Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Maybe… maybe they aren't an invading army,” she said, “Not as such, anyway.”

The others turned to look at her. She took a moment to organize her thoughts then continued.

“We've been assuming that the Baasgarta want our lands, but what if they don't? What if they want something else?”

“You know,” said Engvyr, “She might be on to something there. We've been assuming that we just bumped up against a hostile nation bent on conquest. But maybe we're looking at this thing sideways.”

“It makes sense,” Taarven said thoughtfully, “If they're not acting like an invading army, then what are they acting like?”

“Well, run it down,” said Ynghilda, “They move in and drive us out, bottle us up and start digging. They make no attempt to occupy the valley and they don't reinforce their troops even though they have to know that we will be. It's like they don't expect to stay indefinitely, or even for very long.”

“So maybe they don't,” Deandra said, “Perhaps they simply want something here and plan to get it and leave again.”

“But what could possibly be here that is worth going to war over?” asked Ynghilda, “They have to know that we won't simply let them walk away.”

“That's what you boys are going to find out,” Berryc said as he approached the group, “Provided that you can find a way into the valley?”

“Well,” said Taarven, “Engvyr and I have studied on that some and it can be done. Might be better to go afoot than to take ponies, though. It's a lot easier for a man on foot to remain unnoticed.”

“Harder to run away though,” Berryc pointed out. Deandra’s mouth went dry at the thought of Taarven and her husband on foot being pursued by Baasgarta cavalry. Engvyr caught her look of concern and shrugged.

“I'll not downplay the risks,” he said, “In the end it's a balance. In this case I think that stealth trumps speed.”

“Well, I'll be sending out every ranger willing to go,” said Berryc, “and I'll not second-guess their methods. But we need hard information and we need it fast. Whatever the Baasgarta are doing out there they aren't working on our timetable.”

Squirrel was a Ratter for his mining crew. It took fast hands, a quick mind and he had been on the job for four years. He was valued because having a good ratter meant that you always had a little meat in the pot at the end of your shift.

He had heard the rumors about the new dwarves. Crazy rumors, really. That they dressed like the Masters, wore no brands, spoke gibberish and were taller than his own people. He had tried to do as the elders said and not think about it but Squirrel had never been good at not thinking about things. How could there be such a thing? The Braell were the only dwarves, everyone knew this. They belonged to the Masters and always had. But everyone also knew that The Pit and The Farms were all there was in the world, Squirrel thought, Yet here we are.

Weeks ago many crews had been brought forth from The Pit and set on the road. They had been quietly joyous, for they must be going to The Farms. After all there was nowhere else. But instead they had marched for days. Those that sickened or faltered were killed, food for the Masters.

At length they came to this place where there was neither Pit nor Farm and were ordered to dig. There were no rats for Squirrel to chase so he helped the crew moving dirt. They slept at night huddled together under their blankets in the lee of the pile of dirt. It was boring work and it left Squirrel with much time to reflect.

On the journey he had seen many strange and wondrous things. Some of them he had heard of, like trees. They had seen streams, rivers and mountains. Animals that were not ulvgaed but looked much the same, with coats of white and brown instead of all black. He had seen something else too: The Masters had lied to them. This was the thing he could not make himself not think about.

All of his life Squirrel had been told that Dwarves were born into this world to pay for a great sin they had committed against God in a previous life. Here they must labor to make up for that sin. It was a world of Pit and Farm. Those with the greatest sin were born into The Pit. Others whose sin was less were born to The Farms, where they grew food for all. But if the Pit and the Farm being all the world was a lie what else might be?

After a week of digging the dwarves had long since cleared away the earth. With the Masters using their magic to break up the rock, work was progressing quickly. He decided that it was time to see these new dwarves for himself. He simply walked along the edge of the newly forming pit, past the crews until he was not in a direct line of sight of the dwarves and Masters. Being but twelve years old he had not yet been given the leg-cut that restricted his elders to short steps, so he was able to quickly dart among the trees.

He did not know this sort of environment, but four years as a ratter had taught him plenty about stealth. The thick carpet of needles fallen from the trees was a good surface for sneaking, and he moved quickly from tree to tree, always watching to insure that all heads were turned away from him whenever he moved.

At length he came within sight of the Master's encampment. There, past the tents and cooking-fires he saw them and felt a tide of excitement rising within him. Dwarves like him, yet like no dwarves he had ever seen. They were bound hand and foot but he could see that they bore no brands across their cheeks. If their shoulders were branded it was hidden beneath their clothes. They were indeed dressed like Masters, or similarly at least, for they wore great-cotes, trousers and boots. The hair and beards of the men were long, not cropped short in the way of his own people.

He watched them hungrily, absorbing every detail about them. By their very existence they proved the lie of his life and everything he had been told. There were Dwarven Masters! He did not yet know what this meant, or what he should do. In one stroke his world was changed forever.

“What are you doing here?”

He had been so caught up he had not noticed a Master approaching him from behind. He spun to face him and was knocked to the ground by a backhand blow. His mind spun off into panic- he could not imagine what his punishment would be for this, but it would be severe. The Master reached for him and Squirrel instinctively kicked out, his foot catching him in the groin.

He scrambled away desperately as the goblin folded up gasping in agony. He'd first been caught, then had done the unimaginable. He had struck a master! Panic took over and he fled blindly, away from the digging, the camp and the Masters.

He did not know how long he ran. When he slowed to catch his breath he heard the horns sounding behind him and he panicked again, running until he thought his lungs would burst. Suddenly he was trying to run in mid-air. He barely had time to register the white-water rushing towards him and hold his breath before he hit.

The river swept him along, dashing him against rocks with bruising force, turning him over and over in its current. He snatched a breath when he could, only to have it driven from his lungs by the impact with the next boulder. He heard his left arm crack and pain spiked through him. Finally he was able to struggle to the surface and float along, taking great tearing gasps of breath. The current was still strong but he was able to make his way over to the far bank and lay collapsed against it, gasping. Pain pulsed from his arm. He was sure that it was broken.