Lord of the North

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  Battle’s not even started, Bulewef thought, and that’s thousands as lost everything. Maybe it weren’t much, but I reckon it meant the world to them.

  “It’s all to the good in one sense,” Gevyr said. “We’ll get to shorten our lines. Going to be too hot an’ smoky to man the wall there, what with the fire right up against it.”

  Sundown was near. He’d heard that was the city’s deadline. But there would be no surrender. Bulewef shuddered a bit thinking about it. He’d seen, just the previous fall, how the baasgarta treated his kind. Skappensgrippe was not a good time, he thought, but this is shaping up to a whole ’nuther level of bad. The fact was, he couldn’t see how they could hold against the numbers they faced. While nowhere near as skilled and disciplined as the dwarves, the baasgarta were fierce and fearless fighters. He’d seen the carnage when they’d tried to go head-to head with a dwarven rifle regiment in a high mountain valley, and for a time he’d thought they would never break.

  Most infantry forces will abandon an attack if they have five to ten percent casualties. Their best guess was the baasgarta had lost thirty percent or more before they sounded retreat. After the battle you could have walked hundreds of paces over their corpses and never touched a foot to the ground. There had been blood pooled so deep in places that the wounded had drowned in it, and they’d been all night clearing a path for the regiment to advance. Their socks had been so soaked; they’d had to issue new ones the next night and burn the old. They’d salvaged their boots, but those were permanently stained mottled black. It became a mark of pride in the garrison at Ironhame over the winter while the new regiment was constituted. Having those boots showed that a dwarf had been at the Battle of Mountain Meadows, part of the force that stood off six times their number in open-field battle.

  Truth be told, he thought, we stood and fired and they walked into it ’till they couldn’t take no more. More of a slaughter than anything. Now Skappensgrippe… The battle before the baasgarta capitol had been a fight worth the name, and one they might have lost but for the unexpected intervention of the southern tribes of goblins. They were on the verge of turning the tide when the baasgarta’s lunatic leader had raised an ancient god from death. He shuddered in horror at the memory.

  It was said that every man, woman and child in the city, baasgarta or braell, had died when the Dead God woke. Thousands were driven unconscious or insane by its aura, and most of the Battle Mages had died instantly, though they were half a league or more from the chamber where it had lain since time out of mind. For a moment he was back in the midst of that horrible night, surrounded by screams in the fire-shot darkness as they poured thousands of slugs into the colossus, seemingly with no effect…

  “Bulewef!”

  “Bulewef!” Gevyr’s voice snapped him out of his waking nightmare. He blinked and looked from the sergeant to his squad leader, who said “Grab your mess kit and get some grub.” He gestured to a wide spot in the parapet where the others were lining up. Kettles of beef and beans had been hauled up to give them a last hot meal before things got started.

  “Yes Corporal!” He grabbed his kit and got in line, but his mind was on the coming battle. The baasgarta were focused on the northern wall. They hadn’t encircled the city or laid siege, but had instead massed to strike a single, decisive blow. If they gained the wall, they would sweep through the city without much to stop them. He didn’t delude himself about his own chances of survival in that event; he had none.

  He wasn’t afraid of dying—not of death itself and not of whatever blows might send him to it; he was afraid of failing his comrades. He could stand the thought of his own death more easily than the idea of letting them down— his brothers and sisters—when they needed him most.

  He’d thought to serve another decade or two, then muster out and settle down— find a wife and start a family. A soldier’s pay wasn’t much, but if a fellow kept his head about him he could put a good bit by. He’d figured on going home to visit, maybe settling on a farm in the area if one were to be had. I’d not put good money on that happening now, he thought as he spooned up his dinner. If the worst came, his folks would get what he’d saved— enough to make their lives easier for some time— but he reckoned they’d rather have him back home alive.

  He heaved a sigh. He’d always known this could happen, and while he wasn’t pleased at the prospect he could accept it. No one lives forever, he thought, and them as want to shouldn’t go for soldier.

  Until the previous fall there hadn’t been a serious war in generations, but there were always skirmishes and sometimes raids by renegade goblins. Every so often one of the coastal cities would get their dander up about something and there would be a battle or two, but the trade relationships between them and the dwarven kingdom were too lucrative to allow them to escalate into an actual war. There were no such constraints in this conflict.

  As he finished his meal, horns sounded in the distance, and a moment later, whistles shrilled the ‘to arms’ signal. He quickly wiped and stowed his kit. A glance at the western sky showed the colors of sunset, and when he peeked through a crenellation in the wall, he saw the baasgarta were starting to move. Guess they wasn’t kidding about that deadline, he thought as he checked the load in his gun. He pulled several boxes of slugs off a pile next to him and laid them out where they’d be handy. He’d save the slugs in his pouch for later, in case they were driven off the wall.

  He snuck another look through the embrasure at the approaching enemy. The ground seethed with them as far as the eye could see. Whatever else happens, he thought, tonight ain’t likely to get boring.

  ***

  Far out over the fields baasgarta horns began to sound. Seconds later Engvyr could hear whistles blowing and shouts along the wall. The distant mass of the enemy began to ripple and then surged forward.

  “I’ll give them this, they are prompt. Normally I’d admire that quality,” the dwarf said.

  Captain Garvin gave him a wry look. The pair were standing atop one of the many turrets that studded the northern wall to better to observe the coming battle. “In this case I’d have forgiven a bit of tardiness.” Glancing up at the pennon flying atop a flagpole, he said, “The wind seems right, so I suppose it’s time. Lieutenant!” A nearby afmaeltinn Battle Mage looked up and nodded. “When you’re ready, if you please?”

  The mage nodded again and turned to the group standing nearby. Dwarves and guard together, they faced towards the approaching enemy. To Engvyr they appeared to be merely staring into the gathering gloom, but the prickling at the back of his neck as unseen energies stirred told him otherwise.

  The weather had been dry this spring and the winter wheat was ripe in the fields, which ran to just short of the city wall. There had been no time to harvest it, and soon it would be trampled under the feet of the enemy. But waste not, want not; for days the dwarves and human mages had been encouraging the crops to dry out. So when hundreds of pots of pitch buried in the fields suddenly lit the dusk with geysers of flame, the wheat caught and began to burn. The onshore wind immediately began to drive the smoke and flames towards the baasgarta.

  “Wouldn’t want them tripping over themselves in the dark,” the Guard’s captain commented.

  “That’s right neighborly of you,” Engvyr said. “But then Taerneal’s hospitality is legendary. I think it’s time we send our own greetings to our guests.”

  Sergeant Hemnir said, “Just so, m’Lord.” The dwarf turned away and raised the whistle hanging around his neck and blew a series of staccato blasts, which were quickly echoed through the streets of the city. Moments later massive impacts could be heard as dwarven war-engines fired. Stones began to crash into the distant ranks of the enemy, but what effect these had was mostly obscured by smoke. Engvyr could imagine it well enough; the great stones would crash into the earth heedless of the baasgarta in the way, and if well aimed they would bounce, skimming over the ground and smashing everything in their path for scores of paces. Each pro
jectile would kill many, but the end result would be trivial compared to the size of the baasgarta’s total force.

  The enemy’s focus on a single area of the wall greatly increased their chances of overwhelming the defenders, but normally it would be a fatal weakness; failing to encircle the city would allow the defenders to sally and take them in the flank. The problem is we haven’t got a useful force to accomplish that, he thought. There’s so many of them they’d just absorb anything we could throw at them. Unless… A thought occurred to him, and if everything worked out just right…

  “Sergeant Hemnir, gather the cavalry and have them stand ready to move out at first light. Have Colonel Gertred mount a company of skirmishers to accompany you. You can expect a runner with further instructions.”

  The Householder gave him a sharp look, but nodded and said, “As you will, m’Lord.” He turned and spoke briefly to his second, with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Engvyr. The corporal nodded and left.

  The burning fields lit the night, but the smoke hid as much as the light revealed. The fires will certainly delay them, Engvyr thought. It might even produce some casualties, though he doubted the effect would be significant. Still, every hour of delay brings our regiments from the north that much closer. But even when they arrived—if they did—their force would still be badly outnumbered. Oh, Deandra, I’m in it for sure this time. Lord and Lady watch over us all, and bless and keep you if I fall here, he thought. Because despite all their tricks, training, and stone walls, they were few and the enemy many. Engvyr had been a soldier too long to like their odds.

  ***

  Colonel Gertred shook her head and said, “I can’t imagine what he hopes they can accomplish.”

  Sargeant Hemnir shrugged and said, “With all due respect, Ma’am, that’s why he’s in charge.” Then he grinned and said, “Not to mention m’Lord has a long history of pulling off the impossible. He’s got something in mind, sure an’ certain, and I’d not bet against it being a good idea.”

  The colonel sighed and said, “Well, ours is not to reason why, and it isn’t as if a company of skirmishers is going to make much difference holding the wall. I’ll get them moving and geared up. I just hope our master is as clever as he thinks he is…”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  “A mad dog is the hardest enemy to defend yourself from; it cannot be reasoned with and it has no regard for odds. It doesn’t care if it is wounded and it does not fear death. All you can do is kill it…”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Wisps of smoke mixed with the morning mist at first light. It had been a long, uncomfortable night for Bulewef and the others manning the wall. They had slept in turns while the fields burned, but now the fires were out and the ground was cooling. An hour before, they had been woken up with hot porridge and coffee being quickly distributed and consumed. He’d stretched out the kinks from sleeping on the stone parapet and prepared as best he could for what would come. It won’t be long now, the young soldier thought as he peered at the distant mass of the enemy.

  The city’s siege engines had quit their bombardment shortly after the fires were started; the baasgarta had had to retreat or be burned, and with visibility cut off by smoke and darkness, the weapons’ crews couldn’t have seen whether their efforts were effective or just a waste of ammunition. Now they began to fire again, and Bulewef watched the first fall of stones. In the uncertain light and at this distance the enemy seemed to ripple in response to the impacts. Bulewef knew how devastating those strikes were, but the baasgarta seemed to absorb them without suffering any great damage.

  At a thousand paces he could see the advancing soldiers as something other than a mass as they broke into a charge. He watched from the embrasure without fear; they were far outside the range of even the heaviest crossbows. He saw a ballista-bolt slam into one of the approaching soldiers. It passed completely through him and impaled the man behind him before slewing sideways, knocking several more from their feet. Others charged on, closing the gap and trampling the fallen without slackening their pace. A great stone smashed into them further back and bodies—or dismembered parts—flew high and far. Immediately, though, the gap was again filled, and the goblin numbers seemed undiminished.

  “Look alive people!” shouted Sergeant Gevyr. “Our guests are arriving. Check your loads and get squared away. We’ll volley by squads once they reach two hundred paces. Watch your markers and remember: we’re shooting from elevation, so aim high with the first volley.”

  The dwarven soldiers all knew this of course; a shot that went high would likely hit someone beyond the target. A little low, the shot still might arrive, but aim too low, and it wouldn’t do more than kick up dirt in the enemy’s face. As they closed to four hundred paces, the rifles and the guard’s archers opened up. A section of the first rank of the enemy dropped under the hammer of the guns, and seconds later more fell as a storm of arrows landed among them. The baasgarta raised their round shields against the descending weapons, which offered some defense. The next volley of rifle fire slashed into them and more fell, only to be trampled under the feet of the multitude that followed.

  “First squad, take aim and prepare to fire!”

  Bulewef checked the load in his gun one last time, then knelt in the embrasure and aimed. Some distant part of his mind was gibbering in fear, but his focus was on the sights of his weapon. More volleys and arrows crashed into the charging enemy but they just kept coming, as remorseless as the tide.

  The fires had exposed the forest of iron stakes set into the ground, and the baasgarta tried to step carefully but in such a mass it was often impossible dodge them. The caltrops, now blackened by soot, were impossible to pick out. Whole ranks of the enemy fell to no effect. Those behind them simply ran on over their backs. They’re killing as many of each other as we are, Bulewef thought.

  “First squad, take aim!”

  He quickly wiped his hand on his coat and rested his finger on the trigger.

  “Fire!”

  The gun jumped in his hands and he rolled aside to shelter behind a merlon to reload. Second squad fired as he thumbed a slug into the breech. He could hear crossbow quarrels begin to impact the wall and the copper roof over the parapet. The baasgarta’s fire was wildly inaccurate; stopping to aim would have meant being knocked down and trampled in short order. Nonetheless, some of the projectiles sailed through the embrasures more or less by accident. Most missed completely or skidded off the dwarves’ armor, but there were some injuries.

  His hands performed the ritual of reloading as if of their own accord. Shift, fire, reload, like a part of some great death-dealing machine. Then the leading wave of attackers were close enough that they would have to lean over the wall to hit them. They didn’t; that would be inviting someone to put a quarrel in them from below. Instead the command was given to ‘fire at will’ and they continued to pour shots into the more distant attackers. Gunners and archers in the protruding turrets had clear lines of fire along the city wall and shot at the attackers who came close.

  There were too many, though, and now some basgaarta were mounting ladders and throwing grapnels. Pikemen shoved the ladders away with the cross-guards of their weapons, sometimes with two or three men grasping the haft of a single pike. City militia used broad-bladed axes to cut the grapnel’s ropes. Kettles of boiling lead were poured through slots in the parapet floor, and Bulewef could hear the screams—and smell the seared flesh—of the baasgarta below.

  However fit, disciplined, and well trained the dwarves were, they were not actually tireless components of a machine. Soon Bulewef’s arms were aching from the repeated cocking of his gun’s heavy piston-spring. But if fatigue made his aim shaky, it hardly mattered; the enemy just kept coming, packed so close that no shot could fail to injure or kill. He swung into the embrasure to fire and was surprised to see a red-and-black tattoed face staring at him. He stabbed under the baasgarta’s chin with his spade-like bayonet, and
as the goblin lost his grip he sawed at the rope it had climbed to get there. With other enemies clinging to it and keeping it tight it was the work of seconds, then he fired. A crossbow bolt spanged off his helmet hard enough to make him see stars, and he half fell as he moved out of the opening. Despite this he reloaded automatically. He felt a something poke him in the thigh and almost struck out with the bayonet, but realized that he had been prodded with a pike-staff to get his attention. He looked up and the pikeman said, “First and second squads are rotating off the line. Get some water and coffee into you, and have those wounds seen to.”

  Bulewef nodded numbly and stood. Another dwarven gunner moved in and took his place. Looking around, he saw squad-mates descending the stairs down the inside of the wall, and he moved to join them. Wait… wounds?

  Now that he thought about it he realized his head was throbbing. He could feel something warm trickling down his temple and across his cheek. A stinging pain in his shoulder separated itself from the general ache in his muscles. Well, my arm still works, so I guess it can wait a bit longer.

  Apparently it couldn’t; an afmaeltinn guard at the base of the stairs grabbed his arm and pointed to an aid station to the left. He headed over and was soon attended by one of the city’s surgeons. Someone removed his buff-cote and helmet, and someone else thrust a water-skin into his hand. The surgeon clucked over the wound in his shoulder. He took a long drink and listened to the running commentary about his injuries.

  “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.”