Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

She looked up and saw Ynghilda had ridden up next to Taarven. For all that the dwarves had made a good account of themselves they had lost several times that number. The Steadholder's face might have been hewn from ice as she stood over the remains of so many of her folk, staring after the goblins. Deandra’s heart went out to the older woman. Hundreds of Ynghilda's people, people that she had known, had loved all dead in minutes. She couldn't imagine what the older woman was feeling.

Following the direction of her gaze Deandra saw that the Baasgarta cavalry had pulled up about four hundred paces away, beyond the reach of the soldiers' smooth-bore weapons. Two companies of infantry had formed up between the cavalry and the column of refugees.

Ynghilda said, “Just out of range, they figure. Engvyr, shall we teach them different?”

“With pleasure,” he said as he stepped to his pony and unsheathed his long-rifle. He loaded the weapon and peered at the enemy, then carefully adjusted his sights and shouldered the gun.

“Ready,” he told Ynghilda, “See the banner-man? You take him; I'll take the fella on the left.”

Ynghilda raised the big 12-bore to her shoulder and aimed.

“Got him.”

“Shoot,” Engvyr said and their rifles spoke almost as one. The targeted pair were hammered from their saddles. There was confusion among the Baasgarta and they quickly moved off another few hundred paces.

“Well, that was pointless,” said Ynghilda, “But ever so satisfying.”

“It bought us a bit more breathing room at least,” Taarven said.

Horns sounded again up and down the line as the sergeants shouted, “Ten minutes, people! Moving out in ten minutes!”

“Well, no rest for the wicked,” Ynghilda said. She touched hands briefly with Taarven and moved off towards the end of the column. Engvyr kissed Deandra and mounted his pony.

“I guess we'd best be about our business as well. Stay safe, love,” he said, meeting and holding her gaze for a long moment.

“You too. Both of you.”

They touched their hat-brims in farewell and rode off. She sighed heavily as she recovered her soiled, bloody ruck-sack and joined the reforming column. Soldiers were piling up their dead to one side of the road and her eyes shied away from the grisly sight.

They marched away from the site of the slaughter in a much tighter order than before, screened by the infantry now marching on their flank. Deandra took her turns carrying the litters or carrying small children for the dwarves.

She looked back and saw a thick cloud of dense black smoke rising into the sky from the piled dead. She should not be able to see the flames from this distance but the smoke near the pile was shot through with yellow-white flames. Work of the battlemages she supposed. At any rate their dead would not fill goblin stomachs tonight.

Not long after that there was a cry that traveled up the long column, and she turned to see. People were pointing into the distance where a dark column of the main body of the Baasgarta army had come into sight across the valley. People stopped to stare as rank after rank emerged from behind a shallow hill. A murmur of alarm rippled up and down the column, then the sergeants started shouting to keep moving.

The ground rose faster now and the hills began to close in from the sides. They would reach the pass itself just ahead of the oncoming army, but what then? The infantry would be able to hold the superior Baasgarta force for some time, but eventually their sheer numbers would allow them to press forward. As the pass narrowed to a mere hundred feet it seemed strangely unfamiliar, the sides steeper and covered in more brush than she remembered. Silly , she chided herself, you've been this way but the once, and that many years ago.

She heard volleys from the massed guns of the infantry battalion behind them now. The hail of bullets must be murderous in the narrow pass but the Baasgarta pressed forward. The volleys degenerated into sporadic shots as the goblins closed in and the Dwarves were forced to engage with pikes and bayonets.

The pass narrowed further as they climbed and the exhausted refugees began to quicken their steps. The sound of battle grew louder, becoming a roar that filled the pass. Suddenly Deandra realized that they were over the top and starting to descend. The walls of the pass opened out rapidly as the ground fell away before her. A line of soldiers stood across the road and were steering the column of refugees to the side. That's odd, she thought, I didn't realize they had sent so many soldiers ahead…

Deandra saw Grael Makepeace engaged in conversation with an army officer. Other members of the militia were gathered a little further down the road. She left the refugee column and walked over to Grael, wondering what was happening.

“It's almost time,” the officer said to Grael as she approached, “If you could form your people up on either side of the pass the infantry can retreat between them if need be.”

Grael nodded, and began yelling instructions down the hill to the militia. Deandra’s heart fell as she realized the infantry were being pushed back though the pass. These soldiers and the militia were preparing a last stand, but once the Baasgarta got out onto open ground they would spread out and crush them with sheer numbers before turning on the refugees. We have lost after all, she thought. But neither the officer nor Grael acted like men preparing a suicidal last stand, and the soldiers seemed relaxed as they unslung their rifles.

Rifles?!

The soldiers were carrying long-rifles like the one Engvyr used. She looked at them sharply and realized these troops weren't part of the heavy infantry company from the valley. Examining them more closely she saw that they all had a stylized number three on their shoulders picked out in blood-red thread. They were from the elite 3rd Rifles- her husband's old regiment!

Grael spotted her and said, “Good, you’re armed, come with me.”

They joined the closest group of militia at the side of the road just as a company of heavy infantry trotted out of the pass and broke into two, setting up next to the militia. She looked for more of the 3rd regiment troopers, but saw only a small group of them on the other side of the road. These soldiers carried carbines slung over their backs and wore no breastplates. They were standing in a circle and didn't seem to be doing anything at all. Battlemages? She wondered.

Suddenly a new noise intruded over the increasingly near roar of battle, echoing through the pass. Wham. Wham. Wham. Every two seconds like a massive, beating heart. She realized it was the sound of rifles, thousands of them, being fired in volleys on the other side of the pass. The 3rd must be dug-in on the slopes above the road! She realized, that was why it had looked different than I remembered.

After a minute she could hear volleys from slug-guns, much nearer, joining in. When the heavy infantry troops that had just left the pass formed up and marched right back in Grael gave out a whoop and clapped her on the shoulder in his excitement.

“They whipped, em', Boys!” he shouted. The militia on both sides of the road took up the cheer and filed after the infantry as she joined them, walking back the way they had come. Within two-hundred paces they came to the last position held by the rear-guard of the refugee column. Scores of wounded and dead infantry littered the sides of the pass. Medics tended to the living as they could while others laid out the dead.

They held them, she thought numbly, they stopped the Baasgarta cold, right here. But Lord and Lady, the cost…

She looked down the pass. It was an abattoir, literally carpeted with the bodies of dead Baasgarta, sometimes two deep. Deandra took a deep breath and with an almost physical effort shoved her shock and horror aside. Slinging the Big 14 she turned back to do what she might for the living.