Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

They ate quickly but did not wolf the food down as she'd expected. Each took only one chunk from the loaves and when it was gone they drank the broth and swept the remaining bits of meat and vegetables into their mouths and chewed them thoroughly.

More groups arrived and were treated to what was almost certainly the best meal of their lives. At first Squirrel’s crew sat quietly after they finished eating, eyes and hands on the table before them, sometimes shifting uncomfortably on the benches. Deandra realized that they probably were uncomfortable given that they had apparently never used furniture before.

She got up and managed to convey to the crew that they were to follow her and led them over to the great hearth. She squatted by the fire and motioned for them to do the same. This they were comfortable with. After a time all the crews had cycled through the bath-house and Squirrel joined them. He spoke to his crew and they relaxed further, examining her and their surroundings less timidly. They began to talk quietly among themselves, tentatively at first, watching Deandra to see if she raised an objection. Eventually she moved to one of the overstuffed chairs and sat gratefully. Even if they were used to squatting for hours on end, she wasn't, and it had been a very long day.

Squirrel introduced her to his crew. The largest of them, still small by her standards, was called Big Mattock. The others were introduced as Drills Fast, Single Jack and Double Jack, Shovel Toe, One-Hand, Builder, Makes Rope and Cook. Builder, Double Jack and Cook were women. From what Deandra had seen in the bath-house she thought that Double Jack might be with child, and resolved to let Vaalketyr know.

After the last Braell had eaten, blankets were passed out and each crew was shown to a section of the broad benches along the walls to bed down. Deandra returned to her old bed in Ynghilda's apartment and settled in to sleep. Her last thought was a wish that Engvyr was with her…

Twilight found Taarven and Engvyr working their way through the brush at the western edge of the valley. They were careful not to make any disturbance as they moved along; 'virtually blind' was not the same thing as 'blind' and movement draws the eye. They neared the mouth of the canyon as the first stars were twinkling in the night sky.

Taarven craned his neck to look upward and then said quietly, “I think we're ok for the moment. I'm pretty sure that we're inside his blind spot.”

The rangers stole into the canyon. A road ran alongside the stream that fed the small lake. The very edge of this road next to the canyon wall had some brush and tumbled rocks but no real cover. It was dark as a pit as they moved slowly pausing frequently to listen, though the sound of the tumbling water interfered with this. Before long they came to a place where the path ended and a bridge arched over the water.

“I am not liking this. Not at all!” Taarven said quietly. Engvyr knew exactly what he meant; between the darkness and the noise of the stream they could have walked within an arms-length of a crouching enemy and not realized it.

They low-crawled across the bridge next to the low railing. Once across they resumed their slow, careful way up the canyon. They had gone only a few hundred paces when they saw light flickering on the walls ahead.

Engvyr cursed silently at his first thought, that some person or group was approaching with a torch. They froze in place but the light did not move towards them. After a time they approached a slight bend in the canyon and crept forward until the source of the light became apparent. There were torches in vertical holders along the road, spaced every twenty-five to thirty paces leading to a stone wall that blocked further progress. The stream ran under the wall through a culvert with a barred cover and the road passed through a gate- currently closed. There were more torches along the top of the wall and they could see the figures of sentries patrolling there.

“Looks like we've reached a dead end,” Taarven said quietly.

“I've never liked that term… dead end,” muttered Engvyr. They watched quietly for a few moments before working their way backwards from the curve until the gates were out of site.

“Best we get ourselves out of this canyon before that term you dislike becomes literal,” Taarven said, “We get caught in this canyon come daylight there's nowhere to hide.”

They made their way back across the bridge but before they got halfway back to the entrance they saw light ahead of them again. This time obviously someone was coming. They scrambled back up the canyon looking desperately for a place to hide but there was nothing. Until they reached the bridge…

Engvyr looked at the bridge and then at Taarven.

“I am so not going to enjoy this,” he said.

“Don't see as to there bein' any choice,” Taarven said with a shrug.

Engvyr gasped as he lowered himself into the icy water. They held tight to the edge of the arch to keep from being swept downstream by the current as they eased themselves under the bridge. The rock was slippery with algae but they clung for dear life to it in the cold wet dark. They quickly grew numb as the light approached but they could see little from their position. Hooves sounded on the stone overhead and they could hear goblins talking as the light moved on.

Just as Engvyr was ready to heave a sigh of relief the light stopped moving and he heard the curious grunting of an excited ulvgaed. Hooves clattered and a goblin cursed his restive mount. How good is an ulvgaed's sense of smell? Engvyr wondered. Finally they moved on and Taarven pulled himself from their hiding place. Engvyr attempted to do the same but his foot slipped and the current took his legs out from under him. He tried to hold on but his numb fingers were not up to the task and he was tumbled out from under the bridge and down the narrow channel.

He bit back his instinctive cry of alarm- if the goblins heard they were both dead. The stream was only a few feet wide but it ran strong and fast. It was two to three feet deep in most places and Engvyr desperately tried to stop himself. He clutched at the rocks the current smashed him into or scrabbled at the edge of the channel when he could reach it.

Finally after an eternity of impacts and tumbling through the icy darkness he was able to claw his way onto the bank. He was shivering violently and his teeth chattered so hard he thought they would break. His body was numb and he was distantly aware that he was hurt. He pulled himself from the water but could manage no more and simply lay there with shivers wracking his body.

He hadn't been there long when rough hands grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He had only made it partway upright when his back spasmed and he had to stand, bent over with his hands on his knees. It was a few moments before he could straighten up enough to stumble forward.

“C'mon Engvyr,” Taarven muttered, “Move or die time!”

The journey back to their ponies was a pain-wracked nightmare for Engvyr. Fever was setting in so he was alternately sweating and shivering so hard his back would spasm again. His head felt like it had been split with an axe and his body ached to the limits that he could bear but somehow they made it. Unfortunately they weren't finished. Taarven boosted him into the saddle and he nearly went straight over the other side. Taarven swore and bound his wrists to the pommel of his saddle and his thighs to the stirrup leathers and led them west, away from the road. Over the next few hours Engvyr learned a new definition of misery. He was in and out of delirium and every time he nearly fell over his back would spasm again. Finally they stopped and Taarven cut him loose. He more than half-fell from his pony into Taarven's arms. Mercifully he passed out at that point.