Dwarven Rifleman Series: Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

by Michael Pearce

  The traveling, the camaraderie, and yes, even the occasional fighting suited him and for the last twelve years he had been content enough. He liked that he was being of use to his folk, helping people as he and his family had been helped. Not surprisingly it was also deeply satisfying for him to catch wrong-doers and bring them to justice.

  He snorted quietly to himself as he led the struggling ponies up the last slope to the road. He still hadn't made much of a life for himself. His 'social life' was pretty constrained, consisting of his partner and a few of the other Rangers that he saw at best once a month.

  True, he'd kept company with a widow for a couple of years when he wasn't on his rounds, but eventually she'd found a dwarf of a more settled nature and took him as her husband. Last he'd heard they had settled onto a farm to start a family. He honestly wished them well, but he still missed her from time to time.

  When he got back to the others they took the packs off of the pack-pony and tucked them away in the brush where hopefully they could be recovered later. While Taarven and Deandra put together a meal Engvyr gathered up the goblin's back-packs with their grisly cargo. He took them away from the road and covered them with a make-shift cairn. It wasn't much but it was the best that he could do. He hoped that they could be recovered later so that they could be given a proper burial.

  By the time that he was finished the children still looked pretty rough but had perked up some after a good hot meal. He'd chafed over the time they were taking but it was plain that everyone needed the food and rest before they could hope to travel. While they ate Deandra and the other woman, Saewynn Bengyrsdottir, filled them in on the events that had brought them to this moment.

  Deandra was Saewynn's sister-in-law and their families had shared a hame, dwarven fashion. She and her two children had stayed on after her husband was taken by Winter-fever the year before. Their place was near Ynghilda Makepeace's steading, the northernmost stop on Taarven and Engvyr's patrol route.

  The families had been sitting down to dinner the previous night when their geese started kicking up a fuss. Arming themselves, the men had gone to have a look to see what was stirring them up and ran straight into the Goblin raiding party. They'd never had a chance.

  The women had barred the door but the Goblins set fire to the thatched roof. Faced with the choice of capture or burning to death with their children they'd decided that some chance was better than none and surrendered. They drew the curtains of charity over the butchering of their men-folk and an infant son of Saewynn's too young to travel.

  They had little detail to give of their forced-march through the night and morning. It was plain that they'd had a rough time but they were bearing up well. It took a certain toughness of mind to settle land on the edge of civilization among a folk not your own. Engvyr reckoned that they'd likely go to pieces as soon as they were safe but for now they were set on doing what needed to be done.

  The small group started out as soon as they'd eaten, keeping to the road as the former captives were in no shape to move cross-country. They'd not been on the road long before they ran into the reason that the goblins had been pressing on by day. Ynghilda Makepeace herself was at the head of a mounted party nearly fifty strong. The riders quickly took charge of the former captives, their own neighbors after all, and saw to their needs.

  Engvyr approached Ynghilda, carbine cradled in the crook of his arm. The woman sat her beautiful roan pony like an aging war-goddess. She was dressed in fine mail, a sword belted at one hip and a hand ax at the other. She had a handsome 12-bore rifle laid casually across her saddle-bow. That was a lot of gun, but then Ynghilda had never been one for subtlety. He grinned up at her.

  “Not like you to come late to a party, Ma'am.”

  “I do hate to miss the dancing,” she agreed solemnly, her eyes scanning the country around them. “Your partner took some hurt to that leg. I'd be obliged if'n you'd be my guests while he's laid up. I can send a rider to the Station with your report.”

  Taarven nodded his acceptance. “Mighty kind of you. We left our pack-saddles up the road a piece, and there's a cairn with some remains that ought to be fetched before the goblins get to them.”

  Ynghilda sent the bulk of the party on to fetch the Ranger's packs and the contents of the cairn while she led the rest of them back to her holding. Taarven would have ridden all day and night at need but wasn't going to if he could avoid it. He gladly suffered himself to be placed in a cart for the remainder of the trip.

  Engvyr rode with the recovery party. While the others were dealing with the pack-saddles and the remains he looked over the bodies of the goblins. When he'd slashed the goblin across the eyes he'd seen something that had been niggling at him ever since.

  When he examined the body he saw that the goblin's hair was braided with beads, feathers and small bones. Red and black tattoos covered his face. Engvyr had seen a fair number of Goblins over the years but he'd only seen this style once before; on the strange, fey old goblin-woman that they had found dying at the edge of the Daenteg Idengeord all those years before.

  He checked the other corpses as well and they were all the same. He pondered that as they cantered back down the road to catch up with the rescue party. When they caught up to the main body of riders Engvyr rode at Ynghilda's side and filled her in on the pursuit and the fight.

  “We came on them sudden-like just when they thought they were safe,” he concluded, “If they'd had any time to organize their response they'd have eaten us alive... so to speak. We were damn lucky.”

  “That you were,” she agreed, “but it's been my experience that a dwarf makes his own luck.”

  With all of them mounted they made good time and passed through the gates of the Makepeace Steading well before dark. By nightfall they were settled into the Great Hall within the palisade. The Afmaeltinn women and their children were given a quiet corner to bed down in. They had washed, eaten and now slept the deep sleep of exhaustion.

  Before they had retired Engvyr had sought them out and assured himself that they were as well as might be expected. Seeing him approach Deandra detached herself and came to meet him. She was wearing a linen under-dress with a woven fabric belt. On a dwarven woman the garment would have fallen to mid-calf but it did not quite reach her knees. She was tall and seemed terribly thin, but even in a state of exhaustion she moved with grace that he found charming.

  Her long auburn hair, wet from bathing, was in a single thick braid. Her face was delicate and pretty, but there was strength in it too. Green eyes looked into his, not challengingly but the direct look of an equal. The overall effect, not harmed a bit by the elegant length of exposed leg, was such as to turn his thoughts in an unexpected direction.

  She extended a hand and he took it in his own. It was not a soft or delicate hand, but one strong from years of work.

  “I wanted to thank you for saving us,” she said simply.

  “It's no more than our job, ma'am, but you are most welcome. We couldn't hardly let them steal folk off our land without taking exception.”

  “Still, we are grateful to you both. Please extend my thanks to your partner as well.”

  He realized abruptly he was still holding her hand between his and released it, feeling his cheeks grow warm.

  “I know it's soon to say,” He continued quickly to cover his embarrassment, “But do you know what you folk will do now? Will you be returning to Afmaeltinn lands?”

  A strange look passed over her face for an instant before she replied.

  “I don't know for certain. I imagine Saewynn and her children will return to her family. For myself I need to think about it when I am not falling-over exhausted,” she said, then grinned, “For tonight it's enough to make it through our meal without falling asleep in my stew.”

  “Well, should you decide to stay,” he heard himself saying, and could scarce believe it even as the words left his lips, “I'd admire to have the privilege of calling on you.”

  She blinked
, processing that for a moment and then smiled.

  “I think that I would like that. We shall have to see what the morrow brings,” she said, glancing back at the table, “But for now I must beg your leave... it seems the very disaster I spoke of has occurred.”

  Following her gaze he saw that her daughter had indeed fallen asleep at the table; face down in her stew-bowl, which fortunately was mostly empty by that point. They shared a grin and she rolled her eyes and went to the girl's rescue.

  He returned to his own place, lost in thought. It was quite unusual for dwarves to take up with Afmaeltinn, but not unheard of. It was rare in no small part because human lives were so much shorter than a dwarf's. Still, it happened from time to time, but he had never suspected it might happen to him.

  He considered the matter while he ate. Well, why not? He thought. The fact that she could find humor in life even after all that she had been through simply confirmed his impression of her strength of mind and character that he had formed in their brief acquaintance. She was certainly comely enough in her own way.

  Humph, he thought, let it be a thing for future days. He'd asked to call on her, after all, not to marry! Best just to see what the future brought and worry about such things then.

  --**--

  Later that evening Ynghilda sat with them by the fire puffing on a long-stemmed meerschaum pipe. Taarven sat in an overstuffed chair with his injured leg propped on a stool and smoked his old clay pipe while Engvyr contented himself with a mug of hot cider.

  “It's a puzzle alright. This last year goblin raids have been stepping up all along the north. Last night's raid was the closest,” she said with a troubled expression, “And they're getting bolder all the time. This keeps up, they'll be attacking the Steadings and Clanhames next.”

  Engvyr exchanged worried glances with Taarven. He'd told him earlier about the markings that he'd observed on the dead goblins. Now this. Something was in the wind and they didn't like it one bit.

  “I think,” Engvyr said slowly, “I might just take me a ride up towards the Eyrie while you're laid-up. See what's what.”

  Ynghilda looked at them sharply.

  “You boys know something that I don't?”

  “I can't say as we do,” Engvyr responded, “But I mean to find out. These goblins don't seem to be your normal renegades. I'll get that report written out tonight- you just see that it gets to the Station a quick as you can.”

  He looked back at his partner.

  “And you get healed up quick. I reckon this could shape up to be a right interesting summer.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We've had our wars, we dwarves. Mostly small affairs; a tussle with one of the trade-cities now and again, some fairly sizable raids by renegade goblins. But 'War to the Knife' is not a thing that we've had to face, not since the revolt against The Maker. We've always known that it could happen and spent centuries readying ourselves for such an event, never really believing we'd need those preparations. Lord and Lady forbid that I should live to see such a thing in my own lifetime.”

  From the diaries of

  Engvyr Gunnarson

  By mid-morning the next day Engvyr was back at the Eyrie. He rode with a wary eye on the countryside, his carbine across the saddle-bow at the ready.

  The first thing he noted was that the corpses were missing and the tracks of goblin boots were everywhere. He started at the ambush site and rode slowly outward in a spiral studying the signs, then headed up toward the pass. As he looked up from under the brim of his hat he caught a flash of light from high up the slope above the tree line. It might be sunlight off a bit of quartz or mica, or it might not.

  The story that the tracks told was disturbing. Sometime the previous night, a large force of goblins at least as large as the mounted party from the Makepeace Steading had come down from the Eyrie and collected the dead goblins. They had searched the area then returned over the pass.

  He dismounted to inspect the boot prints more closely. Then he moved off and examined the prints in another place, then another. Two troubling things made themselves apparent.

  The first was that he saw the flash up on the hillside again. The angle was different so it could not be a simple reflection. Someone up there was watching him with a spyglass.

  The second had to do with the tracks. In the North Country folk made their own footwear, and its style and the details of its construction could vary significantly. Because of this, it was often possible to tell where a person was from or who their family was from their tracks. The same was true for goblins. But these tracks were too uniform; every pair of boots was exactly the same style and pattern. There was only one place he had seen tracks all alike before, during his time in the 3rd Rifles. He was looking at the tracks of an army. He'd planned on riding over the pass and poking around a little more but this was not news that would wait. Turning his horse he headed back to the steading.

  If it were me leading these goblins, he thought, I'd have an ambush set for me along the road back. There was a joke among the Rangers that went, 'Sure, I'm paranoid... but am I paranoid enough?'

  He cut off the road and retraced their steps from the previous day, going down Goren's Creek for some distance before taking to the hills. He picked his way through the forest below the ridge-line then cut back down to a ravine that paralleled the road, keeping a sharp eye out the whole way. He circled the edge of the valley and approached the steading from the south as the sun was going down.

  Rather than caring for his own pony he left it with Ynghilda's groom and went into the Great Hall. Ynghilda and Taarven were talking by the fire and they looked up as he entered.

  “Supper's past but there's bread, cheese and some sausage,” Ynghilda told him, gesturing to one of her people who vanished into the kitchen. Then she looked at him sharply, “Engvyr?”

  He told them about what he had found and concluded, “You're going to want to put your people on alert, Ma'am.”

  Taarven shook his head, “Hell of a time for me to be laid-up.”

  Ynghilda looked thoughtful and said, “I can put people on their guard and set up some patrols, but we can't afford to pull folks into the palisade, not with the crops in and folks starting to move their livestock up into the hills to graze.”

  Someone put a plate in front of him and he looked up to thank them. It was Deandra, and she looked worried. He must have looked surprised because she gave him a crooked smile.

  “Figured since we're here I might as well lend a hand,” she said.

  He returned her smile with a half-smile of his own and a nod of thanks. Deandra poured him some coffee as he tucked into the food.

  Ynghilda moved around the hall speaking to several of her folk, and each one she spoke to departed in a hurry. He was almost done when she returned.

  “Well, word's going out,” She told him, then asked, “What's next?”

  Taarven snorted and said, “Knowing Eng as I do, I'd say the next thing is he finishes eating, grabs our remounts and rides like hell for the Station.”

  “Sounds about right,” Engvyr said as he finished the last bite and scrubbed his hands with a rough cloth napkin. Ynghilda laid a hand on his shoulder as he started to rise.

  “You should rest, Eng. I can send a rider in the morning with your report.”

  He patted her hand and got up anyway.

  “I appreciate that, Ma'am, and meaning no offense to your riders but this news can't wait. With a fresh pony and two remounts I'll get there far faster than they could manage.”

  “I can send someone with you...?”

  He shook his head, already heading for the door to the stables.

  “Thank you ma'am, but they'd just slow me down.”

  She watched him go and shook her head.

  “Stubborn, that one.”

  Taarven shook his head and said, “No ma'am, he isn't. He just knows what needs to be done and is damn sure going see to it.”

  Ynghilda's was not the only set o
f worried eyes that followed him out of the room.

  --**--

  Engvyr entered the stable and walked straight to his remount. The groom hurried over as he saddled the pony.

  “Sir? Is there something I can do?”

  Engvyr pulled the cinch tight and looked at the groom. “You want to put a saddle on my partner's mount and spare?” he asked, pointing to Taarven's ponies. The groom nodded and hurried away to do as he was bid.

  Finished with his own pony's tack he turned to grab his partner's saddle to help. Ten minutes later he was leading the three saddled ponies out into the yard of the palisade. Deandra met him outside the stable and handed him a bundle.

  “Some biscuits, cheese, bacon and a water-skin,” she told him.

  “Much obliged,” he said as he turned to stow the bundle in his saddle-bag.

  “You ride safe,” She told him, her brow creased in a worried frown as he swung into the saddle. He touched the brim of his hat in reply and rode out.

  --**--

  Engvyr kicked his pony into a trot as he headed for the Ghost Creek Station of the Mountain Guard. By the most direct route it was normally a two-day ride, but he was planning to do it a mite faster. He looked and listened as he rode but more importantly he watched the pony. If something was amiss the animal was apt to notice it before he did.

  He didn't consider it likely that there was trouble on the trail ahead, and if any was coming along behind, his best defense was to outdistance it. That didn't mean that he planned to let his guard down, though.

  He alternated walking, trotting and cantering all night long, stopping just long enough to change ponies. He ate and drank as he traveled, stopping occasionally to cut a certain mark into the trunk of a tree, just at eye level, with a few quick strokes of his Wood-Knife, a broad, single-edged shortsword that most rangers carried strapped to their saddle as both a tool and weapon.