Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

by Michael Pearce

  The force of the flow subsided, but he was still awash in the alien perceptions. He forced his eyes open, and the input of the familiar sense of sight overwhelmed the madness. His head throbbed and his vision was gray at the edges but he could function. Rolling over, he gritted his teeth against the agony as he forced himself to his knees and looked around. Several others were also rising and he braced himself with the rifle, using it as a walking stick to lever himself to his feet.

  Others did likewise, supporting themselves at first with the edges of the tables or the seats of stools scattered around the command area. Engvyr noted that the battlemages were not among those recovering from that blast of… whatever. Most of them were writhing in agony but some were terribly still. Staggering closer he could see blood trickling from the eyes, ears and noses of the unmoving mages.

  The fighting had stopped entirely as dazed soldiers, dwarf, goblin and Baasgarta, struggled to their feet. Fumbling out his spyglass he looked over the ranks. Perhaps half were already on their feet. Of the others some were still, some writhing on the ground. Others simply sat with their heads in their hands, trying to cope with the agonizing headache.

  “Lord and Lady,” He heard someone say behind him, “What the bloody hell was that?”

  Someone else, Colonel Oakes he realized, replied, “At a guess the Dreamer's ritual succeeded.”

  They were interrupted by a new sound. Rock cracked explosively and groaned. Turning back to the city Engvyr saw dust puff up from the mountainside and out of the gates to the underground. The earth began to tremble beneath their feet and the soldiers before the walls cried out in fear.

  “It's coming,” Engvyr said. Either no one heard or his words simply didn't register.

  “IT'S COMING!” he bellowed, and the spike of pain caused by that nearly made him black out.

  Rocks began to slide down the hillside into the city, then great chunks of earth broke away, crushing everything in their path. The city was obscured by dust, then stone cracked, groaned and then burst from the mountainside. Boulders the size of houses sailed into the ranks, crushing soldiers of all sides impartially. A vast roar swelled as behind the pall of dust something massive stirred, moved, advanced.

  Without warning a tentacle, thick as a thousand year old tree and a hundred paces long or more lashed out of the dust and scythed through the ranks of the Baasgarta. Many were flung through the air but some stuck to it, screaming as it withdrew into the cloud.

  Soldiers began to fire. Bullets and crossbow bolts vanished into the cloud. Another tentacle speared out of the dust. Its tip split into dozens of smaller tentacles that pierced a score of soldiers then lifted them up and away. In some small part of his mind Engvyr felt pride for his brethren as their firing gradually went from individual shots to merge into volleys.

  WHAM

  WHAM

  WHAM

  Every two seconds like clockwork, the sound imposed order on the chaos of the battlefield. Even the Baasgarta began firing their crossbows in time to that metronome of destruction. Wave after wave of bullets and crossbow bolts vanished into the cloud.

  As the dust began to settle a nightmare form was revealed. Though he hadn’t seen it in decades, it was familiar to him. He had last seen a ghost of this shape made from swirling wind and sand. The reality of the being, in the flesh, was a thousand times more horrible.

  It was all colors and no color, seeming to glow faintly from within, but shed no illumination in the pre-dawn gloom. It was a hundred feet tall or even more, and it trampled the remains of the Baasgarta city beneath mismatched feet of all shapes and sizes.

  A tentacle formed and again swept through the ranks of soldiers, scattering scores and scooping up dozens more. As the tentacle retreated the body split into a great maw lined with teeth to receive it. The tentacle, covered in writhing, screaming men was inserted into the mouth and bitten off, the stump withdrawing into the body as it slammed shut with an audible crash. Other tentacles formed and swept or speared into the ranks, lifting more soldiers to the maws that formed to receive them.

  Each volley sent a rain of lead, bolts and quarrels rippling across the creature’s surface to no discernible effect. As Engvyr watched a ball formed from the surface of the massive body, then compressed into a tube and burst, sending a spray of spears far and wide over the formation. One of these weapons transfixed a nearby soldier. As he fell the end of the spear protruding from his chest collapsed into a plate. The portion standing out of his back writhed like a snake and spouted hundreds of legs and began to drag him back towards the creature. There was a ripple of movement across the battlefield as the same happened to other soldiers, some still screaming. With a cry of disgust Engvyr sprang forward, slashing through the 'spear' with his bayonet. It squirmed on the ground for a second before dissolving into foul-smelling smoke that made the dwarf choke and cough.

  He heard shouted commands passing through the ranks before him. Someone down there was thinking; as the next sphere formed, thousands of guns focused on it and it burst almost instantly, some form of liquid rolling down the things flank. The soldiers cheered as the creature shuddered. The flesh around the wound did not immediately heal.

  Another tentacle slashed through their ranks, reaching deeper and deeper into their formation as it advanced. Well, thought Engvyr, that's about it for the Baasgarta. Now the tentacles slashed into the ranks of the dwarves.

  A bolt from one of the siege engines smashed into the creature. That got its attention. Small tentacles formed and probed at the wound. Another fired and this bolt too vanished into the creature’s bulk. A psychic scream hammered them to their knees once again, but the effect was less this time and they recovered quickly. Another tentacle lashed out towards the siege engines and the tip broke off, separating into dozens of balls that landed among the massive weapons. Screams rose from that direction and the firing stopped.

  The creature now bled from three wounds but it did not even slow its advance.

  “We can't stop it,” he heard someone shout.

  Engvyr noted that Grimnael was not looking at the battle spread out before the command post, but back towards the valley that his forces had emerged from the night before. He was muttering something that sounded like, 'Any time now…'

  Just as Engvyr turned back to the carnage, flashes lit up the valley from opposite the city. Great rents appeared in the eldritch horror's flesh at the same time a massive 'BOOM' rolled across the battlefield. As the creature actually staggered back, another psychic scream washed over them, but either they were growing accustomed to them or it was weaker.

  Engvyr looked back towards the flashes and saw the area was obscured by white smoke. He peered at the cloud trying to pierce that veil to see what had happened but he couldn't make out what lay behind it. It was just beginning to disperse when a dozen huge blasts of red-orange flame burst forth spreading still more smoke. This time he actually heard the projectiles whirring overhead and he turned to see them smash into the leviathan.

  The scream that blasted through their minds this time was less of pain than despair as the Dead God toppled backwards, crashing into the ruined city. Fluid gushed from the massive wounds that peppered its body, and it seemed to collapse into itself as the ground shook under the impact of the titanic being.

  Cannon! Engvyr thought as a cheer rose from the surviving soldiers. He looked at Grimnael in disbelief. That lunatic brought Cannon!

  The mighty guns spoke a third time and as the projectiles slammed into the Dead God the cacophony of alien perceptions faded from the background of Engvyr's thoughts, then winked out like a snuffed candle. The pain in his head slowly began to diminish as he looked out over the carnage of the battlefield before him.

  We've won, he realized, It's not over, but we've won.

  As the dawn broke they stood and stared out over the devastation before them. The command post was naturally situated on a rise to give the officers a good view. There was still much to do in the aftermath
but for now, just for this moment they could only contemplate the havoc wrought in the night.

  The great city of the Baasgarta was in ruins; what the siege engines and fires had not destroyed was smashed by the advance and fall of the Dead God. The mountain had collapsed into the underground city, and Engvyr doubted that any that close to the resurrection had survived anyway. Tens of thousands of Baasgarta and Braell wiped from the face of the earth in mere hours, he thought, we’d have shown them scant mercy but some would have survived…

  As for the field of battle itself the Baasgarta forces were simply gone. Less than half of their own force appeared to have survived. He watched as regimental banners were raised by the survivors. There were none for the 2nd and 4th Heavy Infantry regiments that had led the assault. There might be scattered survivors but the regiments had effectively ceased to exist. Other banners were missing as well, from the Eastern force, but he was too tired to recollect which units they represented. In any event he guessed that they had taken fifteen to twenty thousand casualties, more than the dwarven kingdom had ever lost in a war, let alone a single battle. Add to that seventy to eighty thousand Baasgarta dead in the city and on the field… The numbers were just too big for him to wrap his mind around. He felt anguish, sorrow, jubilation all at once, but mostly he felt tired, exhausted of body and soul. He dragged himself away from his reverie and turned to the commanders. There was much yet to do.

  Engvyr and Grimnael watched as goblins in blue and red rolled keg after keg of blasting powder into the ruins and surrounded the corpse of the Dead God with them. The explosive needed to be disposed of as quickly as possible and this would solve two problems at once; there would be no second resurrection for this god.

  “I still can't believe that you brought cannon and blasting powder,” Engvyr said, shaking his head. Cannon, like other firearms had not been used in many centuries. It was just too easy for battlemages to detonate the powder at a distance. “Nobody does that.”

  Grimnael favored him with a grin and said, “That's exactly why we did. Who would expect such a thing?”

  “After word of this spreads everyone will. It was still crazy to take that chance!”

  The goblin shrugged and said, “If it's crazy and it works…”

  “…it's still crazy,” Engvyr finished for him, “Still and all I'm glad the tribal Elders picked you to lead. Maybe 'crazy' was the only rational response to this insanity.”

  Grimnael changed the subject, saying, “Now might be a good time to give you those things that I brought.”

  He gestured to one of his aides and spoke quietly to him. The aide nodded and trotted off, returning in a few moments with a bundle that he handed to Engvyr. At the goblin’s urging he unwrapped it to find the sax-knife that his father had given to him and The Hammer. He cradled the big handgun and looked at the goblin in shock.

  “Where in the world…?”

  “Many years ago some dwarves came into the territory of the Tribes,” he said, “These were bad dwarves, criminals fleeing from your law. They were apprehended, and they had these things with them. When I gave your name to the elders one of them remembered seeing it on the frame of this knife sheath, and I was able to verify that they were yours. I was told to return them to you, along with the gratitude of the Elders for your warnings.”

  Engvyr felt a flood of conflicting emotions. He had long since given up the idea of revenging himself on the dwarves that had destroyed his family, but to finally know that they had been brought to justice… It was not the sort of closure he would have hoped for but it would do.

  “Yes,” he said at last, “Those were the dwarves that killed my father, my aunt and cousin. Thank your Elders for me when you have the chance. What happened to them in the end, by the way?”

  Grimnael shrugged.

  “Oh, they were not all bad. I'm told that they were quite… sweet,” he said, then grinned wolfishly, “…and tender.”

  Engvyr returned the grin as he rewrapped the weapons. Lacking any other orders Engvyr remained at the command post and observed as Grimnael and the other officers managed the aftermath of the battle.

  BABABOOOM! The ripple of explosions merged into a single colossal wave of sound as the corpse of the dead god was shattered by the combined energy of over two tons of explosive. Pieces of the creature landed soggily within a hundred paces of the command post where Engvyr and the others watched. It's a good thing we cleared the field first, Engvyr thought, else there'd be some mighty unhappy soldiers about now…

  “Well, I’m certainly glad that I didn't miss that at least!”

  Engvyr looked at the speaker and did a double-take. Though he had seen the dwarf but once more than fifteen years before, there was no mistaking that imposing figure.

  “Your Highness!” He exclaimed. Then remembering himself he bowed deeply. The officers turned at his exclamation and after a moment's shocked hesitation bowed also.

  “Oh, for heaven's sake, stop that!” the Prince commanded, “This is a battlefield, not the privy chamber! For the moment I am here as an officer of the King's Army.”

  Accompanying the Prince was a captain in the livery of The Prince's Own. His face held a look of long-suffering patience as the Prince continued.

  “I came ahead of the regiment to let you know to expect them within the hour.” He gestured to the officer accompanying him and continued, “Captain Kollyr here will be our liaison. In the meantime perhaps someone can tell me what in the Lord and Lady's names has happened here?”

  They quickly filled him in on the events of the previous night, and his face grew grave as he listened to the reports. A runner from the Mountain Guard arrived to collect Taarven and Engvyr but the Prince interrupted him.

  “I understand that you may need Ranger Engvyr, but please convey to Captain Gauer that I require the presence of Lord Eastgrove,” he told the runner, then in a quiet aside to Engvyr said, “Terribly sorry my boy, but you've ducked your responsibilities for long enough. I'm afraid your Kingdom needs you more than the Mountain Guard does at this point. You may submit your resignation to them at your leisure.”

  Engvyr gulped and said the only thing he could.

  “As you say, your Highness.”

  So he stayed with the commanders, watching mostly, occasionally making useful suggestions when it seemed appropriate. Much to his own surprise he had contributions to make, despite the fact that in dwarven terms he was still relatively young. He mentioned this to the Prince.

  “You've a good head on your shoulders, Engvyr Gunnarson,” the Prince told him, “And common sense besides, which, young as you are, you must realize is not all that common. If we can convince you to stop going off on suicide missions I predict a bright future for you.”

  “I'll be happy enough just to return safe to my wife at this point, your Highness,” Engvyr said earnestly. “We've a cottage to build and…”

  “A cottage you say?” interrupted the Prince, “On no, no my boy. Architects, Stonewrights and builders were close on my heels when I left Ironhame; by the time you return home I dare say you'll have a proper estate well on its way to completion, with a great hall, guest quarters and a small armory and barracks.”

  Engvyr gaped at him in shock, but before he could protest the Prince continued.

  “We can't have you living like a pauper! What would people think if the Lord Warder of the North were living in a hovel? A cottage, he says!” the Prince said, shaking his head in scorn, then he frowned at Engvyr, “Lord and Lady, boy, close your mouth! I won't have one of my Royal Officials standing about gaping like a fish!”

  Engvyr closed his mouth with a snap. The prince clapped his hands together gleefully and said, “Oh yes, my boy, a very bright future indeed!”

  EPILOGUE I

  Deandra and Ynghilda sat comfortably in their accustomed places by the hearth in the great hall. A good fire was burning tonight against the late-autumn chill and but for the absence of her husband she found herself content. The
harvest, such as it was, was in. The Prince had assured them that a Royal Stipend of grain and other foodstuffs was on its way to tide them over through the winter. The great hall was emptier than it had been in many weeks.

  There were a number of farmholds left vacant by the war. The Braell crews had, with some swapping around, organized themselves into 'families' and taken names for themselves. The first of these families had already moved out to the nearby farms, each with a volunteer from the hold or a farmhold to ease them into their new lives. They would spend the winter adjusting to their new lifestyle, learning to read, keep accounts and anything else that they needed to become self-sufficient.

  They were disturbed by the sudden entry of one of the guards, who told them that a large mounted party had arrived.

  “Odd,” said Ynghilda, “I wasn't expecting anyone.”

  “My apologies, Ma'am, but they say that they are here to see Lady Eastgrove,” the guard said nervously.

  “Well, for the Lord and Lady's sake, man, don't leave them standing out in the cold! Send them in!” she commanded.

  The two women stood as the party was ushered into the hall. There were several men and women, all dressed in the fashion of prosperous tradesmen and women. At the head of their party strode a slight, elderly dwarf. Reaching Deandra he bowed deeply to her.

  “Lady Eastgrove, I am Biphur, son of Ouwen, at your service.”