Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman Page 23

  “I expect we've some time before our friends come a'calling. If'n you haven't had a hot meal there's still time before they shut things down.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant-Major, but I'm all set,” Engvyr told him. The older soldier looked at him quizzically.

  “Are you the Engvyr Gunnarson that served with the 3rd Rifles a couple decades back?”

  Engvyr sighed and admitted that he was. He hoped that the Sergeant-Major wasn't going to make a big deal of it. His wish was granted when the Sergeant-Major simply nodded and said, “Thought so. Well, we oughta have a good seat for the show tonight.”

  The sergeant wandered off and Engvyr looked out over the troops deployed below their position. The 3rd's lines spread out to either side of the narrow river that ran down the center of the valley. Looking at the lay of the ground and their positions he had to admit they had an excellent view.

  He took a quick mental inventory. He'd had a hot meal, reported for duty, was in position and had nothing to do at the moment. That being the case he did what any experienced soldier would do under the circumstances. He sat down on the hillside so that he was comfortably propped up by his pack and went to sleep.

  Engvyr woke instantly when a stir went through the nearby troops. Quickly looking around in the dimness he saw two mounted scouts trotting their ponies towards the 3rd Rifles lines from the north. Checking the western sky he guessed that it was an hour or so after sunset.

  “They're coming, then,” a nearby soldier commented to his comrades. The infantry on the hillside were in 'hasty' fighting positions, really just a shallow hole with the excavated dirt piled before it to form a short parapet. It was simply a place for them to duck while they reloaded. On the steep slope it also insured that they had secure footing to fire from.

  The soldiers checked their slug-guns and other weapons. Down along the lines of riflemen in the valley Engvyr could see them doing the same. Looking north along the enemy's avenue of approach he could see the range markers that the riflemen had placed earlier. They were simple planks driven into the earth with the side facing the enemy stained a medium brown and the side towards the dwarves a glittery, reflective white. The furthest was at three-hundred paces and they were spaced every fifty paces as they approached the dwarven lines to allow the riflemen to easily adjust their aim for the range.

  Engvyr saw to his own weapons with practiced hands. He was not particularly nervous or afraid at this point; in fact he was rather bored. Plenty of time for terror later, he reflected. He very much wanted a cup of coffee but he could already hear the mass of approaching Baasgarta.

  Soon the goblins hove into sight. They were a solid mass from this distance and they just kept coming and coming, carpeting the valley floor. The moon had risen nearly full and dwarves have pretty good night vision but even so they were within a thousand paces before he could really resolve details of the oncoming horde. They were advancing in ranks and keeping their lines together fairly well, given the ankle-to-knee-high brush that dominated the ground at this altitude. That will limit their pace, he thought. Attempting to charge over that carpet of foliage would be disastrous, at least for the first ranks. At five hundred paces they stopped, and he could see some milling about as they re-ordered their lines.

  An Afmaeltinn army would have been shouting insults, clashing weapons against their shields and working themselves into a frenzy. The Baasgarta began a rhythmic chant instead. He could not make out he words or even the language at this distance, but the cadence would help them stay in-step and coordinated as they moved forward.

  He could hear a distant shout passed along the goblin ranks and he watched the ripple along their lines as they unslung their shields and held them before them. Horns sounded and the Baasgarta began to advance at a walk.

  “Load!” was the shout from their own lines and he watched as over three thousand dwarves, almost in unison, cocked their rifles and thumbed heavy lead slugs into the chambers of their weapons. He knew well the routine from his own days in the regiment, and his impatience and boredom evaporated as the enemy drew closer.

  The Baasgarta were advancing in decent order, the column expanding and compressing slightly as they came. The front ranks were having a little trouble keeping station as they waded through the low growth but were quickly brought back into line by the shouts of their sergeants, or whatever the goblins called their equivalent.

  As the enemy approached the range markers at three-hundred paces the dwarven sergeants bellowed, “Ready!” and the dwarves of the 3rd Rifles raised their weapons to their shoulders. This was quickly followed by the command to aim. Engvyr knew that in this light and at this distance the riflemen would be aiming at the mass of goblins rather than at individual targets. They would aim at a notional spot several inches below chin-height as well. That way if your shot was low it would still strike the body. If it were high you hit the head, or the person behind.

  As the Baasgarta were two steps from the range-marker the command to fire was given. WHAM! Over three thousand rifles fired in unison. The soldiers immediately reloaded with practiced precision.

  Advancing in a shield-wall was a standard practice, and against arrows or crossbow bolts it worked moderately well. But even at three-hundred paces, the rifles' long, heavy lead slugs blasted right through the shields and struck the men behind. The effect of the massed volley looked as if the entire thousand-man wide first rank of goblins had tripped and fallen simultaneously. Some fell deeper in the ranks as well and the line faltered for a moment.

  The average dwarf in the 3rd Rifles had thirty years in ranks, and it showed now. The regiment looked like a vast machine as the soldiers broke open the actions of their rifles, cocking the pieces as they knelt in near-perfect unison. The first rank stood as they reloaded, closed the rifles actions and aimed. Exactly eight seconds after the first volley the eight-hundred and fifty rifles of the first rank spoke again. WHAM!

  Then they repeated the process as the second rank stood, fired and knelt. WHAM! Then the third rank and the fourth. Every two seconds, like clockwork. Wham! Wham! Wham! It was a thing of beauty to Engvyr's soldier's soul.

  He had to give the Baasgarta credit, they were game. The combined rate of fire of the regiment sent nearly thirty thousand slugs slamming into their ranks every minute, yet still they came on, marching into the meat-grinder. They were slowed by the need to step over or around their fallen comrades but they advanced, closer and closer. But ripples ran through their ranks now, and their front lines grew ragged. At two hundred paces the signal was given for the heavy infantry around him to load their shorter-ranged slug-guns.

  For the first time the goblins brought their repeating crossbows into action. Waves of bolts rose from their ranks, but the range was still long for the light weapons and the goblins were firing blind from behind the shield-wall. Even when their fire reached the dwarven lines they had little effect against the steel breast-plates and wide-brimmed kettle helms of the dwarves.

  The closer they came the more effective the dwarves’ shots were and more and more goblins were mown down. Engvyr was amazed at the Baasgarta's sheer bloody-minded refusal to break. He began to feel some apprehension now, for as many of the enemy as they had slaughtered and were still slaughtering, the goblins ranks still covered the valley floor as far as the eye could see. If the enemy didn't break the riflemen would be overwhelmed. Of course the dwarves still had two full regiments in reserve to back them up.

  At one-hundred and fifty paces the heavy infantry added the fire of their slug-guns to the carnage. It was too much. The front ranks of the Baasgarta stopped, then tried to retreat and found that they couldn't. The weight of the soldiers behind them still trying to advance, stopped them in their tracks. Wave after wave of bullets slashed into them and in desperation the Baasgarta began to turn their weapons on their comrades. Thousands died before the horns finally sounded retreat and the pressure eased. For what little good it did them they put the shield-wall up and made a controlled
withdrawal as waves of slugs continued to wash over them.

  When the Baasgarta reached two-hundred and fifty paces distance the dwarves stopped firing. They hadn't enough ammunition to pursue the goblin force. As if the sudden cessation of the gunfire were a signal the mass of goblins broke formation and ran for their lives. The first battle of the war against the Baasgarta was over.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “ It may seem a fine thing in song or story to be ankle-deep in the blood of your enemies but in reality it's slippery, smells bad and is nearly impossible to get out of your socks afterwards.”

  From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  Engvyr had seen battles and their aftermath before, but he stood and looked out over the carnage before him in shock. He had walked down to the edge of the slope and just stared. The battlefield was carpeted in bodies, several deep in places. Dwarves moved among the dead and injured, wading in blood. The air was thick with the coppery stink of it, and it had pooled so deep in places that the wounded had drowned in it. Occasionally a shot broke through the moans and screams as a soldier gave mercy to a downed enemy. Looking out he could see a band of bodies a hundred and fifty paces wide stretching the breadth of the valley.

  Looking across the 3rd's lines he could see soldiers bandaging each other’s wounds, and only a few stretchers as seriously wounded or dead dwarves were carried back from the lines. What in the Lord and Lady's name is driving them? he thought, looking back to the field of dead goblins. Normally you expected an enemy to break or disengage by the time that they had lost one man in ten of their force. Sometimes half that if a battle was obviously going against them. But unless he missed his guess the Baasgarta had lost a full third of their forces here.

  He looked up to see the Sergeant-Major approaching. He acknowledged him with a nod and the old soldier stopped and surveyed the battlefield with his hands on his hips and shook his head in wonder.

  “We'll be all night just clearing a path through this mess,” he said, “But I think that you're done here for tonight. Best you rack out and get some rest; I expect they'll have plenty for you to do tomorrow.”

  Engvyr thanked him and returned to the Mountain Guard's bivouac. Naturally the evening's action was the only topic of discussion. He grabbed a cup of coffee as he took a seat and listened in. Several other rangers had been in position to see the battle and he let them tell the tale. If you could even call it a battle, he thought. Reports came in as the evening progressed. The 3rd had suffered only a few hundred casualties, most of them relatively minor. It appeared that they had lost fewer than two-hundred in exchange for upwards of twenty-thousand of the Baasgarta.

  “Don't get cock-sure,” Taarven advised the group, “These boys had never experienced massed rifle-fire before, and the ground favored us. They'll find a different way to come at us next time, and you can damn sure bet they won't fight our fight again if'n they can help it. It's only going to get harder from here.”

  Several heads bobbed in agreement, Engvyr's among them. There were few quicker ways to get killed than assuming that your enemy was stupid. The Baasgarta would be studying on ways to overcome the dwarven army's strengths, so they'd better stay on their toes.

  “Alright heroes,” the Captain's said, “Rack out. Likely they'll be finding something to keep us busy tomorrow, and we'd best be ready.”

  The next morning the pursuit began. Engvyr, Taarven and the other Rangers scouted ahead followed by groups of skirmishers in platoon-strength. Work had indeed gone on all night to clear a path through the bodies of the Baasgarta, and the regiments advanced along that line. Less than half a league from last night's lines the small valley spilled out into a broader river valley that wound its way north through the mountains.

  The scouts moved ahead warily keeping an eye out for ambushes and traps. They were mounted and had it easy at first as they moved across the open terrain with its low bushes and heather. But as the day wound on the valley's altitude dropped below the tree line and they found themselves working their way through the scrub forest. The groups of skirmishers followed behind, ready to converge on any ambush or disturbance. The regiments had it relatively easy; if there had been no road here before, the tramping of tens of thousands of Baasgarta feet had made one now.

  Tensions mounted as the day wore on, but there were no alarms, no ambushes. Just the tracks of the fleeing Baasgarta becoming more and more organized as the day went on, until finally the signs indicated that they had again formed up into a relatively disciplined force. They also found signs that a sizable force of Baasgarta cavalry had joined the column from one of the side-valleys.

  On a good road in open country the regiments could march ten leagues a day for weeks on end if they needed to. In this terrain they managed half that, and set up a full camp, protected by spike-covered earthen berms. The valley had widened out to two miles at this point so they set up in four camps in a diamond formation that allowed each to support the others in the event of an attack.

  Throughout his time in the army Engvyr had never stopped being amazed by the speed that this could be accomplished by a few thousand disciplined and motivated dwarves. Within two hours of stopping the camp was compete, row after neat row of tents interspersed with larger command and mess tents. Every man would have a hot meal and sleep in their own cot, but at any given time one third of them would be manning the parapets of their camps. No one expected trouble that night, but they were deep in enemy territory following a force that still outnumbered them by three-to-one or more.

  The Mountain Guard was not in the watch rotation for the evening, so they sat up in their mess tent, drinking coffee and talking quietly among themselves until Captain Gauer made an appearance.

  “Best get some sleep, boys and girls,” He told them, “We're heading out down the valley tonight. We're to scout ahead and try to establish contact with the Baasgarta's main force and report their location and progress. We'll leave at the change of second and third watch.”

  They broke up the gathering with some good-natured grumbling and a few jokes and racked out.

  They were roused from their slumber near the end of the second watch, and Engvyr sat up on his cot and shook his boots out, purely by habit. At this time of year and altitude they were unlikely to house unwanted guests. Pulling the boots on he dressed quickly in the chill of the small hours of the night. There was just time to stop by the mess tent for a quick cup of coffee before they moved out.

  “Be careful out there tonight,” the captain warned them as they made ready, “The Baasgarta were moving in fairly good order by the end of the day. Might be they left a little welcome for us up the valley.”

  He'd hardly needed to tell them that, of course. They were each keenly aware of the dangers they were facing.

  Engvyr's pony was inclined to be ill-tempered at being roused before dawn, and nipped at him as he saddled the beast. He evaded the half-hearted protests with the ease of long practice as he slipped his long-rifle into its scabbard and mounted. The rangers silently walked their ponies through the sleeping camp. The infantrymen on watch moved the spiked barricade from the sally-port in the earthen berm as they approached, giving them a wave as they passed out.

  Taarven and Engvyr forded the river and rode into the trees of the eastern slope of the valley, quietly picking their way through the forest, relaxed and alert. Their eyes tracked back and forth constantly; in the dark their peripheral vision would catch movement better than staring straight at it.

  They also watched their pony’s ears and bearing; the beast’s keen senses would provide the best warning.

  The moon set and it grew darker under the trees. They slowed further, letting their ponies pick their way forward at a walk. They rode side by side just a few feet apart, their mounts’ hooves nearly silent on the thick carpet of needles beneath the pines. Engvyr saw his pony’s ears prick up and the beast raised its head as it stared into the darkness to their left. Taarven's mount did likewise and both rangers ea
sed their weight back in their saddles to tell the ponies to stop.

  Engvyr listened to the night but all that he could hear was the sound of rushing water in one of the ubiquitous creeks that flowed down to join the river in the center of the valley. Then he saw a small, pale spot moving, then another and another, a stream of them moving slowly south. Scanning with his peripheral vision he realized that a column of riders was passing through the woods not fifty feet from them. Baasgarta cavalry, each with a small tag of light colored material on his back to allow the rider behind to follow in the inky blackness of the forest. They were in plain sight of the other riders but had so far gone unnoticed, and they might remain unseen if they did not move. Thank the Lord and Lady we’re downwind, Engvyr thought, if those ulvgaed caught a whiff of our ponies…

  They waited while the column slowly drifted by, praying silently for their mounts to stand still. It was a sizable force and took some time to pass; no rider was going to move quickly in the darkness of the forest. Finally the riders were gone, vanished into the darkness.

  Engvyr edged his mount closer to Taarven's and very quietly said, “How many do you reckon?”

  “At least company-strength,” the other ranger replied.

  “Matches my count,” Engvyr said, “What'ye reckon the odds are that those fellows are the only ones headed for our troops?”

  “Pretty poor. Let's head up-slope and get back to let 'em know that company's on the way.”

  They worked their way up the side of the valley alongside the stream, alert for any other columns of riders that might be slipping by, but they saw no one else. Reaching the tree-line they turned south. After the darkness in the forest it seemed almost well lit to Engvyr, and he realized that the sky had brightened with false-dawn. The contrast between the lightening sky and the dark ground would make it difficult for anyone below to see them, and they pushed the pace as much as they dared; they needed to get ahead of the Baasgarta and warn the camps. Even if they did not attack they could easily be in place to ambush them on the move the following morning.