Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

By the time Engvyr was recovered enough to be up and around their Clan had sent some of their folk to collect them. He gave Berget over to their care but did not return to the clanhame with them, opting instead to make his own way.

The thieves had taken The Hammer but he still had the Big 14. That first winter he had run a trap-line, hunted and traded in furs. After that he drifted for a few years, doing odd-jobs at the settlements, placer mining, trapping and hunting. He even did a bit of hard-rock mining, but didn't care for it any more than he ever had. Always he kept an eye out for the dwarves that had murdered his family.

He wrote to Berget from time to time, reassuring himself that she was settled in and doing well. She'd prospered in the Clan's care, gradually coming to terms with the tragedy that she had experienced. He always made a point to stop in and see her when he was at the clanhame for holidays and on other visits. A few years ago he'd attended her wedding to a nice fellow that worked the mines. They'd written less since she wed, but last he'd heard they were expecting their first child.

Years later he had run into Rolph and Roel and they caught up over coffee in the inn of a small market town. Finally Rolph put down his coffee cup and looked him in the eye.

“You're not fooling me boy- you're huntin' them dwarves and I can't say as I blame you. I heard that you caught up with one a' them already. But living for revenge is no kind of life, sure an' certain it's not the life your folks would have wanted for you. At the end of it you'll find yourself cold and empty and the dead will still be dead.”

“It's not just revenge, Rolph. I just can't stand the thought of those dwarves running loose in the world after what they've done, free to hurt more good folk.”

“Leave that for the Rangers, Eng. You need to make a life for yourself, a real life.”

He'd thought about that for some time. Finally he had decided that Rolph was right and signed up for a hitch in his father's old regiment. He was a good trooper but the life of a soldier didn't suit him. Seeing this, and in light of his experience as a hunter, his superiors in the regiment transferred him to a unit of skirmishers.

He'd distinguished himself with them when the fools governing the trade-city of Kaeralenn had enslaved some dwarves to labor in their mines. He'd been part of the raid to free them, covering their retreat with his long-rifle, allowing the slaves to escape. In appreciation for his accomplishments he was allowed to take his weapon with him when he mustered out of the regular army to join the Mountain Guard.

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.