Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

After breakfast the games began. Competitions at archery using crossbows and bows were held, foot-races and pony-races, spear, axe and knife throwing. Deandra divided her time between watching these and helping to keep the tables of snack-foods well stocked.

Dwarves are not as a rule given to drunkenness but what are the holidays for if not to break the rules of everyday life? Any that dove too deeply into their cups were taken aside to lie down, and woke with throbbing heads to the merciless teasing of friends and family. A few drunken scuffles occurred but these were quickly quelled, often by the by-standers flinging their drinks on the combatants en masse.

As feast-time approached benches and tables were set up in the yard of the palisade to catch the overflow from the great hall or for those that simply wanted to dine out of doors. Engvyr and Deandra were among the latter, and she found that she was full long before she could even sample all of the dishes available.

As sundown approached the tables were cleared away both inside and out. As dwarves broke out musical instruments the dancing began. Engvyr swept her onto the floor, ignoring her protests that she did not know how. Fortunately the steps were near enough to the country dances that she was familiar with that she caught on quickly under Engvyr's tutelage.

She had not laughed so much in many months and went to bed happy in the wee hours of the morning. She had been seriously tempted to drag the dwarf off to some secluded spot, but sensed it was not yet the time for that. She settled for planting a kiss squarely on his lips, eliciting a cheer from the onlookers before she retired.

Morning arrived late and gradually. The remains of the feast were laid out on the tables in the great hall presided over by Ynghilda's elderly head-cook, Gerdrune, known to one and all as 'Aunt Gerdy.' Many came in before taking to the road to return to their farmhames and Aunt Gerdy was quick to press bundles and packets of leftovers upon them.

“It'll only go to waste else-wise,” was her response to any that protested this generosity.

Deandra joined in clearing up after the feast, breaking down and storing the extra tables and cutting up leftovers into a huge stew that would doubtless provide them with meals for many days to come.

That afternoon there was a great commotion and everyone rushed outside to see ranks of armored dwarves marching past the Steading. They wore blue-grey breastplates over quilted linen jackets, steel kettle-helmets, bulky rucksacks on their backs and short swords at their hips. There were units of pike men followed by dwarves armed with some sort of shoulder-gun.

The Army had arrived.

The sound of their marching feet did not seem loud until it stopped as the formation came to a halt. Their officers rode up on their ponies to the open gate of the palisade where Ynghilda waited with Engvyr and Taarven. The leading officer touched the brim of his kettle-helm in greeting.

“I'm Major Eggil Thorvaldson, commander of the 2nd Battalion of the 4th Heavy Infantry Regiment at your service, ma'am. You would be Ynghilda Makepeace?”

“The very same. And these rangers are Taarven Redbeard and Engvyr Gunnarson.”

He nodded to each in turn and Ynghilda asked, “Would you and your officers care to dismount and join us inside for some refreshment?”

“I'd like nothing better, Ma'am, but I am afraid that we must see to the disposition of our units. Perhaps we could join you for dinner instead?”

“That would be an honor, Major. If I might suggest, sir, there are several fallow fields beginning a quarter-mile north. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to set your camps there as it would cause less disruption to the crops.”

“Thank you ma'am. We'll be pleased to accommodate you if we can. Until this evening, then.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his helmet and they cantered off to issue directions to their sergeants.

Dinner that evening was stew and black bread supplemented with wedges of cheese and a keg of wine imported from the south. Ynghilda and the two rangers were engaged in serious conversation about the defense of the valley with the army officers. Even at a distance as Deandra worked she could tell that Ynghilda was not pleased by what she was hearing.

Though it was hard to be parted from Brael and Gerta she was more convinced than ever that she had been right to send them away.

“Well, this is fun,” said Taarven as two crossbow bolts stuck in the log he was lying behind and a third ricocheted off.

Engvyr was lying flat on his back next to him looking up through the forest canopy with his long-rifle across his chest.

“I've had fun before,” he said mildly, “And I don't recall it feeling just exactly like this.”

Spotting movement from the corner of his eye he looked to his left and saw a goblin moving down the hill to flank them. He estimated the range and adjusted the big rifle's vernier sight. He took a deep breath, letting it half out as he rolled onto his side. He quickly drew a bead and stroked the trigger. Whack! A split second later he heard a dull metallic 'ponk' as the heavy slug hammered through the target's breastplate. The goblin threw up his hands with a cry and fell out of sight.

Engvyr rolled flat again as another crossbow bolt slammed into a tree next to the toe of his boot. He looked at it sourly.

“I'll allow as I have had better times my own self,” Taarven admitted, “But at least the company is good.”

“That's three, by the way,” Engvyr told him.

“Oh are we keeping score now?” Taarven rose up and snapped off a quick shot with his carbine. As he fired a bolt skipped off his breastplate and tore the sleeve of his shirt. He rolled aside and flattened behind the log again. Glancing at the tear he said, “Damn, I liked this shirt.”

Engvyr had reloaded the rifle- a singularly awkward process while lying on his back. He took another deep breath and rolled to one knee and fired. Taarven heard a scream from up the hill and swore as Engvyr dropped flat on his belly.

“Don't you ever miss with that damned thing?”

Engvyr looked at him and grinned. “That's four.”

“Oh shut up.”

– **-

Engvyr and Taarven had spotted smoke from the farmhame and ridden up to investigate. They'd gone in on the wooded side, hoping to approach unobserved. Leaving their ponies at the tree line they had continued on foot only to be ambushed among the trees. The rangers had killed six of their attackers in the hours that followed. The remaining ambushers had withdrawn, following the main party of raiders.

They had investigated the grounds and come together at the ruined hame. It had burned poorly, being built of stone, but the contents had been gutted and the roof had collapsed.

“They're getting better at this,” Engvyr said sourly, “Lord and Lady but I hate a smart enemy!”

“From the signs there were about thirty goblins. They took sixteen people, the livestock, killed two and left the bodies alone, burned the place and then set an ambush to delay us. Which worked, by the way. At this point there's no way we can catch up with them before full dark.”

Engvyr studied the land carefully.

“We're agreed that there's no real chance of a rescue?”

Taarven nodded bitterly.

“It's a gamble but we could maybe make this raid a bit more expensive for them and get some payback into the bargain. I'm guessing they had no thought that we'd kill so many of their skirmishers,” Engvyr said, “They lose a few more and they're going to have to re-think the way they do business. I've a notion from the way that those ridges lie I might be able to cut across on foot and get above them. If I can get into range I'll give them cause to regret it.”