Dwarven Rifleman Series: Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman Read online

  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 realizing 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.”

  “I think that we should all hit the sack,” agreed Taarven, “We could use the rest and I don't fancy trekkin' into Goblin country in the middle of the night. Besides, there's those skirmisher's to think of. Likely they come across those oxen and made off with them already.”

  Engvyr was chagrined. “I forgot all about them! Just blind luck I didn't run into them on the way back. Either way we can see what's what in the morning. Me, I'm hitting the sack.”

  --**--

  Morning brought news that changed all of their plans. Engvyr woke to the sound of a rider coming into camp and pulled the blanket over his head. After the fight in the trees and the attack on the trail followed by too little sleep on hard ground he felt like he'd been pulled through a knothole.

  He heard the rider dismount, a quick discussion that he couldn't make out, and then someone prodded his foot.

  “Engvyr? It's Taarven- there's a rider from the steading and I think that you need to talk to him.”

  Engvyr groaned and rolled over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he peered blearily at the pair of dwarves standing over him. He'd seen the rider around but didn't know him personally.

  “Well, go on then,” he said grumpily, “I'm awake.”

  The rider looked nervous and said, “You're needed back at the steading sir.”

  Engvyr looked at him a moment waiting for him to elaborate. After a few seconds the rider seemed to realize what he wanted and said, “Something's happened, sir, I mean, back at the steading.”

  Engvyr waited, calmly looking at the nervous rider.

  “Uh, right. Well, it seems last night Ynghilda walked into the great hall a bit after midnight, and there was, uh, a goblin in there.”

  The Ranger sat up abruptly throwing back his blankets and grabbing his boots.

  “Was she hurt? Is she OK?” he asked as he shook his boots out before putting them on and rising. To his surprise Taarven looked more amused than alarmed.

  “Oh no, it's nothing like that, he didn't attack her or anything sir...”

  “Lord's teeth boy!” Engvyr exclaimed, “A fella could starve to death waiting for you to tell a story! What did he do?”

  “Well sir, it seems he was a'settin' by the fire. Drinking coffee. Asked after you, he did.”

  “Asked after me? By name?”

  “N-no sir. He said 'the blonde ranger.' And he called you something else... “’Son of Good Stew?'”

  --**--

  It was mid-morning when Engvyr rode into the palisade. He handed his pony off to the groom and headed for the great hall. A number of Dwarves were gathered around peeking through the open door, whispering among themselves.

  He pushed his way through them and stepped inside. Ynghilda was sitting by the hearth with the Goblin drinking coffee. She was laughing over something he'd just said and they both turned to look at him.

  “You have the most interesting friends, Engvyr,” she said as he joined them.

  “Don't I just?” he replied, shaking his head. He noted Ynghilda's 12-bore standing nearby. He turned to the goblin and said, “What were you thinking, sneakin' in here like that? She could have blown a tunnel through you!”

  “But she did'n,'” the goblin replied with an unrepentant grin.

  “How did you get past the palisade and guards?” Engvyr asked.

  “I've asked him that myself,” said Ynghilda and turned to the goblin, “Tell him what you told me.”

  The goblin gave Engvyr a grin full of pointy teeth and said nothing.

  After a moment Engvyr said, “Well?”

  The goblin remained silent and Ynghilda said dryly, “That's exactly what he told me. Nothing.”

  Engvyr couldn't help grinning himself as he clasped forearms with the goblin. After they were all seated he said, “You're looking well, old friend. How in the world did you find me?”

  “Troll saw te' mark and pass word. So I asked te' trolls where you were an' they tol' me.”

  “You talk to trolls?” Ynghilda asked disbelievingly.

  “Of course. Trolls see ever'thing. You don' talk te' trolls?”

  “Uh, no,” Engvyr said with a glance at Ynghilda, “Did the trolls tell you anything else?”

  The goblin nodded.

  “They say you have trouble with,” he made a circular gesture in front of his face, “Tattoo-face people. I do not know what this means.”

  Engvyr described the facial tattoos and braiding of the goblins that were raiding from the north and while it was not possible for a goblin to become any paler he was visibly agitated by the description.

  “This is not right,” the goblin said, shaking his head, “These people you say, they are long dead. No more!”

  “I have seen them myself,” Engvyr said, “both here and on the edge of the Daenteg Idengeord, when I was a boy. What do you know about these Goblins?”

  “In te' time of te' Maker Dvaerg and Duergar, goblins as ye call us, were all slaves. But some duergar t'ink the Maker was a god an' worshiped him. They became ver' special guards of other Goblins. But they are all dead, long time ago. Very, very bad were the Baasgarta.”

  “Apparently they didn't so much die out after all,” said Ynghilda.

  “I can assure you of that, my old friend. These goblins are very much alive and are raiding all along our northern frontier.”

  The goblin frowned, looking at them dubiously. Engvyr thought for a moment, then looked the Goblin straight in the eye and said, “I am Engvyr Gunnarson of the Falkevell Clan, and I swear to you on my name, the name of my father and the honor of my clan that this is true.”

  The goblin's eyes grew wider as he spoke. He stared at Engvyr for a few moments and then nodded decisively.

  “I see you, Engvyr Gunnarson Falkevellklan,” the goblin said, bowing, “and I am honored to accept your name and oath. I will take your words to my elders.”

 
; The goblin rose, bowed to him and donned his hat, scarf and gloves. Turning to Ynghilda he said, “Thank you for te' coffee, great woman. Engvyr, maybe ye can walk me out? We would not want any misunderstandin's wit' yer friends.”

  Engvyr rose and escorted him to the gates of the palisade.

  “Safe journeys, old friend,” he told the goblin as they clasped forearms, then continued, “There's a war brewing with these Baasgarta of yours. I know the rangers and army know that not all your folk are the same. But word of the war will reach Ironhame, and the folk there may not make a distinction between your folk and these other goblins. It might be best if your traders withdrew from Ironhame for now, maybe out of Dvargatil Baeg altogether. To avoid... misunderstandings.”

  “I will say this to the elders as well. Be careful, my friend. Dvaerg and Duergar, some are good, some bad. But all the Baasgarta are evil.”

  Engvyr assured him that he would indeed be careful, and watched the goblin lope away until he was out of sight.

  “What just happened here?” Ynghilda asked when he returned to the hall.

  Engvyr shrugged. “Goblins only give their names as a sign of great trust. I not only gave him my name but swore by it. I've trusted him with my most precious possession. He must believe me until proven otherwise.”

  “I know that it's not the case here, but what if it were proven otherwise?”

  Engvyr said, “I wouldn't dare lie under the circumstances, because if I were caught I would be dead to him and to all goblins.”

  “And that would be so bad you couldn't possibly lie?” she asked.

  “Um... you should remember that goblins eat their dead.”

  Ynghilda blinked, then blanched as understanding hit her. “Oh. Right. Good to know. I notice that he didn't give you his name in return. Was that because I was here?”

  Engvyr shook his head and said, “That wouldn't matter to him. If he gave his name to me while you were present it would not be the same as giving it to you, and you'd be obliged to pretend not to have heard. No, he was just saving it, because you only get to give someone your name once.”

  “I suppose that makes some sort of sense,” Ynghilda said, “I'm glad that something about this mess does...”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There are worse things a man can be saddled with than a load of common-sense. Add to this the burden of knowledge and skill, then any other weight he needs to bear will be the lighter for it.”

  From the diaries of

  Engvyr Gunnarson

  A squad of infantry had been sent to check on the column of smoke from the burning farmhame.

  Taarven had a hard time convincing them not to take off after Engvyr and the raiding party.

  “Engvyr is as skilled a Ranger as I've ever seen,” he told them, “ You'll come to grief for sure if you try to take a squad along those ridges at night. You'll never catch them goblins on foot else wise.”

  “Might be we'd surprise you,” the Sergeant said.

  “Fair to say, but even if you caught up to them you'd be a squad against a platoon-strength enemy,” Taarven said, “Even as good as I'm sure your people are that's going to be some mighty bad odds.”

  The Sergeant reluctantly agreed and ordered his men set up camp. They gathered the bodies of the goblins and examined their appearance and gear. They would be fighting these people, after all and every bit of information that they could glean would help.

  “This is damn well-made,” one of the soldiers commented as he examined the raider's repeating crossbow. It was gravity fed from a box magazine mounted above the firing-groove. A long vertical lever mounted just under the prod was pulled toward the shooter to cock the string and another bolt would drop into place from the magazine.

  “Can't fire it prone,” another pointed out, “Have to be kneeling or standing to work that lever. Not sure how accurate it would be, either.”

  “If'n they're taking their time it's accurate enough,” Taarven said, “Not so accurate when they are in a hurry, but they can fire three shots every two seconds.”

  Someone whistled and the soldiers looked at the weapon with new respect. They could only manage a shot every six or seven seconds with their slug-guns. These used the same stock and firing mechanism as Engvyr's long-rifle but had shorter smooth-bore barrels. They fired a 16-bore/225 slug and they were accurate to about a hundred paces.

  The previous afternoon Taarven checked the signs and discovered that three of the skirmishers that had attacked them in the trees had escaped to follow their comrades. He thought it likely that they would have taken the remaining oxen, but the Sergeant had insisted that they go to check.

  “I think it's a fool's errand. If you find anything at all, like as not it'll be the sharp end of a goblin's crossbow bolt,” he'd told the young Sergeant, “But I suppose that I can't very well let you all go traipsing off by yourselves. I'll scout the way, but at the first sign of real trouble we're turning back. Understand?”

  --**--

  Taarven dismounted when he thought that they were approaching the scene of Engvyr's attack on the goblins. The Ranger muttered to himself under his breath as he crept slowly around the bend in the trail, his carbine at the ready. His hackles were up and he was approaching low to the ground with extreme caution. After all Engvyr had hit the goblins here specifically because it was a good site for an ambush, and the goblins had this pointed out to them in a way that they were likely to remember.

  When he got his first glimpse of the scene he was certain that this must be an ambush because the five oxen were still there, the lead-rope neatly tied off to a low-growing pine. He noticed other details, like the fact the ox that Engvyr had shot was missing and that there was a dead goblin lying near the rock face. Well he looked dead...

  Whack! A ball from Taarven's gun through the body confirmed that he really was. He signaled the others to stay put as he cautiously rose to his feet. He moved into the open, senses straining to detect any sign of an attack. Taarven examined the dead goblin and was surprised to discover that its chest had been crushed by a head-sized rock that was lying nearby. He could also see that a great deal of blood had run down into the creek from further ahead. He moved carefully through the ambush-zone, checking prints and other sign.

  “I'll be damned,” he muttered to himself when he was finished. A faint sound caught his attention and he strained to make it out over the noise of the rushing water. Looking up along the cliff he spotted a goblin caught in the arms of a tree that grew out a crevice in the rock about fifteen feet above the trail. The sound was the goblin swearing in a weak, low voice. Taarven couldn't make out much of it but the word 'trolls' seemed to be used an awful lot. He moved closer to hear better and discovered that the goblin had a pretty impressive vocabulary and a good imagination.

  The sun had yet to reach into the narrow ravine but the reflected light had already burned the goblin's exposed head and Taarven could see that the he was pretty busted up. The goblin opened his eyes at that moment, spotted him and the swearing broke off abruptly.

  “Well, now, that's a hell of a spot to find yourself in, ain't it?” Taarven asked mildly. The swearing restarted immediately but was now directed at the Ranger, accompanied by a hate-filled glare. He listened appreciatively for several moments. The parts that didn't involve his ancestry or sexual preferences frequently mentioned someone called 'The Dreamer,' describing what that person would do to Taarven and his whole miserable race. After the swearing got repetitive he broke in.

  “You want to tell me a bit about this Dreamer of yours or should I just leave you for the vultures? They usually wait until a man is dead before they start feasting. Usually.”

  The goblin started in again but he was getting weaker.

  “Actually,” Taarven said, interrupting him again, “I'm fairly certain you've never met my mother, and I'm not sure that last bit is even possible. Seriously, if you want quick death you'll have to do better than that.”

  “I don' need your
help, dvaerg,” the goblin spat, “And you will meet The Dreamer soon enough! He comes for you all! Walls of stone will not save you from his righteous fury. The Baasgarta will sweep across your lands like a plague, and those we do not kill will beg for the privilege of cleaning our feet with their tongues! We will dine upon the flesh of your children...”

  “Oh shut up already,” Taarven said and put a ball through his skull. He called the soldiers to come up and explained what he had found.

  “Seems like a group, maybe a family, of trolls came along shortly after Engvyr shot up the goblins. They butchered the dead ox and tied up the others yonder,” he said, gesturing to the animals. “The skirmishers came up the trail and interrupted them, worse luck for the goblins. The trolls threw a rock at that fella' and busted thisn' up and tossed him into that tree. The third goblin went into the river, maybe of his own accord, which wasn't his worst option at that point.”

  “Why'd they leave the oxen?” the Sergeant asked.

  Taarven shrugged and said, “What would they do with them up here? Besides, trolls ain't known for thievin'. I reckon we better grab that string of beasts and high-tail it while we still can. I don't fancy being caught on this trail by trolls or goblins.”

  --**--

  It was well after suppertime when Taarven entered the great hall. Engvyr and Deandra were sitting by the hearth, heads together and talking quietly. Ynghilda sat puffing her pipe and talking with several of her people. They all looked up as he entered. Deandra detached herself from Engvyr and disappeared into the kitchens while one of the dwarves vacated his seat for the newcomer.

  They caught each other up on the events of the day and Deandra returned with a bowl of soup and a half-loaf of black bread for the Ranger. There was always soup or stew on the fire these days, with people coming and going at all hours.

  “We took a pretty good chunk out of them yesterday,” Taarven said, “And we learned a few things. The Baasgarta follow a leader named 'The Dreamer' who is planning on invading. Fella I talked to seemed mighty confident, too.”