Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

He checked the other corpses as well and they were all the same. He pondered that as they cantered back down the road to catch up with the rescue party. When they caught up to the main body of riders Engvyr rode at Ynghilda's side and filled her in on the pursuit and the fight.

“We came on them sudden-like just when they thought they were safe,” he concluded, “If they'd had any time to organize their response they'd have eaten us alive… so to speak. We were damn lucky.”

“That you were,” she agreed, “but it's been my experience that a dwarf makes his own luck.”

With all of them mounted they made good time and passed through the gates of the Makepeace Steading well before dark. By nightfall they were settled into the Great Hall within the palisade. The Afmaeltinn women and their children were given a quiet corner to bed down in. They had washed, eaten and now slept the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Before they had retired Engvyr had sought them out and assured himself that they were as well as might be expected. Seeing him approach Deandra detached herself and came to meet him. She was wearing a linen under-dress with a woven fabric belt. On a dwarven woman the garment would have fallen to mid-calf but it did not quite reach her knees. She was tall and seemed terribly thin, but even in a state of exhaustion she moved with grace that he found charming.

Her long auburn hair, wet from bathing, was in a single thick braid. Her face was delicate and pretty, but there was strength in it too. Green eyes looked into his, not challengingly but the direct look of an equal. The overall effect, not harmed a bit by the elegant length of exposed leg, was such as to turn his thoughts in an unexpected direction.

She extended a hand and he took it in his own. It was not a soft or delicate hand, but one strong from years of work.

“I wanted to thank you for saving us,” she said simply.

“It's no more than our job, ma'am, but you are most welcome. We couldn't hardly let them steal folk off our land without taking exception.”

“Still, we are grateful to you both. Please extend my thanks to your partner as well.”

He realized abruptly he was still holding her hand between his and released it, feeling his cheeks grow warm.

“I know it's soon to say,” He continued quickly to cover his embarrassment, “But do you know what you folk will do now? Will you be returning to Afmaeltinn lands?”

A strange look passed over her face for an instant before she replied.

“I don't know for certain. I imagine Saewynn and her children will return to her family. For myself I need to think about it when I am not falling-over exhausted,” she said, then grinned, “For tonight it's enough to make it through our meal without falling asleep in my stew.”

“Well, should you decide to stay,” he heard himself saying, and could scarce believe it even as the words left his lips, “I'd admire to have the privilege of calling on you.”

She blinked, processing that for a moment and then smiled.

“I think that I would like that. We shall have to see what the morrow brings,” she said, glancing back at the table, “But for now I must beg your leave… it seems the very disaster I spoke of has occurred.”

Following her gaze he saw that her daughter had indeed fallen asleep at the table; face down in her stew-bowl, which fortunately was mostly empty by that point. They shared a grin and she rolled her eyes and went to the girl's rescue.

He returned to his own place, lost in thought. It was quite unusual for dwarves to take up with Afmaeltinn , but not unheard of. It was rare in no small part because human lives were so much shorter than a dwarf's. Still, it happened from time to time, but he had never suspected it might happen to him.

He considered the matter while he ate. Well, why not? He thought. The fact that she could find humor in life even after all that she had been through simply confirmed his impression of her strength of mind and character that he had formed in their brief acquaintance. She was certainly comely enough in her own way.

Humph, he thought, let it be a thing for future days. He'd asked to call on her, after all, not to marry! Best just to see what the future brought and worry about such things then.

Later that evening Ynghilda sat with them by the fire puffing on a long-stemmed meerschaum pipe. Taarven sat in an overstuffed chair with his injured leg propped on a stool and smoked his old clay pipe while Engvyr contented himself with a mug of hot cider.

“It's a puzzle alright. This last year goblin raids have been stepping up all along the north. Last night's raid was the closest,” she said with a troubled expression, “And they're getting bolder all the time. This keeps up, they'll be attacking the Steadings and Clanhames next.”

Engvyr exchanged worried glances with Taarven. He'd told him earlier about the markings that he'd observed on the dead goblins. Now this. Something was in the wind and they didn't like it one bit.

“I think,” Engvyr said slowly, “I might just take me a ride up towards the Eyrie while you're laid-up. See what's what.”

Ynghilda looked at them sharply.

“You boys know something that I don't?”

“I can't say as we do,” Engvyr responded, “But I mean to find out. These goblins don't seem to be your normal renegades. I'll get that report written out tonight- you just see that it gets to the Station a quick as you can.”

He looked back at his partner.

“And you get healed up quick. I reckon this could shape up to be a right interesting summer.”

By mid-morning the next day Engvyr was back at the Eyrie. He rode with a wary eye on the countryside, his carbine across the saddle-bow at the ready.

The first thing he noted was that the corpses were missing and the tracks of goblin boots were everywhere. He started at the ambush site and rode slowly outward in a spiral studying the signs, then headed up toward the pass. As he looked up from under the brim of his hat he caught a flash of light from high up the slope above the tree line. It might be sunlight off a bit of quartz or mica, or it might not.

The story that the tracks told was disturbing. Sometime the previous night, a large force of goblins at least as large as the mounted party from the Makepeace Steading had come down from the Eyrie and collected the dead goblins. They had searched the area then returned over the pass.

He dismounted to inspect the boot prints more closely. Then he moved off and examined the prints in another place, then another. Two troubling things made themselves apparent.

The first was that he saw the flash up on the hillside again. The angle was different so it could not be a simple reflection. Someone up there was watching him with a spyglass.

The second had to do with the tracks. In the North Country folk made their own footwear, and its style and the details of its construction could vary significantly. Because of this, it was often possible to tell where a person was from or who their family was from their tracks. The same was true for goblins. But these tracks were too uniform; every pair of boots was exactly the same style and pattern. There was only one place he had seen tracks all alike before, during his time in the 3rd Rifles. He was looking at the tracks of an army. He'd planned on riding over the pass and poking around a little more but this was not news that would wait. Turning his horse he headed back to the steading.