Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

Engvyr was close enough to the Master Ranger to hear him mutter, “What the hell are they playing at?” He signaled the dwarves to spread out as well.

Engvyr understood his confusion; while the dwarves did not bother with cavalry they understood the methods and tactics. The goblins had just done perhaps the worst thing possible. Far better to have made the most of their surprise appearance by charging the dwarves in an unruly mob. With the dwarves grouped only a fraction of them would have been able to fire on the charging force for fear of hitting their own riders. The Baasgarta, armed with lances and hand-weapons would have massacred the dwarves once they got among them. Instead by virtually stopping their advance to form lines they allowed the dwarves to form their own lines and meet them with their entire combined fire.

That, thought Engvyr, was a serious mistake.

It had been decided that they would stand and receive the charge rather than trying to maneuver against their foes. Given how poorly they'd done so far today Engvyr thought that was a good idea. They had no lances and their wood-knives weren't a very good weapon for mounted combat. Better that they respond with their strength: accurate, disciplined fire. Once their lines were spread out the skirmishers demonstrated the main difference between their carbines and those of the rangers. On command they hit a release on the fore-stock and a nine-inch spring-loaded spike bayonet snapped into position.

The Baasgarta line began to advance at a walk. Their line wavered and seemed to ripple as they came. They're really not much better at this than we are! Engvyr thought with surprise. Either that or their carnivorous mounts simply did not respond with the precision that horses or ponies would. The thought of their mounts, the ulvgaed, made the ranger shudder slightly. He was not the only one thinking about them.

“Remember,” shouted Berryc, “Aim for the mounts! You don't want to be fighting them hand-to-hand!”

Engvyr was a veteran and had survived many a tough situation. But sitting here on his pony watching the inexorable advance of their foes was hard on the nerves. The Baasgarta were three hundred paces away now and still approaching at a walk. Two hundred and fifty and they were still walking. Engvyr could hear the ulvgaed snarling and issuing short barks. Two-hundred and twenty paces and the dwarves raised their weapons and aimed.

“What the hell are they doing?” asked Berryc, echoing Engvyr's thought, “They should be at a full charge by now!”

When facing an opponent armed with long-range weapons cavalry need to close the distance as quickly as possible to give the enemy less time to fire on them. But the Baasgarta were walking their mounts right into range. Lord and Lady, thought Engvyr, thank you for granting us stupid enemies!

At two-hundred paces the command was given and four hundred carbines spoke just as the Baasgarta finally began their charge. The result was chaos. Ulvgaed and riders fell in front of their comrades just as they lunged their mounts forward. Some fell over their downed troops. Others bounded high over the bodies of struggling, wounded ulvgaed and soldiers just in time for the second rank of skirmishers to volley. Engvyr braced the butt of the carbine against his hip and pulled the long lever that cocked the weapon. As he raised it to his shoulder for the next volley he could see injured ulvgaed snapping at their riders or at the others bounding over them.

The Baasgarta charge had devolved into a ragged mess but they kept coming on as individuals. The rangers slung their carbines and drew hand-axes or wood-knives as the Baasgarta hit the skirmisher’s line. Engvyr would rather have faced them on foot with the bayonetted long-rifle as he was worried that he would accidentally cut down his own pony instead of the enemy.

Then the Baasgarta were among them, stabbing with lances and cutting with falchions. The ulvgaed snapped, bit and struck with their hooves. The dwarves fought back with bayonets, wood knives and hand-axes. The goblins were more effective but were badly outnumbered and completely uncoordinated by the time they hit the skirmisher’s lines. They did a great deal of damage but hardly one in five smashed their way through the dwarven ranks and out the other side. The survivors of the disastrous attack fled and many more were cut down from behind by the dwarven guns.

Only two of the Baasgarta hit the rangers but inflicted only minor injuries before they were killed. The skirmishers had not fared so well. Something like three-hundred of the Baasgarta cavalry had hit their lines, killing over a hundred of the dwarves and wounding many more. Engvyr closed his mind to the blood, the dead and the sounds of pain as they tended the wounded as best they could. He knew many of the skirmishers from his time with the regiment but he deliberately kept his focus on the mission. There would be time enough for grief later.

When they finally moved on they left nearly a third of their strength behind. In the grim reckoning of war they had done well. The Baasgarta cavalry, which had nearly equaled their numbers at the outset, had effectively ceased to exist. But that would be cold comfort for the survivors when they had the leisure to reflect and grieve.

Though the actual fighting had taken only minutes the encounter cost them more than an hour and they pressed on at the best pace that they could manage. Nearing the gully where the dig was taking place they dismounted, slipping forward through the trees. Engvyr realized that he had not heard any blasting since early that morning and could hear no sounds of work in progress now. He felt a growing sense of dread as they drew nearer.

When they entered the gully they came to the edge of a logged area. The stumps provided good cover but they had to move with greater caution. Taarven held up his hand in a signal to stop. Engvyr repeated the signal before creeping forward to see.

There was a line of dwarves along the edge of the pit. All were dressed as the boy had been in a simple shirt that left their right shoulder exposed to show their brand and a pair of trousers. Some of them were weeping quietly, some looked serene or resigned. Others simply looked tired. Bored-looking Baasgarta were spaced out along the line, about one for every twenty to thirty prisoners.

The pair of rangers moved along parallel to the line, keeping out of sight. They could hear the faint sounds of others moving cautiously up behind them. Eventually they got to the line's final destination. A squad of Baasgarta stood at ease, chatting among themselves and keeping an eye on the line. A group of three stood at the very edge of the pit. Two of them grabbed the first dwarf in line and held his arms. The third goblin stepped behind him, slit his throat and the two holding his arms shoved him into the pit as they reached for the next dwarf.

Engvyr's mind shut down and he seemed to be observing rather than directing his own actions. He aimed carefully and gut-shot the goblin with the knife. He reloaded mechanically as he heard Taarven's carbine fire and one of the two grabbing the next dwarf pitched off the edge into the pit. All around him rangers and skirmishers rose and fired. The dwarven slaves did not flee as their masters were cut down. They just cringed in place or simply stood staring at their rescuers in mute incomprehension. It was over in seconds.

But Engvyr knew that for him and probably for all of them, it would never be over.