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

by Michael Tinker Pearce

  “How many men do we have in the council house?” Albrekk asked.

  “So far? Including the dwarves and militia, about three thousand. Those numbers are likely to swell to about five thousand by the time we’re surrounded.”

  “Against thirty to forty thousand baasgarta,” Albrekk said flatly.

  So few, Engvyr thought. The 12th Infantry has been decimated in their first action, to the point that the unit will need to be reformed again, if any of us survive. The truth was, he could not see a path that led to survival, let alone to victory. He felt a moment of despair, but suppressed it savagely. There was too much at stake. Likewise, he refused to blame himself. Yes, he was responsible, but looking back over the events, he could not see what he might have done differently. People that have never held real power look upon it as a source of freedom. In truth, he was so hemmed about by policy, duty, tradition, and his own sense of right that he was nearly as much a slave as the braell. At every step he had been forced to react as he had, not merely by the responsibilities of his office, but by who and what he was. Well it is as it is, he thought. If history judges me harshly, there’s little I can do about it. It’s not like I’ll be around to bear the weight of that judgement anyway.

  He wasn’t afraid of dying. What he feared was the loss of all he loved. Leaving Deandra a widow, all the dwarves who had died under his command, and ultimately, his failure in his office of Lord Warden of the North. It’s my job to do, and it’s looking like I will fail.

  He hadn’t failed yet though, and Lord and Lady will it, he wouldn't.

  “Look here,” he said, pointing to the map. “We’re in a very different situation. First off, the council house walls are more than twice the height of the city wall. They won’t be piling up bodies to get over it; even if they recombine their army, there just aren’t enough of them. We’re also at the southern point of the harbor; their approach is too limited to bring the full weight of their forces to bear. Things will get pretty thin but we can do this.”

  The others contemplated the map for several moments, then Albrekk said, “It may be that we can, but what if the regiments aren’t up to the task? We may need to consider other options.”

  “I trust,” Engvyr said, “That the terms of surrender remain unacceptable?”

  Albrekk shook his head impatiently. “Of course they do. But the situation has changed. The enemy has to be desperate too. How are they to support their troops through an extended siege?”

  “They eat their dead,” Engvyr said.

  The chairman blinked, “Right. I’d forgotten that. Nevertheless, their situation is only slightly less desperate than our own; we have denied them their goals and they have to at least suspect that there are reinforcements on the way. A negotiated settlement might be possible. Indeed, much as I hate the notion it might be our only option.”

  “No settlement that allows the Stepchildren to depart with so much as a single braell in captivity is acceptable to me or my king,”

  “My Lord Warden, we may not have a choice,” Gevrell said. “We have our own city, our own people to think of. We need to at least see if they are amenable to terms.”

  Albrekk nodded. “I’m afraid I must agree with the good captain. It may all come to nothing, but if there is any chance to save the city we must at least look at the possibility, however distasteful that may prove.”

  Engvyr shook his head. They were in just as much of a box as he was, and he could not blame them, not really. “Fine. Seek terms if you have to, but bear in mind that to my people and my king, there is more at stake here than the fate of your city. I still object but you must do as you must.”

  “Indeed,” said Albrekk. “We can do no less. The Stepchildren are plainly in control of the baasgarta, by whatever means. Captain Gevrell, see if an envoy to them can be arranged.”

  Engvyr crossed his arms and nodded reluctantly. Aye, do as you must, he thought. But whatever you do there will be a reckoning, for good or ill. Lord and Lady grant that you make the right decision.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  “Even if it’s hopeless, a situation is what it is, and must be dealt with as best it can be. Do what you must and do what you can, even in the face of insurmountable odds, and you will be able to hold your head high at the Lord and Lady’s table.”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  “Go Go Go!” Sergeant Fregga shouted. Troops piled through the thickly reinforced door even as their enemies pressed forward in the face of the dwarven soldier’s murderous fire. Half her men and most of the city watch had fallen. Having retreated to the south end of the harbor their backs were now literally against the wall. They would have been annihilated had there not been a small postern that allowed access to the winches that raised the great chains that sealed off the harbor. She blessed the Lord and Lady for the guardsmen that had opened that gate, allowing at least some of the beleaguered soldiers to escape—if they could get through and get the door closed against the crush of the baasgarta.

  It had been a long, bloody fight along the waterfront, facing first the enemy’s giants, then their uncanny change-beasts and finally the baasgarta. Luck had been with them; a retreating company of the watch had struck the flank of the forces pursuing them, distracting them and slowing them down. But for that we’d be dead for sure and certain, she thought.

  Watchmen on the parapet above their heads were firing bows and crossbows into the force pressing them, but it wasn’t enough, and with ever decreasing numbers of gunners on the ground they could not hold. Most would escape and that would have to be enough. Fregga knew that she would not be among them. Someone had to hold the enemy off while her soldiers closed and barred the door; as the leader she knew her place. The irony, that she would fall in the defense of an afmaeltinn city, did not concern her; there was no time for that.

  The enemy was too close now to waste time reloading guns; it was work for sword and bayonet. She stabbed and slashed but the enemy was endless; each time one fell another took its place. Her body had become a machine, her mind blank with fatigue and terror held in abeyance.

  A crossbow bolt tore her thigh and another plucked at the shoulder of her buff-coat. A spearpoint grated along her breastplate and a quick swipe removed one of the hands that held it. Something rang off her helmet and she knew she had only seconds left before she would be overwhelmed.

  Suddenly she was snatched backwards and stumbled as an afmaeltinn thrust past her, the sweep of his two-handed sword driving back the baasgarta. As hands latched onto her and dragged her back through the gate she saw him spinning the great sword, striking with the edge, point, and pommel in all directions. The two remaining dwarven soldiers guarded his flanks, but he shouted at them to get inside and they reluctantly dropped back. Fregga tried to go to his aid but the hands that gripped her held fast. Some of the dwarven gunners had reached to parapet and added their fire to the watchmen and militia already shooting into the mass of baasgarta but it still wasn’t enough. Even as she struggled, the last of her soldiers made it in. A spear pierced the heroic swordsman’s side, then he took a cut to the leg, but he fought on.

  “Shut the gate! Shut it,” he screamed at them. Fregga uttered a wordless sound of protest as watchmen shoved past her and slammed the barrier closed, trapping the hero outside with the horde. A heavy iron portcullis slammed down to reinforce it and Fregga turned away with a curse and tears in her eyes. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see the Lieutenant of the watch.

  “Jorek knew what he was doing, Sergeant. His choice—he could not watch you fall after all you and your men have done.”

  “Men and women,” she corrected automatically.

  “Just so,” he agreed. There didn’t seem anything to add so she moved toward the parapet stairs. Her people were short of ammunition, exhausted, and battered, but none of that mattered. There was a war on, and come what may, they would fight.

  ***

  “I don’t care!” shouted the afm
aeltinn farmer. “They’ve trampled my rye half-flat, and my pigs have headed for the hills after whatever you did in the gap. You get your dirty, stinking’ slaves off my land!”

  Captain Gloyin of the 11th Rifle Company, 12th Infantry Regiment wasn’t sure if he should admire the man’s spirit or be aghast at his stupidity. He took a deep breath and did a slow, silent count of ten before responding. “First thing is, you’ll be paid for your crop. Second, some of my men are already rounding up your pigs, and you’ll be paid for them as well, because we’re going to slaughter them to feed our kin.”

  The farmer opened his mouth to respond but Gloyin plowed right over whatever he might say. “Third, while the braell may have been enslaved once, they are no longer. They are our kinfolk and there are two-hundred heavily armed dwarves in this valley that will be delighted to apply a rifle-butt to your face if they hear you refer to them as ‘dirty, stinking slaves’ again—an’ first among them! So you can shut your stupid mouth and take our money or find out what it’s like to pick up your teeth with broken fingers!”

  The man’s face turned red and he looked like he would burst, then what the Captain was saying sunk in. Perhaps it occurred to him that in an addition to a massive crowd of, to be fair, dirty and smelly dwarves there was also what amounted to an occupying army on his door-step. Prudence won out, and he said, “Alright. But it’s cruel hard, the lot of you traipsing in here and muckin’ everything up.”

  By the Lord and Lady, Gloyin thought, there’s a bloody war on, and a murderin’-great battle on your doorstep. Instead he said, “Fair to say, and we’d not be here given our druthers. We’ll settle up for the grain and pigs, don't you fret. For now, though, things are a wee bit up in the air, so let us get ourselves settled first, and then we’ll settle our debts.”

  “Yes, well you see that you do,” the afmaeltinn said and stalked off.

  Gloyin sighed, and headed for the detachment trying to keep the mass of braell from wandering off. And wandering wasn't the only trouble; while many of the braell carried food and other supplies, they were apparently accustomed to such rigid control that they wouldn’t eat without being told, and neither he nor any of his men spoke their language. Then there was the issue of shelter; they had none. Nor sanitation, which would become a problem sooner rather than later. In truth there were a thousand details that needed attending to, far more in fact than could be dealt with by a single rifle company. But it had to get done nonetheless and there was no one else to do it.

  “Sergeant Beyorell,” he said, spotting one of his squad-leaders. “Detail someone to get the Braell started digging latrines; you know where to lay them out. See if you can get them to settle down and eat as well; they have food among them they can share out.”

  “No offense, but how, sir? We can’t talk to ‘em and they just stare at the ground when we come near.”

  “Think about it, sergeant—these people have been slaves their whole lives, and slave masters are all they understand. So treat them like slaves—make them do what needs to be done. Get creative; be rough on them if you need to, but get it done or this is going to turn into even more of a nightmare in short order.”

  He sent him off, then considered all the other things that required his attention. Their situation was grim; he had tens of thousands of innocents in his care—people without shelter, with limited supplies, and little ability to communicate. In a very few days they would run through what food they had and shortly after that they’d have stripped the narrow valley like locusts. Of course, if the baasgarta broke through the gap that would be the least of their problems. He guessed that wasn’t likely, at least according to the reports from his scouts, but it was still a concern. There was always a chance they might find another route and simply go around the blocked gap. If they do break through there’s bugger-all we can do to stop them, he thought. Two hundred rifles against Lord and Lady know how many thousands of suicidal fanatics? Yeah, that’s not going to take long.

  He’d love to get his troops dug in despite the patent futility of it, and if there was time they would do exactly that even though they all knew it wouldn’t change the outcome. They would not run. They could not abandon their charges to be returned to slavery and—if rumors were to be believed, likely an even worse fate too. Yes, they would lose, but the Baasgarta would know they’d been in a fight.

  Maybe our luck will hold, he thought. The regiments will arrive, or the Stepchildren will call them off. Or maybe they’ll just get sick of it all and give it up as a bad job and leave.

  He snorted in self-derision.

  Maybe a million magic pixies will fly out of my butt and carry us all away to safety. He shook his head. He didn't have time to around idly speculating about the future. Whatever was coming would come when and as it would. Until then, he had work to do.

  ***

  As they emerged onto the tower-top the officer in charge turned, then bowed as he recognized Albrekk. The lieutenant was responsible for the siege-engine there, but so far they had been under strict orders not to fire on the Stepchildren’s vessels in the harbor below.

  “Chairman Albrekk, Captain Gevrell, what can I do for you?”

  The chairman cast his gaze across the men and equipment before him, then looked out across the harbor. Pointing to a vessel at the end of one of the docks where the Stepchildren’s ships were moored he asked, “Lieutenant Gudman is it?” The man nodded and Albrekk continued, “How close astern of that vessel can you put a shot?”

  The lieutenant looked at the ship the chairman had indicated. Albrekk assumed they would have long since determined the range and laid the engine; they’d had nothing else to do after all. The officer looked thoughtful, then said, “Within five yards, I think. Any closer than that and we’d risk striking her.”

  Albrekk nodded, then looked at the Captain, who frowned but said nothing. Turning back to the junior officer he said, “Do it.”

  The man looked to the captain who, still frowning, gave a curt nod.

  “You heard the Chairman, hop to it!”

  The weapon’s crew sprang to life, working the capstan to cock the arm against the heavy twisted rope spring. Others lifted a round granite rock from the pyramidal pile of them and moved it into position for loading. When the arm was in place a man stepped forward and fixed the trigger link, then said, “Trigger set!”

  “Trigger set!” confirmed another man. “Releasing Capstan”

  “Capstan released! Slacking rope!” They pulled out sufficient slack that the rope used to cock the piece wouldn’t drag on the arm when the engine fired. Three men rolled the stone into the ‘spoon’ at the end of the arm, then everyone stepped back with their hands raised to shoulder-height. The lieutenant stepped forward and made some quick adjustments, grasped the trigger-rope and said, “All clear!”

  The watchmen chorused “All Clear!” in response. The lieutenant looked at his captain and the chairman, then visually confirmed that no one was in the way. Grasping the trigger-rope he stepped aback and announced, “Shot Away!”

  He pulled sharply on the rope and the trigger released the arm. It snapped upward and hit the stop-bar with an explosive BANG that echoed across the city. The rock sailed across the harbor, smashing into the water at the edge of the pier, sending splinters of shattered stone into the air and the nearby ship. Shouts of fear echoed across the water as the vessel’s crew scurried to see if the ship was damaged. Others ran down the dock towards the impact site, which Albrekk thought was rather stupid of them. He nodded to the lieutenant and said, “Again if you would, please.”

  “Two Yards Long! Adjust and repeat! Reload!” the young officer shouted. The engine-crew ran forward and began cranking the arm back again. A few minutes later another stone sailed through the air, striking the water further from the pier but narrowly missing the stern of the Stepchildren’s vessel. The ship pitched from the impact, and more cries of alarm drifted to their ears. They waited and watched as people moved on the distant dock, th
is time retreating from the massive splash. Albrekk requested a spy-glass and was handed one by the lieutenant. Peering through it he watched for several minutes until a robed figure emerged from one of the other vessels and approached the men on the dock. They spoke to him, pointed at the ship and the pier. Even from this distance his dismissive gesture was eloquent. He turned and moved away. Albrekk frowned, turned to Gevrell and said, “They don’t seem to be taking us seriously.”

  The watch captain shrugged. “They don’t find the threat credible. They do not believe that we will betray the dwarves by killing their hostages.”

  Albrekk nodded and regarded the distant vessel contemplatively for a minute, then turned to the lieutenant and said, “Put the next one midship at the water line.”

  “Chairman, I must protest!” interjected Captain Gevrell. “There are likely a hundred-and-fifty to two hundred braell in the holds of that vessel, you’ll kill them all. Never mind that the Lord Warden will be enraged; those are innocent people!”

  “I am aware of that, Captain, but I have to weigh their lives against the thousands holed-up and under siege in the council house. Not to mention that we have seen how the Stepchildren will spend those innocent lives. In a sense we are doing them a favor—saving them from a fate worse than death. Engvyr is trying to save his people’s kin, and I remind you that he has, for the moment at least, removed the vast bulk of them from the Stepchildren’s reach. Let him be satisfied with that; in the meantime I have our own people, our own city, to think of. At some point that must be our priority.”

  “But Albrekk, you know Engvyr well enough by now to know that should you do this there will be a reckoning. He will not stand for this; he has made that clear.”

  “What cost greater than the survival of our city; it’s very existence?” He turned to the lieutenant and said, “Sink that vessel. Now.”

  The young officer still hesitated and Albrekk, raising his voice said, “NO, do not look to him, I have ordered you to do this, and I am, by the Lord and Lady’s grace and the will of the Council, the supreme authority in this city. Captain Gevrell takes his orders from me, and if you wish to retain your rank and freedom you will too. Now sink that ship.”