He watched the sailor’s frantic attempts at rescue and saw a single string of a half-dozen dwarves led from the hold before the ship slipped beneath the waves. It settled to the bottom with the tips of its mast still proud of the water, jutting up at an angle. The deck was likely no more than twice a man’s height below the surface, but no one dove into the dark waters to attempt further rescues; they knew their own vessel well enough to understand the futility of that.
After a few moments the robed figure emerged again and moved to the edge of the dock, staring at them across the harbor. He raised a hand to them and spoke. Albrekk was shocked to hear the words clearly across the distance even though the figure did not even raise its voice; another manifestation of their unknown powers.
“Enough. Receive me an hour hence and we will negotiate.”
“So be it,” he responded, though he had no idea if the person could hear him in return. Whether he could or not, the robed man stood a moment more with his hand raised, then turned and moved down the docks towards the city.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Albrekk said. “Order your men to stand down. Come, Captain Gevrell. Let us go and prepare to receive our guests…”
…and see if we cannot salvage some useful resolution that will insure the continued existence of our home.
Chapter Thirty Six
“When negotiations fail people go to war. Then after a lot of people are dead they negotiate again and this time there is a resolution that is seldom entirely satisfactory to either side. Normally one would wish people would simply skip the part where a lot of people die, but with some enemies this simply isn’t possible.“
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
“As we speak, the baasgarta in the field are gathering to return to the city, and when they do, we will this pathetic citadel in a matter of hours,” the Stepchildren’s envoy said. “Such of your people as survive will submit their flesh to the service of the True God. They will suffer no more than is needed to adapt them to His service. But you—you who continue to thwart and defy us—you will receive special attention. Your flesh will be ours, and we will mold it into forms whose only function is to experience unimaginable varieties of pain and torment. But if you surrender to the inevitable, give yourselves and your people to the True God, we will be merciful. We will grant you dominion over this realm in the name of the True God, and in time, as you come to see the wonder and glory of serving him, we may even grant you the powers he has afforded us. You will not age and your form will be yours to command. You cannot conceive of the pleasures available to you when the flesh of others is yours to command as you please and as pleases you.”
Albrekk and Gevrell had chosen to meet with the envoy privately and had retired to the chairman’s office to do so. I’ll need to have the place scrubbed with lye after admitting this foul creature, he thought. Only two of the council guards accompanied them, but they were two that maintained their weapons flawlessly and demonstrated great skill. They were also men that would not hesitate an instant to cut the envoy down in cold blood the moment it became necessary. For his part Albrekk had not even offered the formality of sitting behind the desk; rather he perched casually on the edge. He doubted that the Stepchild was even sensible of the insult or cared if he was.
“It is interesting to me,” Albrekk said, “That you have so little awareness of the precariousness of your situation that you come before me to make demands or imagine that you are in any position to enforce them. Our siege engines can easily sink every vessel in the harbor despite the fact that you have besieged this compound. I don’t know how you feel about the odds of traversing the length of the coast to return home, particularly with the entirety of the dwarven nation moving to oppose you, but I do not think they are very good.”
“Our God, the True God, is with us. Our eventual triumph is inevitable, and when we celebrate that triumph, your unending screams of agony will be sweet music to honor Him.”
Albrekk raised an eyebrow and said, “He is with you, is he? One wonders that this ‘True God’ of yours has not interceded more effectively on your behalf. It’s true that you have taken our city and cornered us, for what good that may do you, but the slaves that you covet so fiercely have for the most part been placed beyond your reach, and now you stand in peril of losing even your means of escape. You hold our city, but through your focused incompetence the population has fled, leaving you nothing but a collection of buildings and no one to people them. Not to mention that the dwarves that you hold in such contempt field the mightiest army in the known world, and sooner or later they will bring that might to bear on you. You have in fact failed, utterly and completely, to achieve any meaningful goal that you set out to accomplish. Were I your True God, I would be most seriously displeased with you.”
The Envoy waved a hand in dismissive contempt. “Do you imagine that a perfect being fails to account for the imperfection of his servants? Even if your ignorant and narrow definition of events were accurate, we would not fail in our faith, nor would he fail. Surrender to the inescapable, give over your city and your people to the True God, sever your ties with the abominations you call ‘dwarves,’ and you may yet hope for some measure of mercy. Even their might is nothing compared to the power of the True God.”
There was a quiet knock at the door. One of the guards looked to Albrekk, who gave a tiny nod. The guard opened the door a crack and accepted a slip of paper, read it quickly and passed it to Captain Gevrell. He read it in turn before handing it to Albrekk with a murmured “M’Lord.” The chairman scanned the message, then turned his regard back to the envoy. “If it is as you say and their power is nothing to his, it’s apparent he is not in fact with you. The dwarven regiments have arrived and as we speak they are slaughtering the baasgarta in the field. When they have finished they will turn their attention to your forces within the city. In the meantime, we will sink every vessel in the harbor. Neither you, nor a single one of your people—or the braell for that matter—will escape, and you will suffer our wrath. Or perhaps, more importantly, the wrath of the dwarves, which I can assure you is greater than our own.”
The envoy frowned and his eyes unfocussed briefly. Then he nodded and looked at Albrekk. “It is as you say and your temporary victory is likely. We will set the baasgarta to destroy your city before they die, to burn your houses, salt your gardens, and foul your wells with vile disease. We will send our minions south to annihilate your fleeing refugees. You will win a hollow victory; your city will never recover. And when we return—which we shall—we will remember you and bestow on you all of the wrath that you have earned.” He paused, face expressionless, and then drew a deep breath and continued. “Unless we can reach an accord that is mutually beneficial.”
Albrekk crossed his arms and said, “What do you have in mind?”
***
“So that’s it then,” Gevrell said after the envoy had departed. “After all this, the death and destruction, lives and livelihoods ruined, we’re just going to let them steal every ship in the harbor and depart.”
“Hire every ship in the harbor, pack them to the rails with baasgarta, and go, yes,” Albrekk said.
“…and naturally the Stepchildren are certain to honor the terms of their contracts. Leaving us trapped in the council house to deal with the significant numbers of remaining baasgarta,” the captain responded.
“Whom we are assured will lose their single-minded focus and organization after the Stepchildren depart. The dwarven regiments will relieve the siege, and with their aid it will be a simple matter of cleaning up those that remain in the city.”
“Simple, you say? Simple enough for you, perhaps, but my men will be the ones fighting and dying.” The captain frowned. “Not to mention that the Lord Warden is liable to have a thing or two to say about them leaving with a thousand or more of his people on board.”
“Engvyr is a realist; he won’t like it, but he will understand. I must consider the welfare of this city and it
s people above all other considerations. Doubtless, we will need to make some concessions, alter some trade agreements to favor them, perhaps even pay some restitution. In the end, the situation will be resolved, and our business and relations will eventually return to normal.”
“I earnestly hope that you are correct, M’Lord. We’ll find out soon enough; the Stepchildren’s preparations to depart will not be inconspicuous.” The captain favored Albrekk with a frown. “Then there is the matter of a couple of hundred of his kin sent to the bottom of the harbor. At your orders.”
Albrekk grimaced, then said, “There was little likelihood of safely recovering those people in any event. Also, we represent the dwarves’ gateway to the overseas trade; I cannot imagine they will react too strongly.”
“From your mouth to the Lord and Lady’s ears,” Gevrell said, shaking his head. “But I have to say I hope rather than believe that you are correct.”
***
“Word is, the baasgarta near the harbor are boarding vessels, raiding the warehouses for supplies as they go,” Taarven said. “To all appearances they are making ready to depart, possibly as soon as this evening’s tide.”
Engvyr nodded. “It would appear that the Lord Chairman’s negotiations have borne fruit.”
“They aren’t offloading the braell. Apparently Albrekk has agreed to let them take them,” Taarven said.
“Seems like it.”
“Our best estimate is that they will be able to take about two-thousand of the baasgarta with them. There will still be upwards of twenty thousand left in the city for us to deal with.” Taarven regarded his friend curiously. “You seem awfully calm about this.”
Engvyr said tightly, “There isn’t a lot I can do about it. We’re trapped here, and by the time our forces can reach us it will be done. Albrekk has done what he deemed best for his people and his city. He really could not do otherwise. There was never really much chance of recovering our folk already aboard those ships.”
“They’d be better off dead than suffering what the Stepchildren will do with them,” Taarven said. “Transforming them into twisted monstrosities to fight and die for them…”
“Agreed,” Engvyr said. “And frankly, my plan, if we failed to recover them, was to ensure that they didt live to suffer that fate. Now they are being taken beyond our reach, and we can’t even spare them that. There’s nothing to be done to prevent it; it’s been taken out of our hands. We do seem to have saved the bulk of them, if we can keep them alive. No small task, that, feeding several tens of thousands, sheltering them, and finding them places while we teach them to fend for themselves. It’s a task for beyond heroes. We need a miracle.”
“Lord and Lady,” Taarven said. “I hadn’t thought of that. How in the name of all that’s holy can we manage it?”
Engvyr looked up and met his gaze and Taarven nearly recoiled from what he saw there. His friend’s quiet did not stem from defeat or despair; it was barely suppressed rage that burned behind those ice-blue eyes.
“Fortunately,” Engvyr said in a clipped voice, “We’ve just been handed a miracle.”
He stood and moved across the guest-room to the writing desk, selected a sheet of foolscap and examined the tip of the quill critically. He began to write, the pen moving in short, angry motions.
“Send a signalman to the ramparts at dusk. I have orders for the regiments in the field. Our problems are no greater than the solutions at hand. We just have to look at things from the right perspective.”
Chapter Thirty Seven
“A dwarf’s will might define his destiny, but if he is sensible he does not delude himself to think that it controls it.”
From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson
Colonel Fritta Oggisdottir removed her helmet and wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her buff-coat. She looked out across the fields between her command post and Taerneal’s northern walls. Even in the twilight she could see the ground carpeted with the bodies of the fallen baasgarta. Yes, they had lost some dwarves but overall it had been more of a massacre than a battle. The baasgarta never could face us on an open field, she thought. They just kept comin’ at us and we just kept killing them.
It had been a near-run thing at times. The baasgarta had them outnumbered three-to-one and two regiments couldn’t extend their lines enough to stretch from the escarpment north of the city to the walls, so they had formed an ‘L’ for when they were inevitably flanked. Despite the murderous fire from the riflemen and gunners they’d nearly been overwhelmed. She shook her head and thought, They never broke. They just kept coming, every man-jack of them, like they were all insane… or possessed.
In the end, a paltry few thousand of the goblins had broken off, but by then it was too late. The dwarves launched a pursuit and mowed them down. No more than a few dozen might possibly have escaped—if that. The colonel raised a canteen to her lips and noted a light flashing against the dark silhouette of the city’s palace. She didn’t bother trying to read it herself; she had people for that, and they’d tell her soon enough. Long message, she thought. New orders, no doubt.
She stretched and felt her back crackle and pop. She had not been in the thick of the fighting of course; her days on the line had passed more than a century before. Still, a forced march followed by a murderin’ great battle made for a long day, even if you weren’t the one doing the fighting.
“Colonel?”
She turned to see her adjutant approaching. He saluted, and she returned it, then said, “Major?”
“We’ve broken off the pursuit, ma’am. Not enough of ‘em left to cause a problem, an’ with dark comin’ on the commanders want to get their men back in and resupplied, most a’them are skosh ammo, and everyone could use a sit-down and some grub.”
She nodded. “Let the Sergeant Major know. Don’t set the camps though—looks like we have new orders. Individual rations—we may not be done yet. They can brew coffee, but no cooking.”
“Yes Ma’am. I’ll see to it.” He saluted again but she held up a restraining hand, nodding to an approaching soldier. “Hang on—let’s see what’s in the wind.”
She accepted the message and was just able to read it in the dimming light. Then she re-read it. Turning to the Major she said, “Strike that. Set up the mess tents and get a hot meal together. Resupply by units and make sure everyone gets food and coffee. We march on Taerneal at midnight.”
“Ma’am? Begging the Colonel’s pardon, but we haven’t brought up the siege engines-how are we to breach the walls?”
“According to this the engineers and Battlemages rigged the gates when they lost the walls—we should be able to push right through if the baasgarta haven’t reinforced them. If they have, well, we’ll work it out.”
“Yes Ma’am!” He left and went to find the Sergeant Major.
Taking the city was going to be rough on her soldiers, and they would likely take extra casualties, but war doesn’t wait on our convenience. If it needed to be done, it needed to be done, and they would, by the Lord and Lady, get it done. Somehow. The Colonel reread the orders again and shook her head. This new Lord Warden of the North doesn’t do things by halves, she thought. I hope he knows what he’s doing. Life’s about to get real interesting…
***
Engvyr Gunnarson, the first Lord Warden of the North, by the Lord and Lady’s Grace and the orders of his king, stood on the parapet of the Council House and watched silently as the ships cleared the harbor mouth. One by one their mainsails unfurled and the ships heeled over in the wind and turned to the south. He had not moved for the last hour, since they’d lowered the Great chains that had blocked the harbor throughout the conflict. He gave no outward sign of the turmoil within, or of his rage. His people, his people, were being spirited away before his very eyes. Taken away to a life of slavery-or worse, to be transformed into abominations in the service of the Stepchildren and their ‘True God.’ Never mind that two short years ago he had not known the braell existed, or
that they had been separated from the other dwarves for thirty centuries or more. They were of his kind, and seeing them or any other dwarf enslaved was intolerable. Yet here he stood, forced to tolerate it. I have failed you, he thought to those lost souls. I have failed, and because of that you are descending into an even worse nightmare than your life before. I cannot stop it, cannot save you. All I can do is face it and not turn away. I owe you that at least.
He knew that many would count this as a victory. Through his direction many, many times the numbers of those taken had been saved. Further, even as he watched the enemy retreat, the baasgarta military caste was being annihilated. He could hear the distant sounds of that battle winding down. In another day, the pitiful remnants would be hunted through the streets and alleys of Taerneal like the vermin they were. With their military forces wiped out, the conquest of the north was assured. By any measure, a great victory, but the taste of it was like ashes on his tongue. He had failed the souls chained in the holds of those vessels, and no greater good, no ultimate victory would give them comfort or ease their suffering.
The thought of their enslavement and torture hurt, making an agony of his compassion for them. The thought that he was responsible was hard to bear. Perhaps in time the victories achieved this day will blunt that hurt, he thought. But I will not forget the pain. The cost of failure. My failure.
As much as it hurt he still had to be fair to himself. He had done his best and he honestly could not see how anyone else might have done better. Nor could he see how flogging himself over it was going to improve the situation. Self-pity was foreign to him, and agonizing over what might have been was perilously akin to that. He would indulge himself for the time it took for the Stepchildren to depart, but after that it was time to act. There were still people that depended on him, responsibilities he must live up to. It was the price of power—that he must accept the failures as well as the victories, and move on.
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