Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

They were well into their third week out of Ironhame and were all beginning to weary of their journey as they pushed up the last slope to Taefleg Behmer, named for the castle and garrison that towered over the area. This was the last real town before entering the northern highlands and the last leg of their journey. From this point on the going would be rough indeed, for they would depart from the High Road when they left the town.

As they walked up the last bit of road before the town Engvyr's father fell in beside him and asked, “You have the handgun?” He had taken to carrying it under his great-cote while they hunted and had kept the habit on the road once they were in wilder country. He nodded an affirmative.

“Mind that folk don't see it- but keep it with you always. There are rough sorts about that might not scruple to help themselves if they think that they can get away with it.”

While they camped on the outskirts his father negotiated the sale of the wagons and purchased pack-frames for their oxen. He also purchased two stout A-frame tents and found a pack-train that they could travel with for much of the remainder of their journey.

“We're near the end of our money now,” he told them, “And while I mislike coming to the Clan empty-handed we have at least enough to finish the trip.”

They met with the pack train in the early hours and his father walked up and down the line of mules and oxen before their dawn departure to suss out their fellow travelers. He gathered the family and told them, “We're traveling with several families who look to be good folk. If there is any sort of trouble on the way, go to them for help. But there are some rough sorts as well, dwarves on their own. Miners and roustabouts by the look of them. Mind you be polite, but on no account go off with anyone or allow yourselves to be alone in their company.”

Engvyr's mother looked at his father searchingly and asked, “Are you truly expecting trouble, then?”

He shook his head firmly. “That I don't, love. But better that we be prepared and need it not, than to need it and not be prepared.”

They travelled for days along the narrow, winding path as it skirted knife-edge ridges and slashes of gullies. The sound of running water surrounded them much of the time and they sometimes saw great cascades tumbling down the cliffs. Engvyr was swept away by the sheer, wild beauty of the deep mountains.

At night they camped in clearings that showed the signs of much use by groups like theirs. The families mostly kept to themselves, not unfriendly, just too tired from the day's travel to socialize much. As they approached the first high pass the trail took them above the tree line and up into the clouds. Their progress slowed to a crawl.

Engvyr trudged along miserably, his head pounding. It seemed that he could never catch his breath and food turned his stomach. The twins became so ill they needed to ride on the packs of the stolidly trudging oxen. His dad was the least affected but in truth none of them were well.

“It's the Height Sickness,” their guide told them that night as he squatted by their fire sipping coffee. “The air gets thinner as you go higher, and we're most of a league above sea-level here. Strong coffee and willow-bark helps a little, if you can get it in you, but the only thing that really cures it is to go back down the mountain. Come the morning you'll not feel like it but make sure you get some water in you. We'll top the pass early and you'll be feeling better by the time that we make camp on the morrow.”

He bade them good night and went to repeat these instructions to the next family in line.

Engvyr passed a miserable night, unable to get comfortable. When he did manage to drift off he dreamed he was being suffocated or chased by some nameless terror until he could not catch his breath. In the morning everyone looked as if they too had slept poorly. They choked down their coffee and as much water as they could stand before breaking camp and moving out.

Engvyr stumbled through that nightmare morning in a haze. The light of the sun stabbed at his eyes like hot knives as it cleared the peaks. His head throbbed with every step until he felt that it would surely explode. He clutched at the pack-strap of one of the oxen to keep his feet when his balance started to go. His vision greyed-out at the edges until all he could see was the ground in front of him. He knew not how the others fared and was past caring.

He came to himself with a jolt as he stumbled and realized that they were on a downhill slope. He seemed to improve with every step. When they stopped to make camp in late afternoon he had just the ghost of his former headache and was surprised to discover he was ravenous.

Their guide stopped by their camp again that night to share the bad news with them.

“Jerrod Porter didn't make it. Some folk’s hearts can't stand the strain of the heights.”

His father shook his head sadly and his aunt exclaimed, “How awful! What will his family do?”

The Guide shrugged and said, “Carry on, I reckon. Not much else they can do. They're near to home anyways and will be with their kin in five or six days, Lord and Lady willing.”

They made a cairn for the unfortunate man in the morning and said a few words over him before pressing on.

Later that day a rough-looking dwarf on a bedraggled pony dropped back and rode alongside their oxen as he spoke with Engvyr’s father.

“Headed for the strike?” he asked.

“Don't know anything about no strike,” his father replied, eyes fixed on the road before his feet.

“You haven't heard? Been a strike, gold and silver both, over the backside of Keever's Mountain. Folks are saying this is the Big One.”

“They always do,” his father replied neutrally. Engvyr watched the rider discreetly from under the brim of his hat. He didn't like the measuring way the dwarf looked at his father and peered at their packs.

“Well, this time is different, you mark my words! This time next year they'll be paving that trail with gold bricks.”

His father shrugged noncommittally.

“We're just headed back home to join our Clan.”

After the dwarf dropped back down the trail his father spoke quietly without looking at Engvyr.

“You saw?”

“That I did,” Engvyr replied in the same low tone. “He bears watching, that one.”

“That he does son, him and his friends too.”

They were near the front of the pack-train when disaster struck. Engvyr's aunt and the twins were walking by the ox just ahead of him. His father was with the two oxen behind him with his mother and the train's Guide bringing up the rear.

The train had become strung out as they climbed a narrow trail along the face of a rocky slope. The loose group of miners and roustabouts were ahead of them and the next family was a good hundred paces behind them. Just far enough back to save their lives.

Engvyr had his eyes on the ground in front his feet when a rumble started high above.

“Avalanche!” his father bellowed, ducking tight against the slope. He did the same, looking past his father, head tucked down between his shoulders against a sudden hail of small rocks. The Guide lunged forward, gathering Engvyr's mother in his arms to pin them against the slope just as a huge boulder bounded onto the trail, wiping it away. In an instant the Guide, his mother and two oxen vanished as if they had never been.

He lunged upward with a scream of shock and protest and a bounding rock struck him on the side of the head. There was a burst of light and then darkness.

A voice woke him some time later, and an inarticulate protest from his father. He blinked his eyes open as he made sense of the words.

“You're done for, hob. You'll not be needing this here shoulder-gun again.”