Dwarven Rifleman Series: Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

by Michael Pearce

  “We dare not move him yet, his back may be broken. Start a fire and I'll look to your father and see what's what.”

  He nodded and started to move off up the trail when they heard a distant shout.

  “Hallooo!”

  Past the damaged section of trail there was a dwarf hailing them. It was Eggil Burenson from the pack-train.

  “Are you all right?” he yelled to them.

  “My brother is hurt,” his aunt yelled back, “And our supplies are stolen.”

  “Who stole your supplies?” Eggil yelled back.

  “It was those miners and their friends!” Engvyr replied, feeling a fresh burst of rage at the memory.

  Eggil put his hands on his hips, nodded and peered at the damaged trail. Engvyr looked as well. The trail had been carried away in sections, dropping into the gorge and the raging river more than three hundred feet below. Of his mother and their Guide, there was no sign; the raging torrent had already borne them away. It was clear there was no chance that they had lived, no chance at all.

  The thought of his mother brought fresh tears to his eyes. That she was truly gone, that he would never see her, hold and be held by her again... he forced those thoughts away with an effort of will. It was their own survival he must think of now. There would be time aplenty to mourn their loss later. For now the living must see to the living.

  Turning his regard back to the collapsed trail he studied it carefully. It was truly impassible. The hundred paces that separated them from the train might just as well have been a hundred leagues. He held up his hands helplessly to the other dwarf.

  “It's no good!” he shouted, “We can't cross!”

  The other dwarf gave them an exaggerated nod and yelled that he would be back. As he turned back to his father his aunt reminded him to get the fire going. He left The Hammer with his aunt, taking the Big 14 with him as he moved cautiously up the trail to find wood. It took time to gather as he had to go some distance to reach the trees and brush; all the while he kept a wary eye out.

  When he got back to the others his aunt had the rocks moved from under his father's body. Her great-cote was balled-up under his head for a pillow. She had already splinted his leg and was cleaning the gash on his forehead with water from the leather bottle that she carried slung about her body.

  “How is he?” he asked as he laid out the kindling and struck a light.

  His Aunt shook her head, her lips tightened to a thin line before responding.

  “Well, none of his wounds are fatal. He's got a busted knee and some cuts and bruises. His back isn't broken, near as I can tell, but it's probably badly sprained. I don't know that he can travel, but we sure as anything can't stay here for long.”

  Engvyr nodded as he got the fire going. Hunting around a bit he found a flat slab of rock and propped it up to reflect the heat of the fire before making another trip for wood. Then he arranged some more rocks to help block the wind.

  Eggil reappeared on the lower section of the trail and shouted up to them, asking if they had line. They hadn't and he left again, coming back a moment later with a weighted rope. If he could get the rope to them they might be able to cross the gap or at least pass some supplies across. He swung the rope around and around in a great circle before letting fly. It fell short and he reeled it in and tried again, again falling short. He made several more attempts but the distance was just too great. He shouted his apologies.

  Engvyr shouted back, “At least you tried. Get on with you; see to your own folk! We will manage.”

  Eggil shrugged helplessly and shouted, “We’ll get word to the rangers if we can. Good Luck!”

  With a final wave he moved back down the trail and out of sight. Engvyr thought about their situation. It was, in a word, desperate. They had their knives, their water-bottles, a bit of dried beef, dried fruit and the odds and ends in their belt-pouches. This consisted of some of twine, flint, steel and tinder, some needles and thread.

  As to the guns they had a few loads, slugs and shot, for the Big 14 in his father's pouch. The handgun had nine more balls in the magazine and he had another twenty in a small leather bag in the pocket of his great-cote.

  Reluctantly he approached the dwarf that he had shot. He'd never killed another person before and it disturbed him. Steeling himself he went through the dead dwarf's things, taking his sax-knife, water bottle and pouches. In his satchel he had a small pan, a sack of hard cheese, sausages and some hard, dry biscuits. Taking these Engvyr looked down at the body for a moment. A bad dwarf comes to a bad end, he thought. He stripped him of his great-cote and tipped him over the edge.

  Turning back to his family he handed the cote to Egerta and she shrugged into it gratefully as she tucked it around her child as well. Berget still clung to her with dry, wounded eyes that stared at nothing and she shared a look of concern with Engvyr. She awkwardly shaved some dried beef and fruit into a bit of water in the small pan and set it on the fire to heat. It was little enough but it was at least something. While the food heated he thought long and hard. There seemed to be but one decision that he could make. He didn't like it one bit but he couldn't see any way around it if they were to live.

  “I'm going after them,” he told her, “We cannot survive like this; we need supplies and equipment and right now there is only one place to get them. They cannot have gotten far with those oxen on these trails.”

  He could tell that she wanted to argue with him, forbid it even, but after an internal struggle she nodded reluctantly.

  “What will you do when you find them?”

  He shrugged. “I can't know that until I do, I reckon.”

  Engvyr made sure that they had enough wood to last the night. He ate a little before leaving but left them the meager supply of food. The sun was just kissing the tips of the peaks when he set out.

  He was still not greatly skilled as a hunter but it didn't take a Ranger to follow the trail of six oxen and nearly as many ponies. He'd started out fit from his work in the mines and since then he'd walked near half the length of the country so he made good time. He carried the Big 14 at the balance, cocked and loaded with a heavy slug. He knew it was not good for the mainspring but couldn't risk coming up on them without being ready to shoot instantly. He followed them until it grew too dark to be sure of staying on the trail.

  Moving uphill he worked his way under the low-hanging branches of a small fir tree and sat with his back to the trunk, shivering in the cold. He slept fitfully, haunted by the image of his mother, her eyes locked on his, being obliterated by the falling stone. Silent tears ran down his cheeks and he felt anger hardening within him. Anger at the world, the mountain, even his father for bringing them on this terrible journey, but most of all against the sort of dwarves that would steal from them and leave them to die in the wake of such a tragedy.

  He was back on the trail as soon as it was light enough to see. He was half-frozen but movement quickly warmed him as he trotted after them. When he found their camp just after dawn the ashes of their fire were still hot. He judged that he couldn't be more than an hour behind them.

  He came up on them just as the sun cleared the surrounding peaks. He heard one of them cursing and began to move cautiously, keeping low and moving quietly. Before long he saw them across a narrow defile where the trail doubled back on itself. A dwarf was pulling on an ox's lead-rope, cursing the reluctant beast. No one else was in sight but he could hear the sounds of others moving further along the trail.

  Easing forward under the cover of some low bushes he drew a bead on the dwarf but did not shoot. The distance was about 100 paces, a long shot for a smooth-bore gun. In truth, despite his anger he had no desire to kill. He considered for a moment, then shifted his aim and carefully squeezed off the shot.

  The slug passed between the ox's nose and the dwarf then slammed into the rock face. The ox shied back and the thief gave a shout of surprise and dropped the lead-rope as he scrambled away out of sight. The pack-ox lumbered back down to
ward Engvyr, then moved off the trail onto the brush-covered slope of the hillside.

  Engvyr quickly reloaded the gun as he moved to intercept the ox. He could hear the dwarves shouting to each other.

  “It's that crazy damned kid!”

  Engvyr had just reached the ox when he heard the sound of hoof beats pounding on the trail. He turned and saw a hard-looking dwarf on a pony charging him with a wood-knife as long as his arm raised to cut him down. He shot him through the chest. The dwarf rolled backwards out of the saddle and landed in a heap. The pony turned aside, bolted up the slope and the other thieves broke off their charge as they dove headlong into the brush for cover.

  “You come right ahead, boys” he shouted to them, crouching in the brush near the ox. “I've got a pocket-full of slugs if any of you feel like your friend looks lonely lying there all by himself!”

  He could hear them as they talked it over among themselves. They knew roughly where he was but they also knew that the first of them to come for him would likely take a slug and not a dwarf among them was willing to be that one.

  He heard them withdraw and after a while they moved off up the trail. He kept a careful watch as he checked on the ox, which was browsing in the scrub. It seemed in good enough condition and leaving it for the moment he moved up the slope and cautiously approached the pony, speaking softly to it. The beast snorted and shied a bit but allowed him to grab its reins. He tied them off on a bush and went to check the dwarf that he had shot.

  The man was limp, probably dead when he hit the ground. He took the wood knife and scabbard but the man had little else of use. The saddle-bags on the pony were a different story, yielding a rain-cape, food, coffee, a large jug of whiskey, a small sack of coins and some dirty clothes. There was a bedroll wrapped in a ground cloth tied behind the saddle as well.

  Engvyr didn't know why the ox had resisted following the thief as it had no problem returning with him and the pony. The sun had already dropped behind the peaks when he made it back to where his family waited.

  On the advice of the ox-train's Guide they had divided their food and goods among the oxen against just such a disaster. Each beast had born a portion of their food and other supplies so they were able to make a decent dinner.

  His father was not doing well, having taken a chill despite his aunt's best efforts. They had huddled against the cold and kept the fire up but they'd had no blankets and despite the wind-break and reflector their position was too exposed. It was too late to try and move to a place where they could make a proper camp that night so while his aunt prepared dinner he did what he could to make them more comfortable.

  A tent had been among the items strapped to the pack and while there was no space to set it up he could at least string the cover to provide shelter from the wind and hold the heat of their fire. He felt better just having a cover overhead, though he knew that the feeling of security it imparted was an illusion.

  His father looked better for the hot meal and coffee so while they ate they discussed their plans. He and his aunt took turns keeping watch. As Engvyr sat listening to the night he had time to reflect and grieve. He thought much about his mother and cousin and felt a great, aching gulf within him. He felt sorry for his Aunt as well, for she had lost her husband, her sister and her child. He could scarcely imagine what she was feeling.

  His cousin remained in her shocked, staring state and that was a worry as well. She was too young to really grasp what had happened. As Engvyr understood it, losing a twin would be like losing half of herself. When his Aunt brewed her some medicinal tea from among her simples the girl had held the cup but would not drink until the cup was raised to her lips.

  He was also uneasy within himself. He had killed two men and it had seemed far too easy a thing. It was true that he had little choice and it had all happened very quickly, but it seemed to him that it should be harder to take a life. He knew that the act of killing had changed him in ways that he could not define. He resolved to speak to his father about it when he had the chance.

  In the morning they made a travois from the beams and canvas of the tent. He hated to cut into that cover as it was their only shelter, but they needed to get his father if not to safety then at least to some place better suited to his recovery.

  They made poor time that day. Each jolt and bounce of the travois brought a fresh grimace of pain to his father's face. By mid-afternoon he was feverish and Engvyr began to fear for him. They stopped and made camp among some tumbled boulders in a hollow off the trail. Covered with the remains of the tent canvas it was far more snug than their exposed position on the trail had been.

  Having stopped so early in the day they had time to gather a good deal of firewood and even fresh boughs for bedding. For the first time since the accident they had adequate shelter from the bitter cold of the mountain night and they slept the deep sleep of exhaustion. They were too tired to stand watch and simply trusted themselves to the Lord and Lady's care for the one night.

  The next day they moved stiffly about their morning chores. His father's fever had worsened and he would take no food. His Aunt made some meat-broth and got some of that into him but Engvyr could tell that she was worried.

  He spent the morning enlarging and improving their shelter. In the afternoon he found some fresh greens, mushrooms and berries to supplement their food stocks. He held himself ready should game offer itself up but none did.

  That night his father's illness deepened. His Aunt sought out herbs she knew of to fight the fever but found nothing that she knew would help. The plants at these altitudes were different than the ones that she had known in the lowlands.

  They were both aware he was failing and Engvyr was desperately afraid of losing him too. The best they could manage was to make sure that he had plenty of water and broth and to sooth him with damp cloths on his forehead. That, and pray to the Lady for her mercy.

  His father spoke to Engvyr during one of his lucid periods.

  “This might be it for me, son. No, don't shake your head- it's as may be. You've done well, better than could be expected even, and it's no fault of yours one way or t'other. But if'n I don't make it you need to get your aunt and cousin down off this mountain and home to the clan. I know that you can do it if anyone can.”

  He blinked back his tears and promised that he would.

  Later after his father had passed into a fitful, fever-haunted sleep he sat by his side drowsily. He knew that he should take the Big 14 and go on watch but felt himself drifting into sleep and jerked himself awake. He stood and reached for the gun but froze as the flap of their shelter was rudely thrust aside. He heard his aunt gasp as he locked eyes with the creature in the entry.

  It was a Goblin.

  Chapter Six

  “I'm not sure that I believe in coincidence. What seems a chance meeting may simply be the workings of a plan too great and complex for our knowing. Our lives may be but cogs in a vast machine churning away the hours of creation for some purpose that we are too small, too limited, to comprehend. Or maybe it's just blind, bloody luck.”

  From the diaries of

  Engvyr Gunnarson

  The goblin regarded them all without expression, his large pale pink eyes flitting from face to face, taking in the contents of their shelter. In his hands he held a crossbow at the ready but as yet it was not pointed at any one of them. Then his eyes alighted on Engvyr's father and he peered intently at him for a moment before his face split in a toothy grin.

  “Good Stew!” he said.

  Engvyr was shocked that the creature had spoken and it took a moment for the words to register. He nearly made a suicidal lunge for the gun but then his father chuckled.

  “Good Stew indeed!” He agreed, visibly perked up for the first time in days.

  Engvyr stared at his father who, to his surprise, was returning the goblin's grin weakly. Their visitor braced the crossbow's butt against his thigh and carefully released the string. He set the weapon down, reached back throu
gh the flap dragged his pack inside and settled by the fire.

  His cousin was hiding behind her mother and staring over her shoulder. His aunt was looking from the goblin to his father and back, plainly at a loss.

  “Gunnar... what...?”

  His father chuckled again and replied, “Offer our guest a cup of coffee if you please.”

  She stared at him as if he had lost his mind, then blinked, poured a cup of coffee and extended it to their visitor. He accepted it and continued to look around before once again settling his gaze on Gunnar.

  “Thes time ets you thet is hert,” he commented.

  His father agreed. The goblin turned his big, strange eyes on Engvyr and examined him minutely.

  “My son,” his father said.

  When he turned his gaze to Engvyr's aunt and cousin his father said, “My brother's wife and daughter.”

  The Goblin nodded. Still staring at his aunt the goblin asked, “Wound-fever er Cold-fever?”

  “Cold fever I think... maybe some of each,” she replied hesitantly.

  The Goblin bobbed his head and dug into his pack with long, strangely delicate fingers and handed her a waxed-paper packet.

  “Boil en water. Fer fever.”

  His father nodded and she did as she was bid while the goblin sat sipping his coffee. When the herbs were heating she looked meaningfully at Gunnar.

  His father looked at the Goblin and smiled.

  “It's been, what... a hundred and thirty years?”

  “One-hunnert en twentay-six yeers, foor months end eleeven days,” the Goblin corrected.

  Engvyr's father went on to explain that he had been hunting a rogue boar. One night someone had hailed him out of the darkness. He told whoever it was to come in and a wounded goblin had limped into his camp, torn up from a bad fall. He handed Gunnar a pair of coneys and eased himself down.