Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Don't I just?” he replied, shaking his head. He noted Ynghilda's 12-bore standing nearby. He turned to the goblin and said, “What were you thinking, sneakin' in here like that? She could have blown a tunnel through you!”

“But she did'n,'” the goblin replied with an unrepentant grin.

“How did you get past the palisade and guards?” Engvyr asked.

“I've asked him that myself,” said Ynghilda and turned to the goblin, “Tell him what you told me.”

The goblin gave Engvyr a grin full of pointy teeth and said nothing.

After a moment Engvyr said, “Well?”

The goblin remained silent and Ynghilda said dryly, “That's exactly what he told me. Nothing.”

Engvyr couldn't help grinning himself as he clasped forearms with the goblin. After they were all seated he said, “You're looking well, old friend. How in the world did you find me?”

“Troll saw te' mark and pass word. So I asked te' trolls where you were an' they tol' me.”

“You talk to trolls?” Ynghilda asked disbelievingly.

“Of course. Trolls see ever'thing. You don' talk te' trolls?”

“Uh, no,” Engvyr said with a glance at Ynghilda, “Did the trolls tell you anything else?”

The goblin nodded.

“They say you have trouble with,” he made a circular gesture in front of his face, “Tattoo-face people. I do not know what this means.”

Engvyr described the facial tattoos and braiding of the goblins that were raiding from the north and while it was not possible for a goblin to become any paler he was visibly agitated by the description.

“This is not right,” the goblin said, shaking his head, “These people you say, they are long dead. No more!”

“I have seen them myself,” Engvyr said, “both here and on the edge of the Daenteg Idengeord, when I was a boy. What do you know about these Goblins?”

“In te' time of te' Maker Dvaerg and Duergar, goblins as ye call us, were all slaves. But some duergar t'ink the Maker was a god an' worshiped him. They became ver' special guards of other Goblins. But they are all dead, long time ago. Very, very bad were the Baasgarta .”

“Apparently they didn't so much die out after all,” said Ynghilda.

“I can assure you of that, my old friend. These goblins are very much alive and are raiding all along our northern frontier.”

The goblin frowned, looking at them dubiously. Engvyr thought for a moment, then looked the Goblin straight in the eye and said, “I am Engvyr Gunnarson of the Falkevell Clan, and I swear to you on my name, the name of my father and the honor of my clan that this is true.”

The goblin's eyes grew wider as he spoke. He stared at Engvyr for a few moments and then nodded decisively.

“I see you, Engvyr Gunnarson Falkevellklan,” the goblin said, bowing, “and I am honored to accept your name and oath. I will take your words to my elders.”

The goblin rose, bowed to him and donned his hat, scarf and gloves. Turning to Ynghilda he said, “Thank you for te' coffee, great woman. Engvyr, maybe ye can walk me out? We would not want any misunderstandin's wit' yer friends.”

Engvyr rose and escorted him to the gates of the palisade.

“Safe journeys, old friend,” he told the goblin as they clasped forearms, then continued, “There's a war brewing with these Baasgarta of yours. I know the rangers and army know that not all your folk are the same. But word of the war will reach Ironhame, and the folk there may not make a distinction between your folk and these other goblins. It might be best if your traders withdrew from Ironhame for now, maybe out of Dvargatil Baeg altogether. To avoid… misunderstandings.”

“I will say this to the elders as well. Be careful, my friend. Dvaerg and Duergar, some are good, some bad. But all the Baasgarta are evil.”

Engvyr assured him that he would indeed be careful, and watched the goblin lope away until he was out of sight.

“What just happened here?” Ynghilda asked when he returned to the hall.

Engvyr shrugged. “Goblins only give their names as a sign of great trust. I not only gave him my name but swore by it. I've trusted him with my most precious possession. He must believe me until proven otherwise.”

“I know that it's not the case here, but what if it were proven otherwise?”

Engvyr said, “I wouldn't dare lie under the circumstances, because if I were caught I would be dead to him and to all goblins.”

“And that would be so bad you couldn't possibly lie?” she asked.

“Um… you should remember that goblins eat their dead.”

Ynghilda blinked, then blanched as understanding hit her. “Oh. Right. Good to know. I notice that he didn't give you his name in return. Was that because I was here?”

Engvyr shook his head and said, “That wouldn't matter to him. If he gave his name to me while you were present it would not be the same as giving it to you, and you'd be obliged to pretend not to have heard. No, he was just saving it, because you only get to give someone your name once.”

“I suppose that makes some sort of sense,” Ynghilda said, “I'm glad that something about this mess does…”

A squad of infantry had been sent to check on the column of smoke from the burning farmhame.

Taarven had a hard time convincing them not to take off after Engvyr and the raiding party.

“Engvyr is as skilled a Ranger as I've ever seen,” he told them, “ You'll come to grief for sure if you try to take a squad along those ridges at night. You'll never catch them goblins on foot else wise.”

“Might be we'd surprise you,” the Sergeant said.

“Fair to say, but even if you caught up to them you'd be a squad against a platoon-strength enemy,” Taarven said, “Even as good as I'm sure your people are that's going to be some mighty bad odds.”

The Sergeant reluctantly agreed and ordered his men set up camp. They gathered the bodies of the goblins and examined their appearance and gear. They would be fighting these people, after all and every bit of information that they could glean would help.

“This is damn well-made,” one of the soldiers commented as he examined the raider's repeating crossbow. It was gravity fed from a box magazine mounted above the firing-groove. A long vertical lever mounted just under the prod was pulled toward the shooter to cock the string and another bolt would drop into place from the magazine.

“Can't fire it prone,” another pointed out, “Have to be kneeling or standing to work that lever. Not sure how accurate it would be, either.”

“If'n they're taking their time it's accurate enough,” Taarven said, “Not so accurate when they are in a hurry, but they can fire three shots every two seconds.”

Someone whistled and the soldiers looked at the weapon with new respect. They could only manage a shot every six or seven seconds with their slug-guns. These used the same stock and firing mechanism as Engvyr's long-rifle but had shorter smooth-bore barrels. They fired a 16-bore/225 slug and they were accurate to about a hundred paces.

The previous afternoon Taarven checked the signs and discovered that three of the skirmishers that had attacked them in the trees had escaped to follow their comrades. He thought it likely that they would have taken the remaining oxen, but the Sergeant had insisted that they go to check.

“I think it's a fool's errand. If you find anything at all, like as not it'll be the sharp end of a goblin's crossbow bolt,” he'd told the young Sergeant, “But I suppose that I can't very well let you all go traipsing off by yourselves. I'll scout the way, but at the first sign of real trouble we're turning back. Understand?”