight of them, anyway. The dwarves carried their own supplies rather than looting the country as they passed, which was often the habit of afmaeltinn forces, but these people had no way of knowing that. While they were only a battalion and a company of cavalry, they must have seemed an invading army to the locals.

  They set up in a field within sight of the city walls. The farmers whose fields they appropriated were less than enthusiastic initially, but became resigned to it readily enough when they were compensated handsomely for the use of their land. The camp went up quickly and by the numbers; they were aware that the city guards were watching and wished to make a good show of it.

  By the time they were established, a delegation from the council presented itself to inquire as to their intentions. The dwarven contingent was not a large enough force to seriously threaten the city, but when even a small army shows up on your doorstep un-announced, you’re bound to be curious. The delegation was met at the barrier by Colonel Gertred, who informed them that the Lord Warden of the North was here to address the council concerning “a grave matter of mutual concern.”

  For a foreign leader to arrive with a battalion of troops was not actually unusual, but generally such visits were arranged well in advance. Nonetheless, the emissaries of the council were
gracious, and agreed to inform their masters. They made a pro-forma invitation for the Lord Warden to enjoy their hospitality, but this was politely declined with the excuse that he was quite comfortable among his men and fatigued from the journey. He sent back with them his own greetings and word that he would be delighted to be received by the council on the morrow.

  Not sure that delighted is the right word, Engvyr thought as he watched them depart. I am pretty sure that what I say will bring them no joy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “To lead effectively, it is not necessary that one be a bastard, but in some cases it helps. “

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson.

  Herding cats, Lord Councilman Albrekk Drakkenson thought as he left the chambers of the ruling council. That esteemed body was not so much a disciplined force marching toward its goal, but rather, a host of sparrows boiling across the spring sky. Individuals with their petty whims and secret agendas darted every which way and the entirety of the flock swung this way and that as it pursued a vaguely northward route. Yet each year, sparrows did make their way to the goal, as the mess on the cities statues, bridges, and fountains testified. And so too did the council eventually arrive where it needed to go, though often creating an even greater mess along the way than the birds.

  Gathering his bodyguards with a look, Albrekk proceeded through the halls of the council house like a ship under sail, his progress graceful and steady but unhurried. As he passed through the high, lavishly decorated galleries, he stopped to exchange words with a bureaucrat here, an officer of the guard there. In each case he not only called them by name, but asked after members of their family and inquired about the intimate details of their lives. “How is your father’s broken ankle,” or “I am so glad to hear little Cyndra’s fever has passed.” He made a point of knowing such details not because he cared, but because it served the dual purposes of making the person feel important and reminding them that he was aware of what they valued.

  As they entered the outer court, a groom brought their horses. One of his guards quickly checked his horse’s tack and harness before the councilman belted his sword about his hips and mounted. He rode to and from the council House each day. Some of his colleagues used litters but he disliked the imagery of that; to be borne on the shoulders of lesser persons did not present the same image as riding and guiding a powerful warhorse, longsword at his side. He knew well the use of that longsword, too; it was not for nothing that he was the patron of a sword-master, and it was known that the blade he bore had been used in earnest combat.

  He had not been a hot-headed youth, but he did have ambition. When a situation in which he might take offense offered itself, he had registered the insult and acted accordingly—primarily because he’d anticipated a future in politics and he wished to be known as a man of courage, one who would not shy from violence when it was demanded. The resulting duel had been a calculated risk, but one which, upon his triumph, had proven itself worthwhile. His reputation had been cemented and his message made clear.

  On another occasion, while traveling with a party of friends to some one of their family’s summer estates, they were set upon by bandits. He was well mounted and in a position to run for safety, but recognizing the opportunity to enhance his reputation even more, he had engaged the thieves. Again, it was a risky move, but one that had paid off well in allowing him to further shape the image he presented to the world.

  He was not entirely a cold-hearted man, no matter what he told himself. There were people whom he liked on their own account. He was not ungenerous with those legitimately in need and it pleased him to treat his staff well. If he justified these feelings as a matter of insuring loyalty and creating political advantage, it was a largely harmless self-deception, and one of the few he allowed himself.

  He arrived home and, after turning his horse over to the groom, retired to his study and sent for coffee. He found the mild stimulant effect of the beverage refreshing after a long day in chambers, and with the current glut on the market he was indulging himself more than usual. He had no sooner settled in to examine the pile of reports on his desk than he was disturbed by a quiet knock at the door.

  “Come!” he said, looking up irritably from his work.

  The door opened, and his carl looked in. “Sir? If it please you, there is a messenger from the Guard.”

  “I imagine he’d still be here if it didn’t please me,” he said. “Send him in.”

  The door swung wider to admit a nervous looking corporal, who approached and came to attention. “My Lord, a delegation from the dwarves has arrived, including their new Lord Warden of the North. It is expected that they will enter the city and request an audience with the council in the morning.”

  This was not a surprise; runners from the outlying farms had alerted them earlier. Albrekk raised an eyebrow. “They will ‘enter the city’ tomorrow? Were they not offered the council’s hospitality?”

  “They were, My Lord, but the Lord Warden elected to stay in camp with his men.”

  “I see,” he said, wondering idly what it would take to get this fellow to actually tell the tale. He throttled his impatience instead of the messenger, and prompted, “And how many men has the honorable Lord Warder brought with him that they cannot simply join him in the council’s guest quarters?”

  “They are here in greater than Battalion strength, My Lord, in a fortified camp a half-league outside the gate. We’re alerting all members of the council.”

  “I should hope so. Is that all, or should I send for a team of horses to drag the remaining details from you?”

  Beads of sweat showed on the soldier’s forehead and he appeared to be on the verge of passing out. “N-no, My Lord. I believe that is all.”

  “Then why are you still here?” he asked and made a shooing motion with his hand. The Corporal sketched a quick bow and departed with restrained haste.

  The councilman leaned back in his chair and contemplated the news. This was a faster response than he’d expected from the dwarves, and not the one that he had hoped for. He wondered idly if Kevrenn was with them, but dismissed the thought as unimportant. If he is fool enough to return at this juncture, then he deserves to suffer under the questions he left in in his wake of his departure.

  A battalion of troops was not enough to pose a real threat to the city, but it could certainly wreak havoc on the surrounding lands, and there was not much the city’s forces could do about that. The City Watch had sufficient strength to man the walls in the event of a siege, and the Guard consisted of two companies of cavalry patrolling the city-state’s territory in platoon-sized groups. The watch were trained for open-field battle, but for them to depart the city to do so against a force this size would leave the Taerneal undefended, and the council would never allow that. Even if the cavalry could be gathered and sent against them en-mass, they would be badly outnumbered and likely slaughtered wholesale.

  So the dwarves had sent a force sufficient to form a credible threat, but not large enough to take, or even besiege, the city. That was better than an army but still more than he had expected.

  He recalled that the Lord Warden, one Engvyr Gunnarson, was reported to have been a soldier of some renown amongst his people. Considering that, he was more likely to think in terms of an active solution to their problem. Was this purely a bluff? Bluster? A show of force meant to convince them he was serious? Albrekk would not be able to judge that until he met this Lord Warden fellow himself and could take full measure of the dwarf.

  He dug through the reports until he found one with the collected intelligence on their neighboring kingdom, gathered from traders and locals who had frequent dealings with Durin’s Folk. He sent for more coffee and food and settled in to read. This had the makings of a long night.

  *

  The sun rose into a clear sky accented by occasional wisps of high, thin clouds. Albrekk pursued his usual morning routine, to all appearances as if this were any other day. After breaking h
is fast, he sat sipping coffee and reading over the reports gathered by his agents the previous evening. A “courtesy guard” had been sent out before sunset in platoon strength to keep an eye on the dwarves, though ostensibly they were there to carry messages and see to any needs their “guests” might have. So far everyone had the sense to conveniently ignore the fact that it would normally be considered an act of war were the dwarves to show up in such force un-announced. The watch were on alert, of course, as was the militia, but they were not assembling by unit yet.

  Thus far everyone is behaving with good sense and restraint, he thought. So far, at least. They were, in fact, doing better than he would normally have expected, leading him to suspect that the council were mostly aware of the reasons for the dwarven presence, even if it had not been openly discussed in chambers.

  He dressed in his usual fashion, his clothes opulent but functional. The dagger at his belt, while ornate, was no mere bauble. Exquisitely balanced and made of the finest dwarven steel, it was a good hand’s-breadth longer than the seax-knife he typically wore. His sword was not allowed in the council chambers but there was a certain amount of leeway regarding short blades. He did not expect to need the weapon, but events sometimes failed his expectations. He considered wearing a shirt of finely linked mail under his outer clothes, but in the end rejected it. Another example of dwarven craftsmanship, it was light and supple as such things went. Still, it weighed nearly twenty pounds, and the day was likely to be a long one. He had little fear violence in the council Chamber. For now, anyway.

  On his ride to the council House, he took the temper of the city as best he could. Here in the wealthier districts some of the folk seemed a bit nervous, gathering in small groups and talking quietly with worried expressions. Others whispered excitedly, anticipating the possibility of some interesting distraction. He imagined that most of them were unaware of the numbers and demeanor of their visitors, knowing only that a dwarven delegation had come. It was interesting and certainly serious, but none of their affair, and they went about their business for the most part as usual.