Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

Engvyr shouted back, “At least you tried. Get on with you; see to your own folk! We will manage.”

Eggil shrugged helplessly and shouted, “We’ll get word to the rangers if we can. Good Luck!”

With a final wave he moved back down the trail and out of sight. Engvyr thought about their situation. It was, in a word, desperate. They had their knives, their water-bottles, a bit of dried beef, dried fruit and the odds and ends in their belt-pouches. This consisted of some of twine, flint, steel and tinder, some needles and thread.

As to the guns they had a few loads, slugs and shot, for the Big 14 in his father's pouch. The handgun had nine more balls in the magazine and he had another twenty in a small leather bag in the pocket of his great-cote.

Reluctantly he approached the dwarf that he had shot. He'd never killed another person before and it disturbed him. Steeling himself he went through the dead dwarf's things, taking his sax-knife, water bottle and pouches. In his satchel he had a small pan, a sack of hard cheese, sausages and some hard, dry biscuits. Taking these Engvyr looked down at the body for a moment. A bad dwarf comes to a bad end, he thought. He stripped him of his great-cote and tipped him over the edge.

Turning back to his family he handed the cote to Egerta and she shrugged into it gratefully as she tucked it around her child as well. Berget still clung to her with dry, wounded eyes that stared at nothing and she shared a look of concern with Engvyr. She awkwardly shaved some dried beef and fruit into a bit of water in the small pan and set it on the fire to heat. It was little enough but it was at least something. While the food heated he thought long and hard. There seemed to be but one decision that he could make. He didn't like it one bit but he couldn't see any way around it if they were to live.

“I'm going after them,” he told her, “We cannot survive like this; we need supplies and equipment and right now there is only one place to get them. They cannot have gotten far with those oxen on these trails.”

He could tell that she wanted to argue with him, forbid it even, but after an internal struggle she nodded reluctantly.

“What will you do when you find them?”

He shrugged. “I can't know that until I do, I reckon.”

Engvyr made sure that they had enough wood to last the night. He ate a little before leaving but left them the meager supply of food. The sun was just kissing the tips of the peaks when he set out.

He was still not greatly skilled as a hunter but it didn't take a Ranger to follow the trail of six oxen and nearly as many ponies. He'd started out fit from his work in the mines and since then he'd walked near half the length of the country so he made good time. He carried the Big 14 at the balance, cocked and loaded with a heavy slug. He knew it was not good for the mainspring but couldn't risk coming up on them without being ready to shoot instantly. He followed them until it grew too dark to be sure of staying on the trail.

Moving uphill he worked his way under the low-hanging branches of a small fir tree and sat with his back to the trunk, shivering in the cold. He slept fitfully, haunted by the image of his mother, her eyes locked on his, being obliterated by the falling stone. Silent tears ran down his cheeks and he felt anger hardening within him. Anger at the world, the mountain, even his father for bringing them on this terrible journey, but most of all against the sort of dwarves that would steal from them and leave them to die in the wake of such a tragedy.

He was back on the trail as soon as it was light enough to see. He was half-frozen but movement quickly warmed him as he trotted after them. When he found their camp just after dawn the ashes of their fire were still hot. He judged that he couldn't be more than an hour behind them.

He came up on them just as the sun cleared the surrounding peaks. He heard one of them cursing and began to move cautiously, keeping low and moving quietly. Before long he saw them across a narrow defile where the trail doubled back on itself. A dwarf was pulling on an ox's lead-rope, cursing the reluctant beast. No one else was in sight but he could hear the sounds of others moving further along the trail.

Easing forward under the cover of some low bushes he drew a bead on the dwarf but did not shoot. The distance was about 100 paces, a long shot for a smooth-bore gun. In truth, despite his anger he had no desire to kill. He considered for a moment, then shifted his aim and carefully squeezed off the shot.

The slug passed between the ox's nose and the dwarf then slammed into the rock face. The ox shied back and the thief gave a shout of surprise and dropped the lead-rope as he scrambled away out of sight. The pack-ox lumbered back down toward Engvyr, then moved off the trail onto the brush-covered slope of the hillside.

Engvyr quickly reloaded the gun as he moved to intercept the ox. He could hear the dwarves shouting to each other.

“It's that crazy damned kid!”

Engvyr had just reached the ox when he heard the sound of hoof beats pounding on the trail. He turned and saw a hard-looking dwarf on a pony charging him with a wood-knife as long as his arm raised to cut him down. He shot him through the chest. The dwarf rolled backwards out of the saddle and landed in a heap. The pony turned aside, bolted up the slope and the other thieves broke off their charge as they dove headlong into the brush for cover.

“You come right ahead, boys” he shouted to them, crouching in the brush near the ox. “I've got a pocket-full of slugs if any of you feel like your friend looks lonely lying there all by himself!”

He could hear them as they talked it over among themselves. They knew roughly where he was but they also knew that the first of them to come for him would likely take a slug and not a dwarf among them was willing to be that one.

He heard them withdraw and after a while they moved off up the trail. He kept a careful watch as he checked on the ox, which was browsing in the scrub. It seemed in good enough condition and leaving it for the moment he moved up the slope and cautiously approached the pony, speaking softly to it. The beast snorted and shied a bit but allowed him to grab its reins. He tied them off on a bush and went to check the dwarf that he had shot.

The man was limp, probably dead when he hit the ground. He took the wood knife and scabbard but the man had little else of use. The saddle-bags on the pony were a different story, yielding a rain-cape, food, coffee, a large jug of whiskey, a small sack of coins and some dirty clothes. There was a bedroll wrapped in a ground cloth tied behind the saddle as well.

Engvyr didn't know why the ox had resisted following the thief as it had no problem returning with him and the pony. The sun had already dropped behind the peaks when he made it back to where his family waited.

On the advice of the ox-train's Guide they had divided their food and goods among the oxen against just such a disaster. Each beast had born a portion of their food and other supplies so they were able to make a decent dinner.

His father was not doing well, having taken a chill despite his aunt's best efforts. They had huddled against the cold and kept the fire up but they'd had no blankets and despite the wind-break and reflector their position was too exposed. It was too late to try and move to a place where they could make a proper camp that night so while his aunt prepared dinner he did what he could to make them more comfortable.

A tent had been among the items strapped to the pack and while there was no space to set it up he could at least string the cover to provide shelter from the wind and hold the heat of their fire. He felt better just having a cover overhead, though he knew that the feeling of security it imparted was an illusion.