Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“I don't like it,” Taarven said definitely, “This leg of mine still isn't up to that kind of country. You'll get caught by dark up there with a whole passel of pissed-off goblins. That's not a recipe for survival, Eng.”

“Likely I'll manage alright. They've already shown they'd rather get those prisoners than kill a couple rangers. They won't be wanting to leave them to come after me in numbers.”

“Eng, they probably expected these fellas to kill us! 'Sides, Deandra will skin me alive if'n I come back without you.”

“Oh come on, she'd just bruise you some. I can do this, Taarven. Bring the ponies up and wait for me here but keep an eye out, there might still be one or two of these fellas creepin' around. I'll try to be back before midnight.”

Trails are never the shortest distance between two points. They are made for easy travel and as a consequence follow the path of least resistance so they tend to wind around a lot. Sometimes a lone man on foot can cut across in a straighter line and cover a lot less distance than the people following the trail. It was a gamble- he might find himself cut off by a cliff or box-canyon but Engvyr had spent more than a few years in these mountains and had a pretty good sense of the lay of the land.

He needed to travel light so he left the carbine with Taarven. This was going to be long-distance work. He jogged, walked and scrambled along the succession of ridges through the long afternoon, keeping below the crests to avoid sky-lining himself. It was getting late by the time he finally spotted his quarry on the trail by the river far below. They had the captives roped together in the midst of their group and were herding the goats from the farmhame ahead of them. Many of the captives carried bags or bundles of loot and supplies. Several oxen were strung together and bringing up the rear.

Shortly before sunset Engvyr had found his firing position and settled in. It was a place where the trail below narrowed and ran alongside a section of whitewater. It wasn't ideal but it was the best he was likely to get.

In the Regiment the maximum effective range of an Infantry Long Rifle was said to be three-hundred paces and the goblins were strung out along the trail at a bit more distance than that. But a good trooper could push that out to four-hundred or even more in the right conditions. After thirty-two years with this particular rifle Engvyr was very, very good.

He braced his left hand on a tree and rested the fore-stock on his extended thumb. He had cut into the bark to mark the position for consistency. He'd even risked a ranging-shot at a rock next to the trail, hoping that the smear of lead where the bullet impacted would go unnoticed. His sights were set and he was ready.

He waited until most of the captives were past. When one of the goblins stopped to look back along the length of the train he put the sights on him and squeezed the trigger. He saw dust puff off of the target's jacket and the goblin fell into the river with a shout.

The sound of the tumbling rapids covered the distant report of the big gun so several goblins rushed forward to help, not realizing that he'd had been shot. Engvyr put his second shot into the group and was rewarded with a scream of pain. They scattered, not knowing where the shots were coming from. One of them ducked behind a rock, his back full on towards Engvyr, who promptly put a slug into it.

The remaining goblins quickly herded their captives away, crowding too close to the prisoners for him to risk a shot at that range. They were quickly gone around the edge of the hill but before they got out of sight Engvyr shot the first ox in the string. The goblin holding the lead rope scrambled away as the ox sank to its knees and died.

Engvyr would have loved to slip down to the trail to cut the other oxen loose, but he didn't dare. If the goblins didn't come back for them, eventually the oxen would get hungry enough to break the lead and move off on their own. They might even go home to the burned-out farmhame.

The sun was going down and he might be hunted himself within the hour, so he reloaded and set out. Darkness eventually forced him off the ridge and onto the trail. The going was easier then, but the distance longer and it was well after midnight when he got back to the ruined farm.

An infantry squad had arrived to investigate the fire and their sentry challenged Engvyr as he approached. Fortunately good soldiers weren't inclined to be trigger-happy and he was admitted to the camp without incident.

Taarven crawled out of his bedroll and they sat by the fire as Engvyr described the events of the afternoon to him and the squad-leader, Sergeant Heryl.

“Might be we could recover those oxen, 'stead of leaving it to chance,” the Sergeant said, “Lord and Lady know folk around here could use them.”

“Whatever we do is going to have to wait for morning,” Engvyr told him, “I am plumb beat.”

“I think that we should all hit the sack,” agreed Taarven, “We could use the rest and I don't fancy trekkin' into Goblin country in the middle of the night. Besides, there's those skirmisher's to think of. Likely they come across those oxen and made off with them already.”

Engvyr was chagrined. “I forgot all about them! Just blind luck I didn't run into them on the way back. Either way we can see what's what in the morning. Me, I'm hitting the sack.”

Morning brought news that changed all of their plans. Engvyr woke to the sound of a rider coming into camp and pulled the blanket over his head. After the fight in the trees and the attack on the trail followed by too little sleep on hard ground he felt like he'd been pulled through a knothole.

He heard the rider dismount, a quick discussion that he couldn't make out, and then someone prodded his foot.

“Engvyr? It's Taarven- there's a rider from the steading and I think that you need to talk to him.”

Engvyr groaned and rolled over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he peered blearily at the pair of dwarves standing over him. He'd seen the rider around but didn't know him personally.

“Well, go on then,” he said grumpily, “I'm awake.”

The rider looked nervous and said, “You're needed back at the steading sir.”

Engvyr looked at him a moment waiting for him to elaborate. After a few seconds the rider seemed to realize what he wanted and said, “Something's happened, sir, I mean, back at the steading.”

Engvyr waited, calmly looking at the nervous rider.

“Uh, right. Well, it seems last night Ynghilda walked into the great hall a bit after midnight, and there was, uh, a goblin in there.”

The Ranger sat up abruptly throwing back his blankets and grabbing his boots.

“Was she hurt? Is she OK?” he asked as he shook his boots out before putting them on and rising. To his surprise Taarven looked more amused than alarmed.

“Oh no, it's nothing like that, he didn't attack her or anything sir…”

“Lord's teeth boy!” Engvyr exclaimed, “A fella could starve to death waiting for you to tell a story! What did he do?”

“Well sir, it seems he was a'settin' by the fire. Drinking coffee. Asked after you, he did.”

“Asked after me? By name?”

“N-no sir. He said 'the blonde ranger.' And he called you something else… “’Son of Good Stew?'”

It was mid-morning when Engvyr rode into the palisade. He handed his pony off to the groom and headed for the great hall. A number of Dwarves were gathered around peeking through the open door, whispering among themselves.

He pushed his way through them and stepped inside. Ynghilda was sitting by the hearth with the Goblin drinking coffee. She was laughing over something he'd just said and they both turned to look at him.

“You have the most interesting friends, Engvyr,” she said as he joined them.