They also bought supplies and Engvyr was shocked at the sheer quantity of food they must carry even for the first leg of their journey. They were but three adults, himself and the twins yet they must carry barrels of flour, great bags of beans and coffee, slabs of bacon, dried beef and sausages, barrels of dried fruit and casks of water until the wagons fairly groaned under the weight.
Of their household effects they took little but what was needed for the journey, their clothes, cooking gear, tools and a few keepsakes. Their furniture was too bulky and heavy and it was easier to simply replace it at their destination.
The day of their departure they rose at first light and broke their fast with stew left over from the night before and mugs of coffee. Before they left their little hame for the last time his father pulled Engvyr aside while his mother and aunt cleaned and packed the breakfast dishes.
“There's one last thing that you might be needing on the trip, son,” he said as he placed a new sax-knife and sheath in his son's hands. Engvyr was delighted with the gift and examined it carefully. The scabbard was of thick hide, waxed to rock-hardness and covered with deeply tooled knot-work. There was a sturdy and elaborately engraved bronze frame along the top of the scabbard, with two loops to hang it horizontally below the belt.
He drew the knife and examined the stout single-edged blade of fine dwarven steel. It was eight inches in length and shaving-sharp. The carved handle was stag-horn and had a slight curve to it that felt natural in his grip. The hilt was topped by a bronze plate with a lanyard ring.
Engvyr thanked his father profusely, and stood proudly as his father threaded it onto the front of his belt so that the hilt hung close to his right hand. His father smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder.
“You'll be doing a man's work on this trip, so I thought it time you had a man's blade,” he told Engvyr.
As they set out the last of the winter snow was still piled along the shoulders of the High Road, but it was melting day by day. Traffic was sparse but regular, with wagons of food and other supplies bound for the southern towns and trains of ore heading north to the great foundries at Ironhame.
The road was broad and well-paved and they made good time. Often they walked alongside of the wagons to spare themselves the rattle and jolting of the hard seats or simply for something to do. They passed farms and fields for days, spending their nights along the road or at caravan camps.
As they made their way through the wide open valleys they occasionally encountered parties of Afmaeltinn traveling to or from Ironhame to trade for the products of the great smelters and forges of the city. They looked very strange to Engvyr, like dwarves stretched to a third again their proper height. Some of them towered as much as six feet tall or more! Even the women among them were more than a foot taller than a dwarf.
The novelty of the journey quickly wore off for the twins. Keeping them amused and jollying them out of their fussiness was a chore for them all.
The land gradually grew more rugged as the days passed and they encountered more and more uninhabited country as they neared Ironhame. This seemed strange to Engvyr and he asked his father about it.
“'Tis by design,” his father told him, “For if the nations of men come against us we must be able to move our troops quickly, thus the southern roads are very good. But when we first took these lands for our own it was decided that the capital should be in harder country, without sources of food nearby to feed an invading army.”
His father gestured to the roads and lands around them. “This untamed, broken country provides less of what an army needs: freedom to maneuver, supplies and shelter. The High Road moves along the edges of hills and tunnels through the shoulders of the mountains. Can you guess why?”
Engvyr thought about it, studying the land. To the east the land fell away into narrow river-valleys. To the west it rose steeply, its slope varying from difficult to impassable. Occasional towers and fortifications were carved into the hills overlooking the broad highway. He thought about the stories told by his father and the Sergeant-Major in the long winter nights by the fire. After a few moments he nodded decisively and pointed to a nearby fortification.
“They've established choke-points; they can fire down on an invading army while it has few options to flee and cannot reach them easily.” Gesturing down the road he continued, “Tunnels can be collapsed and between the hill forts and blocked tunnels we can force them into the valleys, which are hard going and can be attacked from above or even flooded.”
“Exactly so!” His father said, beaming. “You've a good eye for these things; you'll be a credit to The Regiment if you choose that path.”
Engvyr fairly glowed with pleasure at the praise. They talked of this and many other things; indeed there was little else for them to do as they walked or rode through the long days. The road, while still as good as ever, was rising steadily now and they could not cover distance as quickly as they had in the flatlands of the broad southern valleys.
As they travelled his father taught him to load and shoot the handgun and the big 14-bore shoulder-gun. The two guns were similar in that each had a bulky compression tube under the barrel containing a powerful spring-piston. When the trigger was pulled this piston would be released and compress the air very rapidly to drive a projectile out of the barrel at very high speed. The Big 14 had a smooth-bore and could fire hard-waxed paper cups of shot for birds on the wing and small game or it could shoot heavy slugs for larger animals.
They took to hunting marmots, rabbits and pheasant for the pot in the evenings after making camp. One time when Engvyr had the big 14 in his hands they came upon a deer. He started to aim but stopped when with father put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
“Never shoot more than you need,” his father said. “That deer is big enough that half the meat would spoil before we could eat it all.”
He nodded and they watched the deer a few moments before quietly moving on.
As the days grew longer the climb became more steep. They'd eaten enough of their supplies that while they labored under the load their oxen weren't overtaxed by the slope. Marking stones counted down the distance as they approached Ironhame at last. Engvyr looked at his father as they passed the final league marker, his brow furrowed with puzzlement.
“I thought we'd see the city long before now!” he told him.
“Patience, lad,” his father admonished him with a chuckle, “you'll see it soon enough!”
Indeed it was not long after that they rounded the corner of the mountain and there stood the Great Wall of Ironhame, not a mile away across the shallow valley. The first leg of their journey was at an end.
Chapter Three
“Ironhame! The capital of the Dwarven Kingdom and perhaps the greatest fortification in all the world is a city of secrets. Born in slavery, our folk were reborn in freedom with a fierce determination: that no one of our people ever again suffer chains upon their wrists or shackles on their feet. But we are a race that lives or dies by our invention and devices so some must accept that their own liberty is the price of freedom for their people. The Masters of the Trades may never set foot beyond the walls of the Inner Ward of the city lest their secrets be at risk. 'Tis a gilded and comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless. This is their sacrifice, their gift to all their folk.”