Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

An Afmaeltinn army would have been shouting insults, clashing weapons against their shields and working themselves into a frenzy. The Baasgarta began a rhythmic chant instead. He could not make out he words or even the language at this distance, but the cadence would help them stay in-step and coordinated as they moved forward.

He could hear a distant shout passed along the goblin ranks and he watched the ripple along their lines as they unslung their shields and held them before them. Horns sounded and the Baasgarta began to advance at a walk.

“Load!” was the shout from their own lines and he watched as over three thousand dwarves, almost in unison, cocked their rifles and thumbed heavy lead slugs into the chambers of their weapons. He knew well the routine from his own days in the regiment, and his impatience and boredom evaporated as the enemy drew closer.

The Baasgarta were advancing in decent order, the column expanding and compressing slightly as they came. The front ranks were having a little trouble keeping station as they waded through the low growth but were quickly brought back into line by the shouts of their sergeants, or whatever the goblins called their equivalent.

As the enemy approached the range markers at three-hundred paces the dwarven sergeants bellowed, “Ready!” and the dwarves of the 3rd Rifles raised their weapons to their shoulders. This was quickly followed by the command to aim. Engvyr knew that in this light and at this distance the riflemen would be aiming at the mass of goblins rather than at individual targets. They would aim at a notional spot several inches below chin-height as well. That way if your shot was low it would still strike the body. If it were high you hit the head, or the person behind.

As the Baasgarta were two steps from the range-marker the command to fire was given. WHAM! Over three thousand rifles fired in unison. The soldiers immediately reloaded with practiced precision.

Advancing in a shield-wall was a standard practice, and against arrows or crossbow bolts it worked moderately well. But even at three-hundred paces, the rifles' long, heavy lead slugs blasted right through the shields and struck the men behind. The effect of the massed volley looked as if the entire thousand-man wide first rank of goblins had tripped and fallen simultaneously. Some fell deeper in the ranks as well and the line faltered for a moment.

The average dwarf in the 3rd Rifles had thirty years in ranks, and it showed now. The regiment looked like a vast machine as the soldiers broke open the actions of their rifles, cocking the pieces as they knelt in near-perfect unison. The first rank stood as they reloaded, closed the rifles actions and aimed. Exactly eight seconds after the first volley the eight-hundred and fifty rifles of the first rank spoke again. WHAM!

Then they repeated the process as the second rank stood, fired and knelt. WHAM! Then the third rank and the fourth. Every two seconds, like clockwork. Wham! Wham! Wham! It was a thing of beauty to Engvyr's soldier's soul.

He had to give the Baasgarta credit, they were game. The combined rate of fire of the regiment sent nearly thirty thousand slugs slamming into their ranks every minute, yet still they came on, marching into the meat-grinder. They were slowed by the need to step over or around their fallen comrades but they advanced, closer and closer. But ripples ran through their ranks now, and their front lines grew ragged. At two hundred paces the signal was given for the heavy infantry around him to load their shorter-ranged slug-guns.

For the first time the goblins brought their repeating crossbows into action. Waves of bolts rose from their ranks, but the range was still long for the light weapons and the goblins were firing blind from behind the shield-wall. Even when their fire reached the dwarven lines they had little effect against the steel breast-plates and wide-brimmed kettle helms of the dwarves.

The closer they came the more effective the dwarves’ shots were and more and more goblins were mown down. Engvyr was amazed at the Baasgarta's sheer bloody-minded refusal to break. He began to feel some apprehension now, for as many of the enemy as they had slaughtered and were still slaughtering, the goblins ranks still covered the valley floor as far as the eye could see. If the enemy didn't break the riflemen would be overwhelmed. Of course the dwarves still had two full regiments in reserve to back them up.

At one-hundred and fifty paces the heavy infantry added the fire of their slug-guns to the carnage. It was too much. The front ranks of the Baasgarta stopped, then tried to retreat and found that they couldn't. The weight of the soldiers behind them still trying to advance, stopped them in their tracks. Wave after wave of bullets slashed into them and in desperation the Baasgarta began to turn their weapons on their comrades. Thousands died before the horns finally sounded retreat and the pressure eased. For what little good it did them they put the shield-wall up and made a controlled withdrawal as waves of slugs continued to wash over them.

When the Baasgarta reached two-hundred and fifty paces distance the dwarves stopped firing. They hadn't enough ammunition to pursue the goblin force. As if the sudden cessation of the gunfire were a signal the mass of goblins broke formation and ran for their lives. The first battle of the war against the Baasgarta was over.

Engvyr had seen battles and their aftermath before, but he stood and looked out over the carnage before him in shock. He had walked down to the edge of the slope and just stared. The battlefield was carpeted in bodies, several deep in places. Dwarves moved among the dead and injured, wading in blood. The air was thick with the coppery stink of it, and it had pooled so deep in places that the wounded had drowned in it. Occasionally a shot broke through the moans and screams as a soldier gave mercy to a downed enemy. Looking out he could see a band of bodies a hundred and fifty paces wide stretching the breadth of the valley.

Looking across the 3rd's lines he could see soldiers bandaging each other’s wounds, and only a few stretchers as seriously wounded or dead dwarves were carried back from the lines. What in the Lord and Lady's name is driving them? he thought, looking back to the field of dead goblins. Normally you expected an enemy to break or disengage by the time that they had lost one man in ten of their force. Sometimes half that if a battle was obviously going against them. But unless he missed his guess the Baasgarta had lost a full third of their forces here.

He looked up to see the Sergeant-Major approaching. He acknowledged him with a nod and the old soldier stopped and surveyed the battlefield with his hands on his hips and shook his head in wonder.

“We'll be all night just clearing a path through this mess,” he said, “But I think that you're done here for tonight. Best you rack out and get some rest; I expect they'll have plenty for you to do tomorrow.”

Engvyr thanked him and returned to the Mountain Guard's bivouac. Naturally the evening's action was the only topic of discussion. He grabbed a cup of coffee as he took a seat and listened in. Several other rangers had been in position to see the battle and he let them tell the tale. If you could even call it a battle, he thought. Reports came in as the evening progressed. The 3rd had suffered only a few hundred casualties, most of them relatively minor. It appeared that they had lost fewer than two-hundred in exchange for upwards of twenty-thousand of the Baasgarta.