Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman Read online

  With his father mounted on the pony and Berget riding atop the packs when she tired they made fair time. The trail was broad and well-travelled and they took to stopping early. While his aunt and father set up camp Engvyr would take the Big 14 to go gather wood from fallen branches and deadfalls. They cut these to manageable size to carry with them as there would be no fuel to be had in the High Passes. The trails there were far above the tree-line.

  They made it through the first two of these passes without incident. The willow-bark tea and simples that his aunt had procured helped quite a bit but it was never other than a miserable experience. This prompted Engvyr to thinking and examining the terrain carefully as they travelled. Finally one afternoon as they crossed a valley towards the third of the High Passes he talked to his father about it.

  “I've been looking at the lay of the land,” he said, “And it seems to me there are places folk could tunnel through the mountains to avoid these awful passes. Why hasn't anyone ever done so?”

  “There's been some argument over the years on that score, believe you me,” his father told him, “And the answer lies in the history of our folk.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you know that in the beginning we were slaves. They say that once we were of the Afmaeltinn, or at least related to 'em, and that The Maker remade us to work his mines.”

  Engvyr nodded, every dwarf knew that.

  “Well, one of the things that he did was to make us long-lived, which tends to make us think in terms of the long view. When we won free of him and moved into these lands we looked 'em over carefully and settled them with a plan.”

  “Seems like that plan might've included makin' things a bit easier on folk,” Engvyr grumbled, not looking forward to the next climb.

  His father smiled as his eyes scanned the country about them for trouble even while they talked.

  “It has to do with the lay of the mountains. There's only one really good way to move an army into the deep mountains, and they set Ironhame right in the middle of it, like a cork in a bottle. In the southern lowlands it's pretty easy to move about, and we built the best roads there to move trade and to move our own armies. In time of war folks can use those roads to fall back on Ironhame.”

  “And when they do, you can then move them through The Underpass to the lands beyond!” Engvyr exclaimed.

  It was like the problem with lifting the slab. You just had to look at it in a different way.

  His father nodded approvingly. “Now you're thinking.”

  Engvyr was, and continued to do so. After a few moments of consideration he admitted he was still baffled.

  “So the question in your mind,” his father said, “Is why wouldn't the best miners in the world not make an equivalent to The Underpass to move folk into the Highlands should Ironhame fall?”

  “Because they didn't want to,” said Engvyr, the light dawning at last.

  “Just so. Can you imagine trying to move an army and its supply train over the High Passes?”

  Engvyr shuddered and said, “It would be a nightmare.”

  “That it would, and to do so without our mountain-bred ponies and oxen it would be beyond just difficult.”

  Engvyr knew about the idea of a 'Defense in Depth' from listening to his Father and the Sergeant-Major's conversations, but the thought that one could build an entire country around such a concept would not have occurred to him. He pondered this some more as the day wore on and decided that he would bet good money that such tunnels did in fact exist but were kept secret against just such an invasion.

  They stopped even earlier than usual that afternoon lest darkness catch them in the pass. That night was the coldest they had yet experienced. As he sat shivering through his watch in the small hours of the morning Engvyr thought that this did not bode well for the morrow. Not well at all.

  Chapter Eight

  “ Dvargatil Baeg's eastern border to the north is quite secure, if by 'secure' one means that no threat may be forthcoming from any of the Five Races of Man. I am less convinced that we are entirely safe, for that high desolate place where no life dwells has a curious life of its own…”

  From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

  The knowledge that something was terribly wrong came upon Engvyr gradually. His head was pounding and his vision dim. He felt warm and sleepy but was aware that if he slept he would never wake. He looked about him, blinking to clear his vision.

  His mouth was intolerably dry and when he felt under his coat for his water-bottle and found only a hard lump. As he explored it he realized that he felt no sensation from his fingers. He fumbled the lump from within his coat and stared. It was his water-bottle, frozen solid. With a jolt he came full awake and realized that he was freezing to death.

  It was the Endelg Afkol. They were in the Death-Chill.

  Looking about he realized that he was alone. He could see no sign on the narrow, stony trail that any other had passed. Back tracking down the trail on insensate feet he saw a shape which resolved itself into the figure of his father, slumped in the saddle on the stumbling pony. Engvyr tried to speak to him but his throat would not form the words.

  Grabbing the reins he turned the pony and led it back down the slope. Once he nearly walked off the end of a switchback in the trail as he fought the urge to sleep. Fighting back the dimness of mind and vision that struggled to overcome him he put one foot in front of the other. He did not know how long he went on in that fashion.

  “Engvyr!” The voice was scarcely more than a croak, but he recognized it as his Aunt's.

  Then her hands were on him, guiding him into a hollow in the rock where a fire raged. He could not hold the steaming mug that was pressed into his hands, so his aunt helped him and he was able to swallow some measure of it. It was coffee and something else, strong with the heat of peppers, and it cleared his head though it did not relieve the throbbing headache. The pony had instinctively crowded into the opening, standing up against the ox for warmth. They got his father down from the saddle and settled him by the fire next to his niece. He mumbled incoherently as his sister held the cup to his lips.

  As the warmth penetrated and his vision cleared, Engvyr looked around their sanctuary. The hollow had been formed when a great spear of granite had split off of the mountain. Over time dirt and debris had sifted into the crack, forming a floor for a space just big enough for them all to crowd into by the fire.

  At his aunt's direction he helped her string the tent-cover across the opening. It was not warm in the small enclosed space even with the roaring fire but closing it off from the wind helped. Soon it had heated up enough that his face and fingers began to throb painfully as they lost their chill. It was several minutes before he could unwrap his scarf as the moisture in his breath had frozen it to his short beard. As they all became more comfortable his Aunt told him what had happened to her and Berget.

  “I was altitude sick, we all were, and I didn't realize the danger. Berget slipped and fell on the trail, so I picked her up and carried her and she was so cold… then the ox walked into this hollow and wouldn't leave again. I realized we were freezing to death and started the fire.”

  She looked at Engvyr and his father imploringly and continued.

  “I wanted to search for you both, I did! But I could not leave Berget. All that I could do was watch for you and pray that the Lord and Lady would deliver you.”

  “And so they did,” his father said, “and you must not blame yourself, sister, you did right. Had you sought us we would have had no fire to come back to. Likely we would all have died! We've been very, very lucky.”

  His Aunt nodded but would not meet their eyes. She went to the pot at the fire and dipped them each a mug of the boiling liquid. Engvyr sipped at it cautiously, wary that it would burn his mouth but it was not hot enough to do so.

  “It's barely hot when it boils,” his aunt said, “I think it's the altitude.”

  Engvyr nodded without really considering her wor
ds. They had found a temporary island of safety but the danger would only grow now that the sun had dropped behind the peaks. Soon it would be true night and the temperature might drop further still.

  “We've enough wood to last,” his father said, “I think that we must spend the night and try to get back down the mountain as soon as we have light to do so. We can consider what to do once we are safe.”

  They all agreed that was the best course and settled down to rest as best they could. His Aunt's concoction was a strong stimulant. By the time he finished his mug Engvyr felt he might not sleep for a week. The others eventually did drift off and he kept the fire supplied through the night.

  At dawn he woke his father and aunt and they fortified themselves with more of the hot drink. Bundling up as best they could they left the shelter. They roped themselves together lest they get separated again and moved down the trail as quickly as they could. They were now in a race against the cold.

  They won that race by the time the sun peeked over the mountains. The trail had descended rapidly and soon the cold was no longer immediately life-threatening but they had another problem. They were no longer on the trail that had taken them up the pass. Sometime in the haze of cold and sickness they had taken a wrong turn.

  “I think that we have come east of the pass,” his father said after studying the lay of the land.

  “Gunnar, what are we to do? We haven't supplies or money to winter over even if we could make our way back to Loevpas.” his aunt said.

  His father nodded agreement as he continued to study the mountains. Pointing along the trail he said, “This seems to trend North, around the shoulder of the mountain. Perhaps it runs to another pass, or maybe another road.”

  “Can we really take that chance?” she asked.

  “I'm not sure that we have a lot of choice,” his father replied. “The only way back is through the Death Chill, and that we cannot do.”

  They stopped and broke their fast and then set out. The trail did indeed take them around the mountain and northward, the ground slowly rising as they went. Engvyr kept a weather-eye on the countryside, the lay of the trail and the signs along the way. He was becoming a better tracker and what he saw now disturbed him. He spoke to his father about it as they travelled.

  “Have you thought about who made this trail, and where it might lead?” he asked.

  His father nodded and cast a quick look at his sister and her daughter, who were following behind.

  “I've noticed too. Seems we're following a Goblin trail. I'm not sure what that means for us but it's nothing good. I don't want to alarm your aunt but I reckon she'd best know. I'll tell her at the next stop.”

  “What should we do?”

  His father shrugged and said, “Keep an eye out and that hand-gun ready. Lord and Lady know what we might find.”

  As they rounded another turn in the trail the sky ahead seemed to change, to open out before them. He could tell that for some reason this worried his father more than the Goblin trail did. The altitude sickness returned but it was fairly mild and his aunt's herbal simples helped them to sleep that night. The next day they passed between low peaks and they could see that the country leveled out.

  It was a strange land that they beheld, almost flat to the horizon. Odd shapes loomed in the distance and Engvyr could not tell if they were wind-carved rock or ruins, but they made him uneasy. In all the vast expanse stretching before them he could see no sign of life. The wind swirled the dust into disturbing shapes that seemed to whisper in a tongue he did not understand and he felt a thread of fear tickling at the back of his neck.

  “Gunnar,” said his aunt, speaking slowly between breaths, “What is this place?”

  “In the Old Tongue it's called the Daenteg Idengeord, 'The Roof of the World.' It's a high plain, a league or more above sea-level that stretches to the north and east; no one knows for how far.”

  “No one has ever crossed it?”

  “Not that I ever heard tell,” he said. He looked as if there was more to say, but hesitated.

  “Likely if we head north we can find a way back to dwarven lands.”

  Indeed the trail wound north along the edge of the peaks, skirting the strange, high plain. Their altitude-sickness worsened and they were still climbing. They were all gasping for breath, their vision greying at the edges when his father called a stop. He produced a waxed paper package of a kind Engvyr had seen before, when the Goblin had given his aunt herbs for his father's fever.

  “Our goblin friend said this would help if we were too long at high altitude. I haven't broken it out because there are side-effects but it’s time. Chew it slowly and don't swallow it.”

  Carefully unwrapping the package he passed each of them a small portion of the contents, some kind of leaf candied with honey.

  They did as he bade them and it seemed to make it easier to breath. Engvyr's headache didn't go away but it faded into the background and he felt more alert as well. They followed the trail along the peaks at the edge of that unearthly wasteland, searching for a way back into the mountains. It was bitterly cold as they trekked along. They stopped occasionally to rest but could not sleep, a side-effect of the leaves. They felt little hunger but forced themselves to eat regardless, knowing that they needed sustenance.

  They continued even after night fell. At that altitude the stars gave enough light to travel by. Engvyr began to feel a sense of unreality creeping over him as if they moved through a dream. He kept thinking that he saw movement from the corners of his eyes out on the plain. He dismissed these at first as mirages, the product of fatigue or a side effect of the leaves. But he could not shake the sense that there was volition behind these movements, and that he was being observed. The others were similarly nervous, except for Berget who stared out into the wastes calmly, eyes moving as if tracking things unseen by the rest of them.

  “Honey- what are you looking at?” her mother finally asked, not really expecting an answer.

  “The sleep-walking ghosts,” the child replied quietly. These were the first words she had spoken since her sister’s death.

  They all turned to stare at her and her mother moved quickly to her side and crouched next to her.

  “What did you say?”

  The child turned her disturbed gaze on her mother and said, “The ghosts that walk in their sleep. They're waking up and they don't like us being here.”

  His aunt gave Engvyr and his father a look of bafflement and concern. She took her daughter's hand and told her, “Well, they are just ghosts, love. Everyone knows that ghosts can't hurt you.”

  Berget looked at her gravely and whispered, “Not yet they can't.”

  She kept ahold of her mother's hand as they went on, but continued to glance at the barren plain from time to time.

  As night turned towards morning they saw a hunched figure seated by the trail. Approaching warily they perceived that it was an ancient goblin woman, staring sightlessly over the plain with blind, white eyes. Tumors disfigured her wizened face, distorting the tattoos of red and black that crawled over her features. Her thin tufts of gray hair were braided with feathers, beads and the bones of small animals. Her shapeless clothes pooled about her wasted figure. Engvyr almost thought her dead, mummified by the cold desert air until she turned her blind face to their approach.

  “Well, well, well!” she said in a cracked, dry voice, “forgive me that I cannot offer you hospitality. I was not expecting visitors.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm his father knelt before her and asked, “Are you well, mother? Are you in need of help?”

  “I am not your mother, dvaerg!” she spat viciously, “And as for help I am beyond any in your power to give! Leave me be.”

  He stood and exchanged a look with the others and shrugged helplessly. Berget looked at the shriveled figure curiously, unaffected by the crone's overt hostility.

  “Aren't you afraid of the ghosts?”

  “Ghosts? There are no ghosts here, child.” S
he turned her blind eyes on the child and continued, “No, those are not spirits you see. They are the dead gods of the forgotten folk that dwelled in this place in the Time Before Time. People not of the races of men.”

  She made a sweeping gesture to encompass the wastes before her.

  “In their dreams they wander the great cities and temples of their long vanished folk. Their heaven stands cold and empty, its gates barred to them. Now you are waking them to fury and hate, for by your very presence you show the lie of their dream and they will destroy you for that.”

  “Oh? Then why have they not woken and destroyed you, crone?” Engvyr challenged her.

  She cackled in response, a horrible grating noise.

  “I have too little life left in me to be worth the taking, boy! Can you not see? Cankers eat me alive from the inside. I am here to die!”

  “You came to this place, Ma'am… surely you know a way that we might leave it? Will you help us?” Egerta asked.

  The ancient woman gave a guffaw of surprise at the thought.

  “Help you? Help you, dvaerg? That I will not.”

  “But why?” his aunt said, “We have done nothing to you!”

  The old woman turned on her with an expression of fury.

  “Have you not? Truly? Your very existence is an affront to the natural order! Help you? I should spit!”

  “But what of my child? Have you no mercy in your heart for her?”

  The crone turned her blind face to Berget.

  “Mercy for your child? I ache for the strength to wring her tiny neck! I long to feel her tender skin part under my teeth, to suck her sweet flesh from her pretty little bones! That is what I have for your child!”

  Enraged, Engvyr made to lunge for her but his father barred his way with an extended arm.

  “No, Engvyr! You cannot cure hate with blows.”

  The crone cackled again and bowed to his father in mock-respect.