Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

There were two guards armed with crossbows patrolling the wall. Another two were on the ground on either end of the arch that passed under the building. None of them ever looked up as the skirmishers and the two rangers eased into position.

Taarven designated several soldiers to join himself and Engvyr, gesturing to indicate which would shoot which guards. Each of them aimed at their designated target and fired almost as one at the shouted command. Had they been dwarves or humans Engvyr would have felt sorry for them, but after seeing the slaves and the massacre at the dig-site he was long past spending pity on the Baasgarta. The four guards were killed instantly by the fusillade of shots from above.

The dwarves immediately dropped knotted ropes and half of them quickly climbed down to the top of building while the other half covered them. No alarm was sounded; apparently the reports of the rifles and carbines had not penetrated the buildings thick stone walls. Once on the top of the wall they released spike-bayonets on their carbines and entered the door in the far side of the canyon.

Taarven and Engvyr waited with the other skirmishers. From their perch above they could hear nothing but the wind. After a few minutes a trooper emerged from the doorway and waved them down. They joined him and he made his report.

“There were eight more inside, half of them racked out so it wasn't much of a fight,” he told them, “There's a passage off through the mountain; Second Squad is following to see where it leads. First is closing the gate.”

“Any casualties?” Taarven asked.

“Hrolf in First Squad took a cut on the shoulder from a thrown ax. They're patching him up now, but it looks like he'll be fine.”

Taarven nodded and said, “Very good. Third Squad! Bring up our mounts and tell the regulars it's time for them to move up.”

Gesturing to the cliffs on either side he continued, “When Second gets back I want one squad on either rim of the canyon- prepare hasty fighting positions and keep your eyes peeled.”

The soldier gave him a quick salute and returned inside. Turning to Engvyr he said, “Well, that went well.”

“Yep,” Engvyr agreed, “Let's not get cocky though; likely it'll only get harder from here. I hope the other raids have gone as well.”

“From your mouth to the Lord and Lady's ears.”

“The trick is, how do we get them to stop being slaves?” Grael asked, looking out over the crowded great hall. It was early in the morning of the day after the Braell had arrived.

Deandra frowned and thought, how indeed? It was a good question with no simple answer. The Braell had no concept of 'freedom,' and when she tried to come up with one herself she realized just how elusive an explanation was to arrive at.

Ynghilda guffawed suddenly and they looked at her.

“Sorry,” she said, “but it just occurred to me. How do you get down off of an elephant?”

Deandra and Grael shook their heads in bafflement.

“You don't. You get down off a duck; it's easier,” Ynghilda said. Seeing they weren't following her she continued, “Don't teach them to stop being slaves. Don't teach them what 'freedom' is and means. Teach them to eat their soup with a spoon, to wear shoes, to dress, to defend themselves. Teach them our values, our language and the thousand and one things that we all know so well we forget that we know them. Sooner or later they won't be slaves anymore.”

“Well then,” Deandra said, impressed, “I suppose the first thing is to teach them our language.”

“That, and the everyday things; you don't need to be able to speak to teach someone to use a spoon,” Ynghilda reminded her.

“Speaking of everyday things,” said Grail, “I was talking to the 4th's Quartermaster last night. Their supply train is passing through on the way to the front this morning, and he's been authorized to give us some of their stocks of spare clothing as well as some of the clothes from the casualties. We ought to be able to get everyone fully dressed by this afternoon.”

“Also speaking of everyday things,” said Deandra with a sigh, “I'd better find Squirrel. We need to get these people fed. Might as well get them started on 'spoons' while we are at it.”

As it turned out they started with an earthier need. Deandra cursed herself silently as Squirrel explained it to her and she immediately got the Braell lined up to use the latrines. She had to show the first few of them how, and then set them to teaching the others as they came through while she retreated to take a moment for herself. Lord and Lady! She thought, the poor dears were practically dying to relieve themselves but they felt that they needed to wait until they were told to! In that moment of realization she learned to hate. She did not just hate the Baasgarta; she hated the very concept of them. That any person, any group could do this to others, rob them of their will and initiative in even life's most basic needs… she earnestly and passionately wished them dead.

Tears of rage slid down her cheeks, but she was no hero, no warrior to slay them all. What she could do, what she couldn't not do in fact, was everything possible to undo the evil that the Baasgarta had done to these folk. With that in mind she dried her eyes and set to work.

It was work indeed, and bloody hard work at that. She bore Ynghilda's advice from the previous night firmly in mind and was firm with them. She did not ask them to do things, she commanded them. It pained her to withhold her empathy, but as much as she wished to be gentle they were simply not ready to respond to that. They didn't know how to respond to gentleness and civility. She could only trust in the Lord and Lady that would come with time.

She was reminded time and again that while the Braell might be tragically ignorant they were by no means stupid. Simple things like serving themselves their morning porridge, eating it with a spoon and putting away their bowls after was easy. Teaching them that they could use the latrine any time that they needed to, to simply get up in the morning and eat when they were ready all without anyone telling them to, that was the hard thing.

Squirrel was a blessing; not only was he more flexible owing to his youth, he was a ratter, a hunter of sorts. This required considerably more initiative than the others’ jobs so the concept was at least less foreign to him and he did his best to explain it to the others.

After breakfast a wagon pulled up outside and soldiers unloaded a few bales of trousers, quilted great-cotes, knotted woolen socks and boots. There were also belts, pouches and duffels. Deandra, Squirrel and a couple of the household got everyone lined up and equipped. They made sure that everyone got what they needed and knew to stow everything that they weren't using in the duffel.

This led to a new set of problems of course. Adult dwarves were pretty much of a size with one another, and that size was about six inches taller than these people, and more heavily built. This made the Braell look like children playing dress-up in the one-size-sort-of-fits-all uniforms. Thank the Lord and Lady for the belts, she thought.

The other difficulty was the boots, which apparently came in three sizes; too large, too small and too tight. Only about half of the former slaves were able to find a pair that would really work for them. But everyone wanted to wear their new boots even if they were ridiculously loose or painfully tight. Eventually she gave up trying to convince them not to.