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

  Chapter Two

  “There are victories and there are victories. Skapansgrippe was the kind of victory that would lose a war if repeated too often…”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Taarven Redbeard frowned as he contemplated the view along the snow-covered roadway. In the days after the Battle of Skapansgrippe, as they had discovered the former capitol city of the baasgarta had been called, things had been changing fast. Some changes, however, were harder to adapt to than others—like breaking in a new partner.

  It had been a costly victory; four full regiments had been obliterated and several others took serious damage. That was more casualties in a single battle than the dwarven army had taken in any previous war. Currently the army had settled into camp for the winter across the valley from the ruins. Few were willing to venture into the dead baasgarta city, let alone set up housekeeping there....

  The ranger shuddered as he remembered how the battle had ended and the nightmares that he'd suffered ever since. As the tide of battle turned, the demented leader of the goblins had resurrected a pre-human god under the mistaken impression that it would fight for them. Instead, it had destroyed the city before impartially slaughtering dwarves and baasgarta alike. The psychic emanations from the ancient being had killed half of the dwarven battlemages outright, and rendered scores of other dwarves and goblins mad. It would have killed them all, and no one knew how many others besides, if not for the insane gamble of the dwarves’ new allies from the Southern Tribes of goblins.

  When the Prince had corralled Engvyr, Taarven’s partner of more than twelve years, and sent him back south to do the Crown's work, Taarven was left alone. Rangers do not, as a rule, work solo, so while the army dug in and made themselves as comfortable as possible to wait out the winter, he idled about, spoke with the soldiers and other rangers, and waited to be reassigned. Weeks passed while he ran messages around the camp, stood watches, and took reports from other rangers still in the field. There was much that remained to be done; while the destruction of their capitol had broken the back of the baasgarta's power, they had not simply given up the fight. While the main body the enemy had moved ahead of the dwarves' scouts there were still reports of organized forces moving about the countryside, and supply caravans from the dwarven lands to the south were raided regularly.

  Which was why Taarven found himself standing in the snow next to a train of ox-carts, looking dubiously at the slopes ahead. Two squads of mounted infantry were spaced out along the line of carts at his back, but his attention was focused on the iron-haired battlemage at his side.

  “Of course I'm sure,” Ageyra said irritably, “I was doing this while you were still suckin' at yer ma's... Yes, I am sure. There are three charges of blasting powder set on that slope.”

  She pointed to the steep, snow-covered incline ahead and to the left of the trail.

  “Can you detonate them from here?” he asked.

  The older dwarf gave him a disgusted look and snapped, “Of course I can! The problem is it will start an avalanche. That is what the charges are there for, after all.”

  Taarven nodded absently as he contemplated the situation. He took no offense at the woman's tone. Ageyra could be abrasive at the best of times. Standing knee-deep in snow in the middle of the howling wilderness with an ambush ahead and enemies near was no one's idea of the best of times.

  “Better to drop it now and work our way past than to have the baasgarta drop it on our heads...” he said, “Of course they may attack as soon as we set off the avalanche. Best we be ready for that.”

  Ageyra nodded, her eyes scanning the hillsides. They weren't partners in the traditional sense of rangers on a standard patrol route; they were teamed up for the specific mission of escorting supply caravans from the Makepeace valley to the troops in the north. The battlemage had retired from the Army and set up as an itinerant stonewright until her capture by the baasgarta and subsequent rescue by Taarven and Engvyr. Since then she had worked with the militia around Ynghilda Makepeace's steading until being pressed back into service when full-scale war broke out.

  He left her alone to study of the landscape and ordered the drovers to laager their carts. The soldiers dismounted and quickly corralled their ponies in the center of the circle of carts before taking up defensive positions. When all was in readiness he nodded to Ageyra, who unslung her carbine and charged it. Shifting the weapon to her left hand, she looked intently at the slope for a moment, then raised her right hand and snapped her fingers.

  Instantly three geysers of snow erupted from the slope ahead. Even before the reports from the explosions reached them, great sheets of snow began to slide down the mountain before breaking into tumbling masses which were rapidly obscured by a rising cloud of white powder. The roar enveloped them for several minutes before dying away to a low rumble. The trail ahead was completely covered to three time a dwarf's height.

  Taarven checked the position of the sun, judging the amount of daylight remaining. “We'll need to let that mess settle some. Might as well get a hot meal together while we wait and see if our 'friends' are going to try their luck. If they've left us alone until after that, we'll move ahead and start clearing the trail.”

  Ageyra nodded. “I'll set the drovers to cooking. Wouldn't mind a cup of coffee and some grub m'own self.”

  Taarven shook his head as he looked at the blockage. We'll be the rest of the day getting through that mess, he thought, if we're lucky. It would be up to the drovers to clear the road. The soldiers would be needed in case the baasgarta were still slinking around and getting ideas. Heaving a sigh, he turned his back on the problem and went to help with the cooking.

  In the end it was full dark before they'd cleared the avalanche. Taarven had donned snowshoes and worked his way across while the drovers created a path and the soldiers kept watch for an ambush. They had trimmed a sapling to make a long staff for him and he probed ahead before each footstep across the treacherous surface. It was nerve-wracking work, especially given the danger of an attack. The carts advanced slowly, clearing or packing the snow, ice, and debris of the slide as needed.

  Once past the debris field they laagered the carts and set up camp. They kept watch through the night, but the baasgarta were either long gone or chose not to try their luck against such an alert and well-armed force.

  Two days later they reached the army's camp, bedraggled and exhausted. They had survived an ambush in the form of a shower of arrows that they answered with gunfire to no apparent effect, another avalanche that might or might not have been natural in addition to all the normal hazards of winter travel. They had lost no one but had suffered a number of injuries.

  The soldiers and the ranger parted company at the camp, each to report to their own commanders. As he approached the Mountain Guard's command tent he saw several soldiers of Prince Istvaar's regiment on guard outside. He paused in surprise, not sure that he should enter, but one of the soldier's waved him in. When he entered the tent, Captain Gauer and the Prince were deep in discussion with another ranger—a senior one, judging by his age and bearing. Taarven set his gear down and placed his carbine in the rack inside the door. Captain Gauer gave him a nod to acknowledge his presence and turned back to his conversation.

  Prince Istvaar was dressed in the uniform of a Light Infantry officer, his beard and hair cropped close in a soldier's bob. If the uniform was of finer materials and a bit better tailored than the average, well, he was a prince after all. Likewise, the Infantry Long Rifle that stood near to hand; while it was of the standard pattern and caliber, it had been hand-made by Ulfbehrt and Bueller, one of the oldest and most highly regarded companies of gunsmiths in the dwarven kingdom.

  Taarven poured himself a cup of coffee and sat by the stove that heated the capacious tent, basking in the warmth after the long, cold days of the journey. He sipped his coffee, content for the moment to simply sit. After a few minutes Captain Gauer approached and asked about the trip. The ranger
quickly and concisely filled him in.

  Captain Gauer swore softly. “We haven't got enough battlemages to cover every supply train. We lost too many at Skapansgrippe.”

  Taarven nodded; without Ageyra or someone like her they would have walked right into that ambush. The Captain sighed and continued. “Well, I guess we'll just have to use what we have and hope for the best. Come over and join us, Ranger. This concerns you."

  “This is Senior Master Ranger Halfdan Grimmandson,” the captain said, introducing the other ranger, “And I believe that you have met His Highness, Prince Istvaar.”

  Taarven nodded to the dwarves and waited for them to continue.

  “We have a unique situation here in the north,” the Prince began, “In addition to the fact that we need to free tens of thousands of dwarves and teach them to fend for themselves, we have never taken land by conquest, much less done so with allies at our side. There are no precedents to fall back on, so we are proceeding very carefully.”

  “Understandably so,” Taarven replied, wondering where this was leading and his part would be.

  “Our existing force structure is ill suited to these endeavors, and of course the Southern Tribes expect to have a say as to the disposition of their relatives, the baasgarta. We need a new organization, one that is made up of both dwarves and goblins, to deal with the myriad issues arising from this war, and we'd like you to be part of that.”

  Taarven’s association with Engvyr and recent events had given him a new perspective on the goblins as a whole, but to actually work alongside them, in partnership? Times are certainly changing, he reflected, I suppose I'd best change with 'em. To the prince he said, “What do you have in mind?”

  “I'll be leading this new force. We're calling it The Northern Guards for starters,” Halfdan told him after getting a nod from the Prince, “and initially it will be modeled on the Mountain Guards, but with more teeth. We'll need not merely to patrol and enforce the law, but we'll also be cleaning out pockets of baasgarta resistance and clearing the remaining populace from the small-holds and remote areas of the territory. The army will continue with the major military actions of course; our operations will be restricted to the conquered territories.”

  Taarven looked at the dwarves and considered his next words carefully. “What exactly do you mean by 'clearing the populace'?”

  The other dwarves exchanged looks and deferred to the Prince.

  “We've discussed this at length with our Goblin allies,” the Prince began, “They are willing to accept some of the baasgarta as refugees and attempt to integrate them into their society. But they are firm on the conditions for this; they will brook no nonsense or dissent from those that will not cooperate. Any and all resistance is to be met with immediate and overwhelming force.”

  Taarven frowned, but he could see the logic of it. The baasgarta that they had encountered thus far were fanatics. Such folks as a rule would be more trouble than they were worth, but at least this way they would be given a chance.

  “Mind you, this is not to be a genocide," the Prince continued. "Whatever the actions of their parents, children will not be harmed if it can be avoided. All children too young to have received their first tattoos, which they get at about age twelve, will be taken south for adoption by the Southern Tribes. If their parents choose to cooperate they will go with them. The conditions of their parole will be harsh, but the goblins hope that eventually they will assimilate into the tribes.”

  “Fair enough,” Taarven allowed, frankly glad that the ultimate disposition of the baasgarta would be someone else's problem. “What role will the goblins play in this new force?”

  “The goblins have agreed that the former baasgarta lands will revert to dwarven control and be peopled principally by the braell. Naturally, we will administer these areas until the braell are prepared to take over, probably gradually over time. The bulk of the force will be made up of dwarves; however, each team of Northern Guards will include one or more goblins. It is felt that the baasgarta civilians will be more responsive to taking their marching orders from other goblins.”

  Once again Taarven could see the logic in the arrangement. He thought about it at some length. It would be interesting and challenging work, and while he still had reservations about working with the goblins, well, a dwarf needed to be flexible. It would make a change from riding patrols as a ranger and in any new organization there were bound to be opportunities for advancement.

  “Ok,” he said, “I’m in. How do we get started?”

  “Well,” Captain Gauer said with a grin, “I think you'll find the first part agreeable at least. You need to return to the Makepeace Valley. You'll report to the new Mountain Guard station at Ynghilda Makepeace's steading.”

  That was welcome news indeed; the ranger and Ynghilda had taken a fancy to each other the previous summer and it had been months since they had last been together.

  “Once you are there,” the Prince told him, “You'll resign from the Mountain Guard and enlist in the new unit at the rank of Senior Guard, the equivalent of a Senior Ranger for rank and pay purposes.”

  “Thank you, your Highness,” Taarven said with a half-bow.

  “There's a caravan heading for Makepeace Steading tomorrow morning,” Captain Gauer informed him, “You can join them.”

  The Captain stood and extended his hand to grasp forearms with Taarven. “It's been a pleasure serving with you. I imagine you've much to do before your departure. Best be about it.”

  Taarven blinked in surprise as the wagon train approached Makepeace Steading. In the months since he had accompanied the Army north to fight the baasgarta, much had changed. When he had last seen the place there was a simple log palisade on a low hill surrounding the great hall, stables, and out-buildings. Now a second ring of palisade grew out from the first, encircling a stable and several new buildings that were under construction. Nearby were paddocks for dozens of ponies. The banner of the Mountain Guard fluttered above this second enclosure. That would be the Ranger’s new Makepeace Station, Taarven thought.

  South of the main gate of the steading was a new caravanserai with its own paddocks and facilities. These included a hastily constructed dining hall and, judging from the steam and smoke issuing from it, another hall for baths and laundry. Nearby were sheds housing a smithy and a wainwright. As a natural waypoint on the road north, Makepeace Steading was well on its way to becoming a proper town.

  The wagon train aimed for the caravanserai and Taarven and Ageyra headed for the new station. The old battlemage had decided to sign on with the Northern Guards as well, and the ranger was glad of it. He'd grown fond of the older woman; she had grit and a good head on her shoulders. Not to mention her skills as a mage...

  After seeing to their mounts, they made their way to the commander's office.

  Captain Berryc, newly promoted to take charge of Makepeace Station, rose to greet them as they entered, and bade them sit while he sent an aid to fetch coffee.

  “So,” he began as they took their seats, “You'll be leaving us for the new Northern Guards. Well, our loss is their gain, I suppose.”

  “That's as may be,” Taarven said, accepting coffee from the aid with a nod, “Any word on who's taking charge of the of the new outfit here in the south?”

  “That would-be Captain Tólfier. Do you know him? From Heaven's Gate Station to the Southeast?”

  Ageyra shook her head but Taarven smiled and said, “Balding? With the enormous mustaches?”

  The Captain smiled. “Aye, he's the one. Always had a scraggly beard, grows the mustache to compensate. Fine officer though, and he knows the North.”

  Taarven nodded. “A likely fellow even when I served with him, must have been five or six decades back when we worked out of Southgate Station. Is he here, then?”

  The Captain shook his head. “Word is he's due before the week's end, though.”

  Taarven grinned. “Well, then, if it's all the same to you I'll tender my resignati
on now and report for duty when he arrives.” He produced a waxed paper envelope and placed it on the desk in front of Berryc.

  Berryc raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure then? I think we could keep you occupied for a few days.”

  Ageyra laughed. “I rather expect Ynghilda might be able to think of a way to keep him busy for a few days, Captain, and he might rather that!”

  Taarven blushed almost as red as his beard and the Captain blinked in surprise, then chortled, made a shooing motion and said, “Right then! Best not to keep the lady waiting, Ranger!”

  Taarven ducked his head and, with a parting glare at Ageyra, took his leave.

  Chapter Three

  “A dwarf that finds himself in a fair fight has made a serious error of judgement…”

  From the Diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  “Looks to be twenty of them, give or take a couple,” the Ranger said, standing and looking up at Engvyr. “These tracks are fresh; I'd guess that they came through within the hour.”

  Engvyr nodded, studying the countryside thoughtfully. There'd been reports of a group of baasgarta cavalry poking about along the northern edge of the valley and he'd decided it was time to give the trainees their trial by fire. The seven of them had ridden out with a pair of Mountain Guard Rangers to help with the tracking and add their repeating carbines to the mix. Not that any of them couldn't have tracked a score of Ulvgaed; it was just that Engvyr preferred not to have the armored cavalrymen dismounted to look for sign if a fight came on them suddenly.

  Engvyr knew the country from years of riding his rounds through the area when he was a Ranger himself. The goblins had paused here and very likely seen the dwarven force on their back-trail, then headed arrow-straight for a saddle between two low hills a half mile ahead. He considered the lay of the land on the other side of the gap, then made his decision. Wheeling his pony, he addressed the group.