Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

Pulling himself up the bank with his good arm, he tucked the other into his shirt to support it and tried to think what to do. Returning to the dig was out of the question, but where should he go? The early autumn air was still warm, in the daytime at least, but he had no food, nor any idea where to get some with his arm hurt. The only thing that he could think to do was to get as far away from the Masters as possible. They had come here from the north, so he would go south.

Perhaps he could find the dwarven Masters? Perhaps they would take pity on him. It was a thin thread of hope but it was all he had. He pulled himself to his feet and began to move through the trees, away from the river. He looked around and established his bearings, then moved off to the south. He moved cautiously at first, darting from tree to tree and looking around carefully before moving on. But as time went by he moved with less caution. He couldn't stop staring at everything. Trees, birds, plants… he'd never seen them so close up, or so many of them.

He was so preoccupied he almost walked straight into a pair of Masters on ulvgaed on the trail ahead of him. He froze instantly when he spotted them and then eased behind a bush, watching them intently. He waited for them to leave but they seemed to be in no hurry, simply sitting patiently and waiting. He knew from years of hunting rats that the eye is drawn to movement, so he held perfectly still as their eyes passed over his hiding spot. He was tempted to back away and try to sneak off but he knew this game too well.

A horn sounded behind him and to his right. The Masters looked, then turned their mounts and rode in that direction. As soon as they were out of sight he darted across the trail and hurried on. When he heard the horn again it was much nearer and he began to run. Down a wooded slope, across a stream and along the edge of another, steeper slope.

He heard an excited shout to his left and drumming hooves. In fresh panic he turned away and slid down the hill on his bottom, bouncing off a tree. Losing control he rolled the rest of the way down. He bit back a scream at the savage jolts of pain from his broken arm. Coming to a stop he realized he was on a trail and staggered to his feet. Hearing a crashing from behind, he looked back to see a rider come down the slope in a shower of displaced rocks and dirt. Squirrel tripped and found himself lying on his back, unable to catch his breath.

The ulvgaed leaped towards him as the Master riding the creature sawed at the reins to hold it back. The goblin grinned cruelly as he raised his horn to signal the other hunters. But before the rider could sound the alert he was swept from the saddle in a spray of blood by a red-headed dwarf with a two-handed axe. The ulvgaed wheeled and lunged but the dwarf spun the axe to stab the iron-shod butt into its teeth as another dwarf hurtled forward and sank a long, broad-bladed knife into the back of its neck. The ulvgaed fell and the second dwarf turned to look at the boy as he wrenched his knife free.

Bright blue eyes locked on his as the dwarf spoke, but the boy could make no sense of it and shook his head, terrified of the fierce blood-spattered figure before him. Then the dwarf with the axe said something. The other shot a quick glance at him and nodded. He sheathed his bloody blade then snatched Squirrel to his feet by his good arm. As the dwarf threw him over his shoulder pain, shock and exhaustion overcame the boy and he passed out.

He came to himself slowly with dim memories of being carried. He remembered being thrown to the ground and the sounds of fighting, followed by more jolting and pain. There had been conversations that he could not understand as he passed in and out of consciousness.

When he opened his eyes he beheld the tallest woman that he had ever seen. She was pretty though startlingly thin, and her eyes were full of concern. She spoke to him and while he couldn't understand the words he could tell it was a question. He sat up on the pallet he'd been laying on and scrabbled away from her, his back to the wall as his eyes locked on hers. She reached out slowly and gently touched the brand on his cheek, then turned to speak to someone else. He looked around the room and saw the blue-eyed dwarf standing near a doorway, and an older woman wearing a shirt of metal links sitting in a chair nearby. Candles lit the stone room and he realized that he was warm. The pallet was soft beneath him, as was the blanket that he'd displaced when he sat up.

He hurt all over and his arm throbbed with a dull ache. The break had been splinted and was bound tightly against his body under a clean shirt of finely woven fabric that reached to below his knees. The tall, kind-eyed woman patted his good shoulder gently and stepped away to talk to the others.

He had found them, the dwarven Masters! Or rather they had found him. He did not know where he was but he slowly relaxed. Clearly they meant him no harm and it came to him that he was safe. He shook with reaction and tears began to flow, then he was sobbing uncontrollably. He felt strong arms gather him up and hold him while he cried, pouring out the accumulated fear, the stress of his flight and injury. Finally he lapsed into exhausted slumber.

“At first we thought he was someone's child that was missed in the evacuation, but the scars on his cheek and shoulder tell a different story,” Engvyr said, “When the Baasgarta caught him, well, what else could we do?”

Master Ranger Berryc waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh you did right, there's no doubt a ‘that,” he said, “I've a feeling that the lad in yonder room is a key to this whole affair. It'd be nice if we could talk to him.”

“Well, even if we can suss out his speech it's going to be a while,” Deandra said briskly as she emerged from the room where the boy was being kept, “He's traumatized, exhausted and finally sleeping. It's a miracle that he hasn't already taken a fever so I'll thank you not to disturb him until he wakes.”

Engvyr smiled at her tone of command and extended a hand to her, which she took as she moved to stand close to his chair. He felt a thrill at her touch and comfort in her nearness. Besotted, he thought with a grin, that's the word. She squeezed his hand as if sensing his thought. With an effort he returned his attention to the conversation.

“It sounds to me almost like the old tongue,” Engvyr said, “or a dialect of it anyway. I'm just not familiar enough to say.”

Ynghilda nodded agreement and said, “It seemed so to me, too. I've sent to the camp for Harryl Gymlison. He learned the old tongue as a student in Ironhame, so if it is a dialect he's got the best chance to figure it out of anyone local.”

“In the meantime it seems likely to me that the boy is an escapee from the Baasgarta,” Said Colonel Oakes, commander of the 3rd Rifles, “I can't really see where else he might have come from.”

Ynghilda nodded, “They've been taking our folk. We've suspected they might be keeping them for slaves, but this boy isn't one of our own. Might be from somewhere else along the North taken years back but I don’t know anywhere they speak that tongue. That'd mean the Baasgarta have been taking dwarves for a lot longer than we thought. Hell, he might even have been born there.”

“Well,” said the Colonel, rising to depart, “We're not likely to figure it out by jawing over it all night. I need to get back to the camp. If'n you're able to find out anything be so kind as to send a rider to fetch me there.”