Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Yes,” he said at last, “Those were the dwarves that killed my father, my aunt and cousin. Thank your Elders for me when you have the chance. What happened to them in the end, by the way?”

Grimnael shrugged.

“Oh, they were not all bad. I'm told that they were quite… sweet,” he said, then grinned wolfishly, “…and tender.”

Engvyr returned the grin as he rewrapped the weapons. Lacking any other orders Engvyr remained at the command post and observed as Grimnael and the other officers managed the aftermath of the battle.

BABABOOOM! The ripple of explosions merged into a single colossal wave of sound as the corpse of the dead god was shattered by the combined energy of over two tons of explosive. Pieces of the creature landed soggily within a hundred paces of the command post where Engvyr and the others watched. It's a good thing we cleared the field first, Engvyr thought, else there'd be some mighty unhappy soldiers about now…

“Well, I’m certainly glad that I didn't miss that at least!”

Engvyr looked at the speaker and did a double-take. Though he had seen the dwarf but once more than fifteen years before, there was no mistaking that imposing figure.

“Your Highness!” He exclaimed. Then remembering himself he bowed deeply. The officers turned at his exclamation and after a moment's shocked hesitation bowed also.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, stop that!” the Prince commanded, “This is a battlefield, not the privy chamber! For the moment I am here as an officer of the King's Army.”

Accompanying the Prince was a captain in the livery of The Prince's Own. His face held a look of long-suffering patience as the Prince continued.

“I came ahead of the regiment to let you know to expect them within the hour.” He gestured to the officer accompanying him and continued, “Captain Kollyr here will be our liaison. In the meantime perhaps someone can tell me what in the Lord and Lady's names has happened here?”

They quickly filled him in on the events of the previous night, and his face grew grave as he listened to the reports. A runner from the Mountain Guard arrived to collect Taarven and Engvyr but the Prince interrupted him.

“I understand that you may need Ranger Engvyr, but please convey to Captain Gauer that I require the presence of Lord Eastgrove,” he told the runner, then in a quiet aside to Engvyr said, “Terribly sorry my boy, but you've ducked your responsibilities for long enough. I'm afraid your Kingdom needs you more than the Mountain Guard does at this point. You may submit your resignation to them at your leisure.”

Engvyr gulped and said the only thing he could.

“As you say, your Highness.”

So he stayed with the commanders, watching mostly, occasionally making useful suggestions when it seemed appropriate. Much to his own surprise he had contributions to make, despite the fact that in dwarven terms he was still relatively young. He mentioned this to the Prince.

“You've a good head on your shoulders, Engvyr Gunnarson,” the Prince told him, “And common sense besides, which, young as you are, you must realize is not all that common. If we can convince you to stop going off on suicide missions I predict a bright future for you.”

“I'll be happy enough just to return safe to my wife at this point, your Highness,” Engvyr said earnestly. “We've a cottage to build and…”

“A cottage you say?” interrupted the Prince, “On no, no my boy. Architects, Stonewrights and builders were close on my heels when I left Ironhame; by the time you return home I dare say you'll have a proper estate well on its way to completion, with a great hall, guest quarters and a small armory and barracks.”

Engvyr gaped at him in shock, but before he could protest the Prince continued.

“We can't have you living like a pauper! What would people think if the Lord Warder of the North were living in a hovel? A cottage , he says!” the Prince said, shaking his head in scorn, then he frowned at Engvyr, “Lord and Lady, boy, close your mouth! I won't have one of my Royal Officials standing about gaping like a fish!”

Engvyr closed his mouth with a snap. The prince clapped his hands together gleefully and said, “Oh yes, my boy, a very bright future indeed!”

Deandra and Ynghilda sat comfortably in their accustomed places by the hearth in the great hall. A good fire was burning tonight against the late-autumn chill and but for the absence of her husband she found herself content. The harvest, such as it was, was in. The Prince had assured them that a Royal Stipend of grain and other foodstuffs was on its way to tide them over through the winter. The great hall was emptier than it had been in many weeks.

There were a number of farmholds left vacant by the war. The Braell crews had, with some swapping around, organized themselves into 'families' and taken names for themselves. The first of these families had already moved out to the nearby farms, each with a volunteer from the hold or a farmhold to ease them into their new lives. They would spend the winter adjusting to their new lifestyle, learning to read, keep accounts and anything else that they needed to become self-sufficient.

They were disturbed by the sudden entry of one of the guards, who told them that a large mounted party had arrived.

“Odd,” said Ynghilda, “I wasn't expecting anyone.”

“My apologies, Ma'am, but they say that they are here to see Lady Eastgrove,” the guard said nervously.

“Well, for the Lord and Lady's sake, man, don't leave them standing out in the cold! Send them in!” she commanded.

The two women stood as the party was ushered into the hall. There were several men and women, all dressed in the fashion of prosperous tradesmen and women. At the head of their party strode a slight, elderly dwarf. Reaching Deandra he bowed deeply to her.

“Lady Eastgrove, I am Biphur, son of Ouwen, at your service.”

Deandra glanced at Ynghilda, whose shrug signaled that she was as much in the dark as the younger woman.

Deandra returned his bow and said, “I am most pleased to meet you, Biphur son of Ouwen.”

Straightening, the elder dwarf said, “If it is not too great an imposition on M'lady's time, perhaps you would care to look over some of our plans? The rest of the party has gone on to the work-site. Given the season we had thought it best to get started as quickly as possible.”

“Rest of the party?” she said, baffled, “Plans? Work site? I am quite at a loss for what you are talking about.”

The Biphur looked at her with surprise.

“Why, for your estate, M'lady! Surely…” he cut himself off, a look of dawning comprehension crossing his face. Then he surprised them by swearing softly and exclaiming, “Oh that brat ! He didn't tell you, did he?”

“Um… who didn't tell me what?” Deandra asked.

“That we were coming? No?”

Deandra shook her head.

Biphur heaved a long-suffering sigh and said, “M'lady, we're here on the Prince’s orders all the way from Ironhame to see to the construction of your estate!”

“Excuse me? My what?”

He looked at her, realizing that she still didn't understand and continued, “Your husband has been appointed The Lord Warder of the North, m'lady. The Crown has sent us to see to the building of a proper estate for you both. You are to be this region’s new Crown Authority!”

Deandra blinked and said, “Oh. Um… I'm not sure quite what to say…”

“I know what to say.” Ynghilda said with a wicked grin, “Congratulations, M'lady! That and… You’re fired.”

In the distant south it was still early autumn. Far beneath the earth in a ruined palace something stirred. There was awareness that The Dreamer was no more, but that did not matter; his role was finished. By harvesting the energy from the sacrifice of the Dead God he at last had the power to begin the process of healing. After all these long ages he would, finally, rise again. The Sleeper would awaken.