Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

by Michael Pearce

  “Where did we get clean shirts for so many?” Deandra asked.

  Vaalketyr looked grim and said, “There were plenty of spares in the kits of the fallen soldiers from the 1st and 4th.”

  “We'd best get them organized, then,” Ynghilda said with grimace. Turning to Deandra, “I believe Squirrel said that they were broken up into 'crews?' That might be the best way to break them up now.”

  “Why don't we start with Squirrel's crew, then? These folk are likely to be nervous about the whole process, and this group can help with the ones after.”

  In the end of course it was both more and much less simple than that. First off they did not wish to give up their clothes. Filthy rags though they might be, for most of them they were their only possessions. Deandra tried to be patient with them, to explain that they would be given new clothes but they became increasingly agitated and some began to cry. She was tired already from the long day and was at a loss for what to do. Ynghilda came in and sized up the situation immediately.

  “Squirrel!” She barked. He looked up at her fearfully and she continued in a firm, no-nonsense voice, “Tell them to take off their clothes and pile them by the door. NOW.”

  He repeated her order and the men and women of Squirrel's crew obeyed immediately. Ynghilda turned to Deandra with a sigh.

  “Deandra, these people have been slaves their whole lives. Don't cajole, persuade or explain. They don't understand it and it makes them more afraid because of that. Tell them what to do and they'll do it. Orders are what they understand and are comfortable with.”

  Deandra tried that and the Braell relaxed somewhat and did what they were told. They might have wept silently or rolled their eyes in fear but they did it. Vaalketyr provided a strong, medicinal-smelling soap and insisted they wash their entire body, hair and beards thoroughly. They had to be shown how but they did so willingly enough.

  While they bathed Deandra asked Ynghilda about the state of the steading. Ynghilda shook her head in wonder.

  “It's the damndest thing,” she said, “There were signs that the place had been searched, but the worst thing we found was the pots from the last breakfast left dirty. Oh, there's minor damage here and there but we had things ready for you long before you got back. What kind of army doesn't plunder?”

  Deandra was as baffled as Ynghilda. She would at least have expected them to take something. Not a mystery we'll solve tonight, she thought, and returned to tending her charges.

  After their baths the Braell were each given a linen shirt and a cord to tie at the waist before Deandra led them into the hall. Squirrel stayed behind with the soldiers and Vaalketyr to translate for the next crew. She got them seated at the benches by the table, having to show them even this. Aunt Gerdy and one of her assistants brought out bowls of soup and loaves of black bread. They set these before the Braell. Deandra began to eat and the Braell merely watched her raptly. They had never seen a spoon, of course and seemed entranced by the way that she used it. She weighed the matter in her mind, considering how to teach them to use a spoon and quickly discarded the notion. Setting it down she ripped a chunk of bread from the loaf, dunked it in the soup and ate it. The Braell looked at each other, and one of the largest among them, hesitantly aped her motions. He watched her intently and when she didn't object he dunked the bread, raised it to his mouth and bit into it. His eyes widened as he chewed and swallowed, staring at the bread in wonder. He gestured and the rest of them tried it, with a similar reaction. Lord and Lady, she thought, they've never even had bread?!

  They ate quickly but did not wolf the food down as she'd expected. Each took only one chunk from the loaves and when it was gone they drank the broth and swept the remaining bits of meat and vegetables into their mouths and chewed them thoroughly.

  More groups arrived and were treated to what was almost certainly the best meal of their lives. At first Squirrel’s crew sat quietly after they finished eating, eyes and hands on the table before them, sometimes shifting uncomfortably on the benches. Deandra realized that they probably were uncomfortable given that they had apparently never used furniture before.

  She got up and managed to convey to the crew that they were to follow her and led them over to the great hearth. She squatted by the fire and motioned for them to do the same. This they were comfortable with. After a time all the crews had cycled through the bath-house and Squirrel joined them. He spoke to his crew and they relaxed further, examining her and their surroundings less timidly. They began to talk quietly among themselves, tentatively at first, watching Deandra to see if she raised an objection. Eventually she moved to one of the overstuffed chairs and sat gratefully. Even if they were used to squatting for hours on end, she wasn't, and it had been a very long day.

  Squirrel introduced her to his crew. The largest of them, still small by her standards, was called Big Mattock. The others were introduced as Drills Fast, Single Jack and Double Jack, Shovel Toe, One-Hand, Builder, Makes Rope and Cook. Builder, Double Jack and Cook were women. From what Deandra had seen in the bath-house she thought that Double Jack might be with child, and resolved to let Vaalketyr know.

  After the last Braell had eaten, blankets were passed out and each crew was shown to a section of the broad benches along the walls to bed down. Deandra returned to her old bed in Ynghilda's apartment and settled in to sleep. Her last thought was a wish that Engvyr was with her…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “ People talk about how they would love to 'have an adventure.' I think that's largely because they've never had one… Adventures in the doing of them tend to be miserable, dangerous, terrifying and exhausting.”

  From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Twilight found Taarven and Engvyr working their way through the brush at the western edge of the valley. They were careful not to make any disturbance as they moved along; 'virtually blind' was not the same thing as 'blind' and movement draws the eye. They neared the mouth of the canyon as the first stars were twinkling in the night sky.

  Taarven craned his neck to look upward and then said quietly, “I think we're ok for the moment. I'm pretty sure that we're inside his blind spot.”

  The rangers stole into the canyon. A road ran alongside the stream that fed the small lake. The very edge of this road next to the canyon wall had some brush and tumbled rocks but no real cover. It was dark as a pit as they moved slowly pausing frequently to listen, though the sound of the tumbling water interfered with this. Before long they came to a place where the path ended and a bridge arched over the water.

  “I am not liking this. Not at all!” Taarven said quietly. Engvyr knew exactly what he meant; between the darkness and the noise of the stream they could have walked within an arms-length of a crouching enemy and not realized it.

  They low-crawled across the bridge next to the low railing. Once across they resumed their slow, careful way up the canyon. They had gone only a few hundred paces when they saw light flickering on the walls ahead.

  Engvyr cursed silently at his first thought, that some person or group was approaching with a torch. They froze in place but the light did not move towards them. After a time they approached a slight bend in the canyon and crept forward until the source of the light became apparent. There were torches in vertical holders along the road, spaced every twenty-five to thirty paces leading to a stone wall that blocked further progress. The stream ran under the wall through a culvert with a barred cover and the road passed through a gate- currently closed. There were more torches along the top of the wall and they could see the figures of sentries patrolling there.

  “Looks like we've reached a dead end,” Taarven said quietly.

  “I've never liked that term… dead end,” muttered Engvyr. They watched quietly for a few moments before working their way backwards from the curve until the gates were out of site.

  “Best we get ourselves out of this canyon before that term you dislike becomes literal,” Taarven said, “We get caught in this canyon come d
aylight there's nowhere to hide.”

  They made their way back across the bridge but before they got halfway back to the entrance they saw light ahead of them again. This time obviously someone was coming. They scrambled back up the canyon looking desperately for a place to hide but there was nothing. Until they reached the bridge…

  Engvyr looked at the bridge and then at Taarven.

  “I am so not going to enjoy this,” he said.

  “Don't see as to there bein' any choice,” Taarven said with a shrug.

  Engvyr gasped as he lowered himself into the icy water. They held tight to the edge of the arch to keep from being swept downstream by the current as they eased themselves under the bridge. The rock was slippery with algae but they clung for dear life to it in the cold wet dark. They quickly grew numb as the light approached but they could see little from their position. Hooves sounded on the stone overhead and they could hear goblins talking as the light moved on.

  Just as Engvyr was ready to heave a sigh of relief the light stopped moving and he heard the curious grunting of an excited ulvgaed. Hooves clattered and a goblin cursed his restive mount. How good is an ulvgaed's sense of smell? Engvyr wondered. Finally they moved on and Taarven pulled himself from their hiding place. Engvyr attempted to do the same but his foot slipped and the current took his legs out from under him. He tried to hold on but his numb fingers were not up to the task and he was tumbled out from under the bridge and down the narrow channel.

  He bit back his instinctive cry of alarm- if the goblins heard they were both dead. The stream was only a few feet wide but it ran strong and fast. It was two to three feet deep in most places and Engvyr desperately tried to stop himself. He clutched at the rocks the current smashed him into or scrabbled at the edge of the channel when he could reach it.

  Finally after an eternity of impacts and tumbling through the icy darkness he was able to claw his way onto the bank. He was shivering violently and his teeth chattered so hard he thought they would break. His body was numb and he was distantly aware that he was hurt. He pulled himself from the water but could manage no more and simply lay there with shivers wracking his body.

  He hadn't been there long when rough hands grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He had only made it partway upright when his back spasmed and he had to stand, bent over with his hands on his knees. It was a few moments before he could straighten up enough to stumble forward.

  “C'mon Engvyr,” Taarven muttered, “Move or die time!”

  The journey back to their ponies was a pain-wracked nightmare for Engvyr. Fever was setting in so he was alternately sweating and shivering so hard his back would spasm again. His head felt like it had been split with an axe and his body ached to the limits that he could bear but somehow they made it. Unfortunately they weren't finished. Taarven boosted him into the saddle and he nearly went straight over the other side. Taarven swore and bound his wrists to the pommel of his saddle and his thighs to the stirrup leathers and led them west, away from the road. Over the next few hours Engvyr learned a new definition of misery. He was in and out of delirium and every time he nearly fell over his back would spasm again. Finally they stopped and Taarven cut him loose. He more than half-fell from his pony into Taarven's arms. Mercifully he passed out at that point.

  He woke when Taarven lifted his head to pour hot willow-bark tea into his mouth. His first reflex was to spit the bitter brew out but Taarven was persistent. This was repeated several times before he woke, lucid and soaked in sweat. He was lying so close to their tiny fire that it was a wonder that he hadn't rolled into it in the grip of the fever.

  “Easy now,” Taarven said when he tried to sit up. His partner helped him, leaning him back against the boulder that had been reflecting the heat of the fire. His back stabbed a couple of times in the process but didn't spasm. Be grateful for small favors, he told himself. Taarven gave him some coffee and let him sip it enough to clear his throat.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Engvyr considered it a moment before replying, “Like my pony dragged me across a few leagues of rough country.”

  “Well, at least your fever seems to have broken,” Taarven said.

  “How long?” Engvyr asked, checking the position of the sun, which was about to drop behind the peaks.

  “All day yesterday and today,” Taarven told him, “Let's get some food and coffee into you.”

  “Since we seem to have gone as far as we can we should check in with the army,” Engvyr said, “Maybe someone else has had better luck.”

  “Engvyr, you need your rest! That fever could come back as quick as it went.”

  “Well,” Engvyr said, “In case you hadn't noticed there's a war on. I'll bundle up good, and if need be I'll sleep in the saddle. But we need to report in.”

  “We'll argue about it while you eat,” Taarven said as he began heating up a pan of beef and beans. They did argue too, but Engvyr was inflexible and after eating they saddled up and got moving. Engvyr was weak but he could sit in a saddle well enough. After all, he thought, the pony is doing the hard part…

  They avoided the trail as much as possible and sometime after midnight Taarven called a halt. By that point Engvyr was done-in and willing to admit that he needed the break. They made a cold camp and he wrapped up in his bedroll and slept like a stone until dawn. They broke their fast with biscuits and some dry sausages before setting out again.

  They had no difficulty locating the regiments. By midday it was obvious where they were; ten thousand dwarves cannot camp inconspicuously. They worked their way towards the columns of smoke rising from the camp.

  Engvyr was exhausted by the time they were challenged by the army's sentries. They were passed through the lines and directed to the field headquarters of the Mountain Guard contingent. They made their way through the vast camp past row upon row of tents and secondary defensive works. Engvyr was not too beat-up to appreciate the intelligence of the arrangements. It looked to him as if they could probably fend off five times their number of Baasgarta.

  Headquarters was set up in a converted mess-tent borrowed from one of the regiments. Engvyr was surprised to find Captain Gauer inside, obviously in charge. He was poring over a hand-drawn map with another pair of rangers and a cartographer when they arrived. They were filling in details based on the report he was receiving. He looked up and greeted them with a nod, exchanged a word with the map-maker and moved to meet them.

  “Taarven, Engvyr,” he said, giving Engvyr a sharp, assessing glance, “Sit down, Ranger. Looks like you've had a rough time of it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Engvyr said gratefully, hooking a stool over with one foot and half-collapsing onto it. He set the long-rifle aside and gingerly unslung his satchel, water bottle and other gear with a sigh of relief.

  Taarven looked at the captain as he was setting his own gear down and asked, “Not that it isn't good to see you, sir, but where's Berryc?”

  “Oh, he's fine- I sent him back to take command at Ghost Creek when I came forward,” He told them, “The King has signed the council's Declaration of War against the Baasgarta. Command sent me to take charge.”

  Unasked one of the staff brought them bowls of stew and mugs of coffee while they made their report. After they ate they joined the Captain at the map, filling in more details from memory. This was merely a rough campaign map; detailed maps would be made as the armies advanced, which Engvyr gathered they would be doing shortly.

  “We don't want to be fighting a winter campaign if we can avoid it,” Captain Gauer said, “Others have reported fortifications similar to the gate that you found, so I imagine that the first stage of the offensive will be to take those for our own.”

  The captain indicated a spot on the map to their northeast and said, “There is a garrison here. Our group, the 3rd Rifles, the 1st Mounted Infantry and the 4th Heavy Infantry, will take and man the gates and lesser forts, then join up with the 2nd Rifles and the 3rd Heavy Infantry to take the garrison. For
tunately it is only lightly fortified; I doubt the Baasgarta ever expected they would face a full-on assault. Worse come to, we can besiege them over the winter, but the Army boys think that we can take them down easily enough given our advantage in numbers. It looks like we will be able to secure our own supply-lines pretty well, as the territory south of the target is completely uninhabited.”

  Taarven frowned thoughtfully and asked, “What will our part of this be?”

  “Initially you two will guide a company of skirmishers to take the gate that you found. We'll have you coordinate with them on methods,” he said, then frowned at Engvyr, “After you've seen a healer and had a good night's rest. You look like ten leagues of bad road, Ranger.”

  “I wish I felt that well, sir!” Engvyr told him with a weak grin.

  He felt better after he let the healers fuss over him. He dutifully took his medicine then bathed, changed into a clean clothes and racked out on one of the cots behind a canvas curtain at the back of the headquarters.

  It took the army regiments a couple of days to prepare for the offensive and Engvyr needed every moment of them to recover. He was still bruised and stiff but he was at least past the need to worry about the fever coming back.

  Taarven and Engvyr set out at the head of a full company of skirmishers. Since the attack on the dig site in the Makepeace Valley these units had focused on training to work in larger groups. The dwarven army was not immune to the dictum that 'leaders always prepare to fight the last war, not the next.' They had been structured to fight in the relatively flat, open terrain of Dvargatil Baeg's southern valleys or adjacent Afmaeltinn lands, so skirmishers were well practiced at small-unit operations like attacks on supply-lines, sniping attacks and lightning raids. But now that the army was forced to fight in the closed and often difficult terrain of the deep mountains their mission had changed; they needed to operate in company-sized or even larger units. In the future the army would doubtless train dedicated mountain troops, but for now the skirmishers were the best that they had for the job.