Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman Read online

  At the end of her first week Ynghilda had called her into her office. She had thought she was to be assigned some new task but was surprised when instead she was invited to sit and offered coffee. Ynghilda had told her that she was doing very well and then went over the terms of her employment. They discussed her rights, obligations and how much she was to be paid. Ynghilda had written all of this down as Deandra agreed to it. She had thought that she was working for her family's keep but apparently not. At the end, Ynghilda signed the document that she had drawn up and Deandra countersigned it. When that was accomplished she was handed a small bag of coins, hardly a princely sum after a modest fee for her keep had been deducted but more than she had expected.

  In a human household of this size they would have had servants to perform menial tasks, each with their own assigned duties. These people were nearly invisible in such a place, beneath the notice of their betters. These servants worked in exchange for a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. If they received any coin it was as a gift on the holidays. But in this household none of the dwarves treated those that served them as anything less than an equal.

  She might almost have been happy but for the dread of the impending separation from her children. She knew that it was the best thing for them, but her heart fell at she thought of it.

  Engvyr had been riding out regularly since his return and once Taarven was able to join him they were sometimes gone for days at a time. There were more raids as well, but the Rangers and Militia were seldom in the right place at the right time to intervene.

  Finally the delegation from her husband's family arrived and it was as awful as she'd feared it would be. They treated her with a cold wariness that bordered on hostility, but they did not extend that attitude to her children. She thanked the Lord and Lady for that much at least.

  When they departed they took no leave of Deandra, and even Saewynn's good-byes were subdued under their disapproving eyes. She went through the rest of the day in a daze, as she felt a great, aching gulf within her. The dwarves were quietly sympathetic but asked no questions and offered no comment for which she was grateful.

  Engvyr and Taarven returned from patrol that night. After dinner Engvyr pulled her aside and held her for hours while she sobbed broken-heartedly. He offered no empty reassurances or platitudes, simply listened and held her until at last she fell into the deep sleep of emotional exhaustion.

  When she woke in the morning still in his arms on the bench, she found that someone had tucked a blanket around them and propped a pillow behind Engvyr's back. No one spoke of this later and she was again grateful for the dwarves' sympathy and discretion.

  She took some solace in her work but inside she felt wounded and incomplete. She resisted the urge to drown her sorrow in drink, or the greater temptation to take Engvyr to her bed and drown herself in him. Whatever was building between them, she would not cheapen it by using it as a drug to try to fill the emptiness inside her. In the days and weeks that followed she found her balance and life returned to a semblance of normality.

  The Midsummer festival arrived on the longest day of the year. The great hall was decorated with garlands of wildflowers, bright ribbons and banners. Deandra was kept busy with preparations for the feast. Chickens, ducks and geese had to be plucked and stuffed for roasting. Great piles of turnips and potatoes must be peeled, pies baked and sauces simmered. A great roasting-pit was prepared for the centerpiece of the feast.

  This was normally an ox but this year on their rounds Taarven and Engvyr had encountered what was surely the grandfather of all boars. They had been returning on the day before the feast when the great beast had walked onto the trail ahead of them, almost as if presenting itself. Engvyr had felled it with a single shot from his long-rifle. They had to send a wagon to fetch the carcass and it took a half-dozen dwarves to get it loaded.

  Those inclined to put credence in such things took this as a good omen. The huge boar was mounted on the spit on Midsummer's Eve and slowly roasted throughout the night. Deandra and Engvyr watched as everyone in the Steading and the visitors that had come in from the outlying farmhames stopped by to raise a toast to the great beast and praise it for its sacrifice.

  Of course they must also praise the ranger that had downed the creature. Engvyr could have gotten drunk many times over from the mugs and flasks that were thrust into his hands had he been so inclined. Deandra actually began to be concerned before she realized that he was only feigning to drink, and he tipped her a wink and a grin when he saw that she had caught him at it. They spent most of the evening by the fire pit, she with her arm draped around his shoulders and his around her waist, and if any thought it odd to see them together they kept it to themselves.

  The dwarves greeted the dawn with Ynghilda leading a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord and Lady. The morning meal was the usual fare supplemented with great ropes of summer sausage and strips of crispy bacon. A second and third row of tables now stretched the length of the great hall and they were crowded throughout the meal.

  After breakfast the games began. Competitions at archery using crossbows and bows were held, foot-races and pony-races, spear, axe and knife throwing. Deandra divided her time between watching these and helping to keep the tables of snack-foods well stocked.

  Dwarves are not as a rule given to drunkenness but what are the holidays for if not to break the rules of everyday life? Any that dove too deeply into their cups were taken aside to lie down, and woke with throbbing heads to the merciless teasing of friends and family. A few drunken scuffles occurred but these were quickly quelled, often by the by-standers flinging their drinks on the combatants en masse.

  As feast-time approached benches and tables were set up in the yard of the palisade to catch the overflow from the great hall or for those that simply wanted to dine out of doors. Engvyr and Deandra were among the latter, and she found that she was full long before she could even sample all of the dishes available.

  As sundown approached the tables were cleared away both inside and out. As dwarves broke out musical instruments the dancing began. Engvyr swept her onto the floor, ignoring her protests that she did not know how. Fortunately the steps were near enough to the country dances that she was familiar with that she caught on quickly under Engvyr's tutelage.

  She had not laughed so much in many months and went to bed happy in the wee hours of the morning. She had been seriously tempted to drag the dwarf off to some secluded spot, but sensed it was not yet the time for that. She settled for planting a kiss squarely on his lips, eliciting a cheer from the onlookers before she retired.

  Morning arrived late and gradually. The remains of the feast were laid out on the tables in the great hall presided over by Ynghilda's elderly head-cook, Gerdrune, known to one and all as 'Aunt Gerdy.' Many came in before taking to the road to return to their farmhames and Aunt Gerdy was quick to press bundles and packets of leftovers upon them.

  “It'll only go to waste else-wise,” was her response to any that protested this generosity.

  Deandra joined in clearing up after the feast, breaking down and storing the extra tables and cutting up leftovers into a huge stew that would doubtless provide them with meals for many days to come.

  That afternoon there was a great commotion and everyone rushed outside to see ranks of armored dwarves marching past the Steading. They wore blue-grey breastplates over quilted linen jackets, steel kettle-helmets, bulky rucksacks on their backs and short swords at their hips. There were units of pike men followed by dwarves armed with some sort of shoulder-gun.

  The Army had arrived.

  The sound of their marching feet did not seem loud until it stopped as the formation came to a halt. Their officers rode up on their ponies to the open gate of the palisade where Ynghilda waited with Engvyr and Taarven. The leading officer touched the brim of his kettle-helm in greeting.

  “I'm Major Eggil Thorvaldson, commander of the 2nd Battalion of the 4th Heavy Infantry Regiment at your serv
ice, ma'am. You would be Ynghilda Makepeace?”

  “The very same. And these rangers are Taarven Redbeard and Engvyr Gunnarson.”

  He nodded to each in turn and Ynghilda asked, “Would you and your officers care to dismount and join us inside for some refreshment?”

  “I'd like nothing better, Ma'am, but I am afraid that we must see to the disposition of our units. Perhaps we could join you for dinner instead?”

  “That would be an honor, Major. If I might suggest, sir, there are several fallow fields beginning a quarter-mile north. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to set your camps there as it would cause less disruption to the crops.”

  “Thank you ma'am. We'll be pleased to accommodate you if we can. Until this evening, then.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his helmet and they cantered off to issue directions to their sergeants.

  Dinner that evening was stew and black bread supplemented with wedges of cheese and a keg of wine imported from the south. Ynghilda and the two rangers were engaged in serious conversation about the defense of the valley with the army officers. Even at a distance as Deandra worked she could tell that Ynghilda was not pleased by what she was hearing.

  Though it was hard to be parted from Brael and Gerta she was more convinced than ever that she had been right to send them away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “We dwarves do not know the nature of our creator. Whether The Maker was a man with the powers of a god, a god in truth or some other thing no living person can say. For all the long centuries of his dominion over our people we can say only one thing for sure: He was not bullet-proof.”

  From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  “Well, this is fun,” said Taarven as two crossbow bolts stuck in the log he was lying behind and a third ricocheted off.

  Engvyr was lying flat on his back next to him looking up through the forest canopy with his long-rifle across his chest.

  “I've had fun before,” he said mildly, “And I don't recall it feeling just exactly like this.”

  Spotting movement from the corner of his eye he looked to his left and saw a goblin moving down the hill to flank them. He estimated the range and adjusted the big rifle's vernier sight. He took a deep breath, letting it half out as he rolled onto his side. He quickly drew a bead and stroked the trigger. Whack! A split second later he heard a dull metallic 'ponk' as the heavy slug hammered through the target's breastplate. The goblin threw up his hands with a cry and fell out of sight.

  Engvyr rolled flat again as another crossbow bolt slammed into a tree next to the toe of his boot. He looked at it sourly.

  “I'll allow as I have had better times my own self,” Taarven admitted, “But at least the company is good.”

  “That's three, by the way,” Engvyr told him.

  “Oh are we keeping score now?” Taarven rose up and snapped off a quick shot with his carbine. As he fired a bolt skipped off his breastplate and tore the sleeve of his shirt. He rolled aside and flattened behind the log again. Glancing at the tear he said, “Damn, I liked this shirt.”

  Engvyr had reloaded the rifle- a singularly awkward process while lying on his back. He took another deep breath and rolled to one knee and fired. Taarven heard a scream from up the hill and swore as Engvyr dropped flat on his belly.

  “Don't you ever miss with that damned thing?”

  Engvyr looked at him and grinned. “That's four.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  – **-

  Engvyr and Taarven had spotted smoke from the farmhame and ridden up to investigate. They'd gone in on the wooded side, hoping to approach unobserved. Leaving their ponies at the tree line they had continued on foot only to be ambushed among the trees. The rangers had killed six of their attackers in the hours that followed. The remaining ambushers had withdrawn, following the main party of raiders.

  They had investigated the grounds and come together at the ruined hame. It had burned poorly, being built of stone, but the contents had been gutted and the roof had collapsed.

  “They're getting better at this,” Engvyr said sourly, “Lord and Lady but I hate a smart enemy!”

  “From the signs there were about thirty goblins. They took sixteen people, the livestock, killed two and left the bodies alone, burned the place and then set an ambush to delay us. Which worked, by the way. At this point there's no way we can catch up with them before full dark.”

  Engvyr studied the land carefully.

  “We're agreed that there's no real chance of a rescue?”

  Taarven nodded bitterly.

  “It's a gamble but we could maybe make this raid a bit more expensive for them and get some payback into the bargain. I'm guessing they had no thought that we'd kill so many of their skirmishers,” Engvyr said, “They lose a few more and they're going to have to re-think the way they do business. I've a notion from the way that those ridges lie I might be able to cut across on foot and get above them. If I can get into range I'll give them cause to regret it.”

  “I don't like it,” Taarven said definitely, “This leg of mine still isn't up to that kind of country. You'll get caught by dark up there with a whole passel of pissed-off goblins. That's not a recipe for survival, Eng.”

  “Likely I'll manage alright. They've already shown they'd rather get those prisoners than kill a couple rangers. They won't be wanting to leave them to come after me in numbers.”

  “Eng, they probably expected these fellas to kill us! 'Sides, Deandra will skin me alive if'n I come back without you.”

  “Oh come on, she'd just bruise you some. I can do this, Taarven. Bring the ponies up and wait for me here but keep an eye out, there might still be one or two of these fellas creepin' around. I'll try to be back before midnight.”

  Trails are never the shortest distance between two points. They are made for easy travel and as a consequence follow the path of least resistance so they tend to wind around a lot. Sometimes a lone man on foot can cut across in a straighter line and cover a lot less distance than the people following the trail. It was a gamble- he might find himself cut off by a cliff or box-canyon but Engvyr had spent more than a few years in these mountains and had a pretty good sense of the lay of the land.

  He needed to travel light so he left the carbine with Taarven. This was going to be long-distance work. He jogged, walked and scrambled along the succession of ridges through the long afternoon, keeping below the crests to avoid sky-lining himself. It was getting late by the time he finally spotted his quarry on the trail by the river far below. They had the captives roped together in the midst of their group and were herding the goats from the farmhame ahead of them. Many of the captives carried bags or bundles of loot and supplies. Several oxen were strung together and bringing up the rear.

  Shortly before sunset Engvyr had found his firing position and settled in. It was a place where the trail below narrowed and ran alongside a section of whitewater. It wasn't ideal but it was the best he was likely to get.

  In the Regiment the maximum effective range of an Infantry Long Rifle was said to be three-hundred paces and the goblins were strung out along the trail at a bit more distance than that. But a good trooper could push that out to four-hundred or even more in the right conditions. After thirty-two years with this particular rifle Engvyr was very, very good.

  He braced his left hand on a tree and rested the fore-stock on his extended thumb. He had cut into the bark to mark the position for consistency. He'd even risked a ranging-shot at a rock next to the trail, hoping that the smear of lead where the bullet impacted would go unnoticed. His sights were set and he was ready.

  He waited until most of the captives were past. When one of the goblins stopped to look back along the length of the train he put the sights on him and squeezed the trigger. He saw dust puff off of the target's jacket and the goblin fell into the river with a shout.

  The sound of the tumbling rapids covered the distant report of the big gun so several goblins rushed forward to help, not real
izing that he'd had been shot. Engvyr put his second shot into the group and was rewarded with a scream of pain. They scattered, not knowing where the shots were coming from. One of them ducked behind a rock, his back full on towards Engvyr, who promptly put a slug into it.

  The remaining goblins quickly herded their captives away, crowding too close to the prisoners for him to risk a shot at that range. They were quickly gone around the edge of the hill but before they got out of sight Engvyr shot the first ox in the string. The goblin holding the lead rope scrambled away as the ox sank to its knees and died.

  Engvyr would have loved to slip down to the trail to cut the other oxen loose, but he didn't dare. If the goblins didn't come back for them, eventually the oxen would get hungry enough to break the lead and move off on their own. They might even go home to the burned-out farmhame.

  The sun was going down and he might be hunted himself within the hour, so he reloaded and set out. Darkness eventually forced him off the ridge and onto the trail. The going was easier then, but the distance longer and it was well after midnight when he got back to the ruined farm.

  An infantry squad had arrived to investigate the fire and their sentry challenged Engvyr as he approached. Fortunately good soldiers weren't inclined to be trigger-happy and he was admitted to the camp without incident.

  Taarven crawled out of his bedroll and they sat by the fire as Engvyr described the events of the afternoon to him and the squad-leader, Sergeant Heryl.

  “Might be we could recover those oxen, 'stead of leaving it to chance,” the Sergeant said, “Lord and Lady know folk around here could use them.”

  “Whatever we do is going to have to wait for morning,” Engvyr told him, “I am plumb beat.”