Dwarven Rifleman Series: Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

by Michael Pearce

  He nodded to Taarven that he'd seen enough. The two dwarves edged back from their vantage-point and quietly crept back to their hobbled ponies. They had two riding-ponies each and a pack-pony between them. They gathered them up while discussing the situation in low voices carefully pitched to not carry in the mountain air.

  “This is going to be all kinds of hairy,” Taarven said

  Engvyr snorted in agreement and said, “Reckon if we go down along Goren's Creek through the cut we can get ahead of them before the Eyrie. Give 'em a warm welcome home.”

  Taarven nodded. The Eyrie was a pass on the northwestern border of Dvargatil Baeg, and once past that the goblins were free and clear. “Reckon that's the best that we can do.”

  They didn't discuss the obvious fact that they'd need better than usual luck to come out of this with their skins intact. But even if they failed and died in the attempt they had a point to make to the goblins: you don't come into Dwarven lands to murder, pillage and kidnap people without paying the price. The two Rangers were determined to make sure that price was as high as possible.

  They cut over to the creek and began to work their way up the bed. It was early summer and the water was running less than a foot deep over bedrock with pockets of gravel and debris trapped in the bends, so the footing was good enough for their mountain-bred ponies. It did make for rough going and they had to portage the occasional rapids, but the creek cut across land the road went around so they were able to outpace their quarry.

  “If'n we're too far off when we open up on them,” Taarven said, “They'll scatter and we might lose the captives. If we're too close they'll overwhelm us right off.”

  Engvyr nodded. “We'll take out the crossbows first and then whoever else we can manage.” Too likely, he reflected grimly, what we'll see is us joining the men-folk in the packs, the choice bits at least, all neatly wrapped and ready to cook.

  They joined up with the road again a few hundred yards short of the Eyrie and well ahead of their quarry. After they picketed their ponies in a hollow away from the road Engvyr slid his Infantry Long-Rifle from its scabbard, a memento from his days in the elite 3rd Rifles. He inspected it quickly then broke open the action, which was hinged a few inches from the trigger-guard. The stock acted as a lever to cock the piston in the compression-chamber mounted under the barrel.

  The gun fired heavy 36-bore/325 slugs instead of balls and he slid one into the breech, closed the action and mounted the weapon's socket-bayonet. The twelve inch long blade looked a lot like a sharpened garden-trowel. In fact they were used for digging latrines and the like when making camp.

  The fastest reload is a second gun, so Engvyr charged his carbine as well. He brought both weapons with him and they crept back to the road to lay their ambush. Taarven had a two-handed long-ax strapped to his saddle. He slipped it from its sheath and brought it with him for when the fight got too close.

  Taarven set up on one side of the road and Engvyr on the other, as far back as they could be and still see clearly, maybe sixty to seventy-five paces from the road. It wasn't a high pass so there were scattered trees but they were sparse and ran to stumpy, wind-gnarled pines among the scattered boulders. They each picked out one of the low-growing trees and concealed themselves underneath. Engvyr would get two shots and Taarven might or might not get a second shot off with his carbine before the goblins closed the distance. Then they would be down to their hand-weapons, skill and luck.

  While they waited, Engvyr loosened the quilted linen great-cote that he wore over his light, blued steel breastplate. That and the hardened leather uppers of their boots were the only armor the rangers wore, though the great-cote itself offered some protection.

  The Goblins had no reason to suspect the Rangers presence but they were leery just the same, sending one of the crossbow carriers out on 'point' well ahead of them. Goblins don't travel by day when they have any choice and Engvyr wondered idly what was driving them so hard. It might be that someone was already on their back-trail. If that were so, whoever it was had lost the race to the border.

  The Rangers let the point-man pass between them. They tracked him with their eyes but never moved a muscle else-wise, trusting their neutral-colored uniforms to blend in with the foliage and rocks well enough to avoid notice as long as they remained still. They knew that nothing draws the eye like movement when a man is on his nerves.

  The main party of Goblins drew near, the crossbowmen forward and out on the flanks, each looking off to one side of the road. Engvyr drew a bead on the one farthest from him with the carbine, Taarven doing the same. If they missed their targets the goblins would have to turn to spot them, which might give them precious seconds. As if we would miss at this range, Engvyr thought.

  When the goblins and their captives crossed the marker the Rangers had agreed upon Engvyr stroked the trigger and the carbine leapt against his shoulder with a loud Whack! His first target went over backwards, shot through the heart. Taarven's man went down with a shout, losing his crossbow and scrambling for cover.

  Dropping the carbine Engvyr snatched up his rifle and turned just as the point-man came rushing back. The goblin was maybe twenty-five paces away and caught the movement. He was lifting his crossbow for a shot when Engvyr put a slug through his throat.

  He heard a second shot from Taarven's carbine and saw one of the three goblins charging his partner drop like a pole-axed steer. The three charging Engvyr were almost upon him. He saw the rest herd their prisoners up the road towards the Eyrie and then he was too busy to pay attention to anything but saving his own hide.

  If the goblins had come at him in a group he'd have been a dead man. But the shock of the sudden attack had panicked them and their only impulse was to close the range before he could fire again so they came in one after the other.

  The first one to reach him took the bayonet in his guts as the Ranger exploded from cover. The impaled goblin grabbed at the rifle-barrel but Engvyr shoved him aside, clearing the weapon. He swept aside the next attacker's blade with the rifle barrel. Reversing the weapon Engvyr butt-stroked him in the face and felt bone crunch under the impact of the iron-shod hardwood.

  The last goblin had a short spear and they dueled briefly, spear against bayonetted rifle, before Engvyr hooked the spear with the rifle-butt and slashed the goblin through the eyes. He finished him off with a thrust to the throat and then did the same for the one that he'd struck with the rifle butt.

  He quickly looked around to check on the first goblin Taarven had shot, the one that had tried to take cover. That one's crossbow still lay in the road where he'd dropped it and the goblin was some distance away, lying in a pool of blood and not moving. He reloaded and shot him through the chest just to be sure.

  Across the road his partner was leaning on the haft of the long-ax and clenched his bloodied thigh with the other hand.

  “Go!” he shouted, “I'll be alright.”

  Engvyr reloaded again and ran after the remaining goblins, holding the rifle at the balance with the carbine grasped pistol-fashion in his right hand.

  If the Goblins had left their captives they would have gotten away clean. As it was the prisoners slowed them down, the women dragging their feet and struggling. They looked back and saw him coming and one of them took up his axe, screaming a battle-cry as he rushed the dwarf. The other two abandoned their captives and bolted for the trees.

  Raising the carbine one-handed, he put a ball through the face of the charging goblin and dodged to the side as his attacker's momentum carried him stumbling, already dead, through the spot Engvyr had just been standing on. Dropping the carbine Engvyr shouldered the long-rifle and shot one of the running goblins. The slug took the goblin through the lower spine and passed completely through him in a spray of blood visible even at this distance. The other goblin disappeared into the trees.

  He scanned the area as he thumbed another heavy slug from his ammunition-pouch into the breech. The dwarf was breathing hard and shaking with reac
tion from the fight but after two decades in the 3rd Rifles his hands performed the task with machine-like precision.

  He went back and recovered his carbine, charged it and slung it over his back before turning to the erstwhile captives. They were huddled in a group, the women holding the children gathered between them. They stared at the dwarf wide-eyed as if he were some new nightmare rather than their liberator. Engvyr shook his head at them and gestured down the road and addressed them in Common-speech.

  “We're not here to hurt you,” he said, “And Lord and Lady willing we'll have you safely away before nightfall. For now you had better head down there a piece to where my partner is. He took some hurt on your behalf and like as not could use some tending.”

  Still wide-eyed the women began to move, herding the children before them. One of them met his eyes and managed a nod of thanks as they scuttled past.

  We've a powerful need to get them well away from here before sundown, Engvyr thought as he approached the Goblin he'd shot in the back. Goblins run by night and they were too near the border for comfort, given that at least one of them had gotten away clean. Lord and Lady knew whether he might come back and bring some friends with him.

  He approached carefully, keeping his crippled foe covered. The goblin squinted up at him, clutching his lower belly and panting. The Ranger looked down at him and shook his head.

  “You're gut-shot, friend. Ugly way to die I guess, but no more than you deserve,” he said.

  “Mercy!” the goblin croaked at him in common speech.

  Engvyr thought a moment before relaxing and pointing the rifle away.

  “Nope. Sorry, but I got none to spare for you at the moment. Lucky that you still have your belt-knife. If you cut your forearm long-ways between the tendons you'll bleed out fast enough.” With that the dwarf turned and walked away. He could still hear the wounded Goblin screaming curses after him as he made his way back to his partner. Taarven was having his thigh bound by one of the women.

  “That feller sure has a lot of energy for a dead man,” Taarven commented as he approached.

  “He'd do a sight better using that energy to end himself before the scavengers arrive or wound-fever takes him,” Engvyr replied. The children were huddled with the other woman and looked to him to be in shock. Looking back to his partner he asked, “We're going to need to move out smartly. Are you going to be able to ride?”

  “I'll sure as hell ride out of here!” Taarven assured him, “But this lot don't look fit for travel.”

  Engvyr looked their new charges over again. They were plainly exhausted. “We're not clear of this yet. If we dump the packs we can mount the kids two-by-two on the spare ponies and the pack animal. The women-folk can take turns riding on my pony.”

  “You could also stop talking about us like we aren't here!” snapped the woman binding Taarven's leg in the Dwarven tongue. Engvyr and Taarven stared at her in surprise. The woman finished tying off the bandage and sat back on her heels as she regarded them sourly.

  “My family has been neighbors with your folk for twelve years. Just because you can't be bothered learning the speech of other folk doesn't mean we can't learn yours!”

  The rangers blinked at each other, then Engvyr gave her a smile and said, “My apologies, ma'am. That will make things easier. Do you think your folk can stand another trek? We really do need to put some distance between us and that pass before dark.”

  She frowned as she looked at the other woman and the children thoughtfully.

  “I think they can stand it if we can get some food and water into them first. It will be awful but rather that than winding up in some Goblin's larder.”

  Engvyr really looked at the woman for the first time, noting that under the grime and dried blood she was actually quite pretty, even if she was dreadfully thin by dwarven standards. She was a foot taller than he was, obviously fit but not displaying the stout musculature of a dwarf.

  Another matter occurred to him, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out a delicate way to broach the subject. Steeling himself he forged ahead.

  “Uh Ma'am... speaking of which we might want to be doing something about the Goblin's packs?”

  The woman looked at him blankly for a moment then blanched as she took his meaning. Her face started to crumple but then she took hold of herself and hardened her features. Drawing a deep, steadying breath she said, “I'm not sure what we can do for... them, but... yes. I know we're pressed for time, but anything we can manage would be welcome.”

  Engvyr looked at Taarven, who shrugged. Turning back to the woman he said. “Alright then- we'll see what we can do. First thing is to get the ponies.”

  Taarven got to his feet, gingerly testing to see how well it held his weight and grimaced. “Looks like that'll be your job, I can hobble a bit but hiking is out.”

  Engvyr glanced up, noting the position of the sun.

  “It's mid-morning now. If'n we don't lolly-gag we can be inside of walls by nightfall. You all should see about getting a fire going while I fetch the ponies. You Afmaeltinn aren't dressed for the weather. It would be a pure shame to rescue you from the Goblins only to have you take a chill and die on us.”

  Turning back to the woman he said, “I'm Engvyr, Eng to my friends. This yobbo is Taarven Redbeard.”

  The woman nodded to them. “And I am Deandra Agustdottir,” she said, then gave him a faint grin as she continued, “Under the circumstances I'd have to allow as I'm pleased to meet you both.”

  Engvyr found himself liking the woman. She had some iron in her and a good head on her shoulders. He grinned back at her.

  “Very well, Deandra Agustdottir. You and Taarven take care of things on this end. I'll fetch the ponies and we'll get some food into your lot. Seeing as we need to dump our supplies there's no point in not having our fill of them first,” he said, then turned to Taarven, “Keep a weather-eye out, partner. One a' them is still running free and might be inclined to mischief.”

  Taarven acknowledged this and checked the load in his carbine. “Got it covered, Eng.” He cast a long look at the lands around them, his brow creased in worry. “Don't you doddle about though- I've a notion we're not clear of this yet.”

  Engvyr grunted in response, took up his carbine and went to fetch the ponies.

  Chapter Twelve

  “A man is shaped by the events of his life. But a man can be more than the sum of his parts and it's not what his life has made of him, but what he makes of his life that matters.”

  From the diaries of

  Engvyr Gunnarson

  Engvyr kept an eye on the countryside around him as he tightened the girths on the ponies then formed them into a train. He was wary of the goblin that had escaped but there were other hazards in the wilds as well. Though he was a young man as his folk reckoned such things, his life had prepared him well for such circumstances.

  After the murder of his father and aunt it was little Berget that had saved him. Engvyr had been shot and left for dead when one of their assailants had returned, the one that had taken his father's gun. He had come back looking for ammunition. Taking him by surprise Engvyr had beaten him to death with a piece of firewood before collapsing.

  Berget had hidden when the attack occurred. She came back, started a fire and tended Engvyr's wound. Somehow she kept them alive for several days until a tinker and his family came along. They'd cut out the ball, treated his fever and buried the dead. Then they took Engvyr and Berget in their wagon to the nearest settlement and called in the rangers. Unfortunately a heavy rain had fallen by then and erased all sign of the thieves.

  By the time Engvyr was recovered enough to be up and around their Clan had sent some of their folk to collect them. He gave Berget over to their care but did not return to the clanhame with them, opting instead to make his own way.

  The thieves had taken The Hammer but he still had the Big 14. That first winter he had run a trap-line, hunted and traded in furs. After that he drifted for a few
years, doing odd-jobs at the settlements, placer mining, trapping and hunting. He even did a bit of hard-rock mining, but didn't care for it any more than he ever had. Always he kept an eye out for the dwarves that had murdered his family.

  He wrote to Berget from time to time, reassuring himself that she was settled in and doing well. She'd prospered in the Clan's care, gradually coming to terms with the tragedy that she had experienced. He always made a point to stop in and see her when he was at the clanhame for holidays and on other visits. A few years ago he'd attended her wedding to a nice fellow that worked the mines. They'd written less since she wed, but last he'd heard they were expecting their first child.

  Years later he had run into Rolph and Roel and they caught up over coffee in the inn of a small market town. Finally Rolph put down his coffee cup and looked him in the eye.

  “You're not fooling me boy- you're huntin' them dwarves and I can't say as I blame you. I heard that you caught up with one a' them already. But living for revenge is no kind of life, sure an' certain it's not the life your folks would have wanted for you. At the end of it you'll find yourself cold and empty and the dead will still be dead.”

  “It's not just revenge, Rolph. I just can't stand the thought of those dwarves running loose in the world after what they've done, free to hurt more good folk.”

  “Leave that for the Rangers, Eng. You need to make a life for yourself, a real life.”

  He'd thought about that for some time. Finally he had decided that Rolph was right and signed up for a hitch in his father's old regiment. He was a good trooper but the life of a soldier didn't suit him. Seeing this, and in light of his experience as a hunter, his superiors in the regiment transferred him to a unit of skirmishers.

  He'd distinguished himself with them when the fools governing the trade-city of Kaeralenn had enslaved some dwarves to labor in their mines. He'd been part of the raid to free them, covering their retreat with his long-rifle, allowing the slaves to escape. In appreciation for his accomplishments he was allowed to take his weapon with him when he mustered out of the regular army to join the Mountain Guard.