Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

BOOM! The ground leapt under Engvyr Gunnarson's feet and he clutched frantically at the handles of the wheelbarrow to keep his balance. It didn't help; the ground-shock was so severe it tipped over, spilling a load of shattered ore and the boy to the floor of the mine.

A blast of dust-laden air washed up the tunnel and over him, snuffing out the candles that dimly lit the passage. He coughed and slipped the bandana that he wore around his neck over his nose and mouth, but not before he tasted the distinctive tang of blasting powder mixed with the rock-dust. No one should be using blasting powder up here! He thought as he felt along the wall for the nearest sconce. He could hear other dwarves shouting to each other in the darkness as he found the candle and applied his lighter to the wick. The flame illuminated an area a few paces across, the air filled with swirling brown dust. He saw other lights flare along the passage as other miners relit candles and lanterns.

Still coughing he worked his way down the passage to the Grand Gallery, lighting candles as he went. The rock dust was already clearing out of the air, faster than it should. He could feel a warm, damp wind on the back of his neck yet his feet were cool. As he approached the Grand Gallery he felt a growing dread as the cause became apparent. He could see light ahead in the gallery, but it wasn't the accumulated light of the miners candles and lanterns. It was daylight. The roof of the Grand Gallery had collapsed.

Engvyr joined the others that were trying to dig out miners trapped in the rubble. Though he was but seventeen he was already nearly four feet tall, over one-hundred and twenty pounds and his work in the mine had made him strong.

“ENGVYR!”

He turned from his work to see his father approaching.

“I'm alright! You?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Uncle Sifurd?” the boy asked.

His father gestured helplessly to the center of the open space where the rubble was thickest. Their eyes locked and they shared an unspoken moment of fear before they turned back to the grim work at hand.

Engvyr and his father sat on the edge of a pile of tailings drinking tankards of water, exhausted by their labors. It was the middle of the night and they had been working steadily since the collapse that morning. They had pulled a half-dozen bodies from the rubble, Sifurd among them, and twice that number of wounded.

They saw the foreman approaching and Engvyr's father hailed him. He walked over and accepted a tankard. He rinsed the dust from his mouth and spat before drinking deeply.

“What's the news?” his father asked.

The foreman looked angry.

“They found a goblin in the debris,” he said, scowling, “and a tunnel to the surface that we didn't dig.”

Engvyr felt a shock run through him at the news.

“I smelled blasting powder right after the collapse,” he said.

The foreman nodded sourly.

“Ayuh. Damned renegades. They set charges in the roof and at the base of the braces, Maker take 'em. I can't imagine what they thought they would accomplish,” He shook his head in disgust, “We've lost good men today, and the mine will be closed for weeks while they reinforce the hole and roof it over so that the tunnels don't flood.”

“We can only thank the Lord and Lady it wasn't worse,” his father said, “As it is I don't know how I'm going to tell Egerta…”

A few days after the disaster the family sat in the common room of their modest hame, Engvyr quietly keeping his small cousins amused with a game of jacks on the flagstone floor of the common room. His Aunt Egerta sat with her hands clutching a cooling cup of mulled cider as she stared blindly into the fire.

A pot of side-meat and beans bubbled on the hearth and the air was rich with the smell of fresh-baked bread. His mother bustled about, setting brown earthenware plates and mugs on the table while his father cleaned his gun, a 14-bore shoulder-gun. The act was meditative rather than a necessity, as it had not been fired a dozen times since Engvyr's birth when his father moved the family to Haebnetyl to work in the mine.

“Gwynth,” his father said, “We are going. We will leave this place and this cursed mine.”

His mother turned and stared at him uncertainly, ladle in one hand and a bowl in the other.

“We are going away to the Northlands, to our clanhame in Thorvyl's Hollow. I am through with the deep mines and so is our son; it's no kind of life for a boy. I have decided, and there's an end to it.”

Engvyr's mother filled the bowl with meat and beans and moved to set it on the table before replying.

“Is it, then? Have I no say in the matter?”

His father shook his head, “It's no good, Wife! Look at our boy. Pale as an earth-worm he is, and him only working the mine a year or less. Last year in this season he was an active lad, all smiles and mischief, his skin browned by the sun. I'll not see him spend his life hidden in the depths of the earth and never the clean, open sky above his head.” He lowered his voice, shooting a quick glance at the silent woman by the fire, “And what of the twins and their mother? The wergild for my dear brother will not keep them long, and we can scarce support them of our own selves.”

“But Gunnar, to travel so far, to make ourselves beholden to the Clan… and what trade have you but mining? How will we live? It is hard here, true enough, but we've a roof over our heads and steady work at least.”

“It's a miner I am, so we will make our way by that trade. But not under the ground. There in the high-country we'll be placer-mining as I did before I went off to the Regiment. I can still remember how to lay a trap-line and there's hunting besides.” He patted the big gun affectionately, “I've not forgotten the use a' this lovely lady.”

His mother snorted, but smiled and said, “Oh aye, your first love- and well I know it!” her brow creased in thought. “Well if that’s the way of it, we've a bit put by and we can sell the hame. Likely that will be enough for the trip. We should write ahead to the Clan, of course, so they can ready a place for us…”

Engvyr kept his silence through the meal and the rest of the long evening as his parents laid out their plans. Eventually even his aunt joined in the discussion, coming to life a bit for the first time since the disaster.

Dwarves are known throughout the world as the best miners and metal-crafters under the sun. Engvyr knew a lot of miners that loved the deep places of the world and would rather nothing but that they spend their lives in the bosom of the earth. But his father, Gunnar, was of a northern Clan and had grown up in the high country. Engvyr seemed to have inherited his love for the open sky and wild places. He looked forward to the prospect of a life above ground.

The very next morning Gunnar was off, with Engvyr in tow, to see the Foreman of the mine. They found him at his family's hame, the mine being shut down while the soldiers made sure that it was clear of Goblins. The engineers also had to roof over the hole and make the workings safe again.

When given the news of their departure the Foreman shook his head and said, “I can't say as I blame you, but are you sure you are doing right by your family? It's a long journey and likely to be hard on the young ones. And…” he hesitated briefly, “I'll not lie to you. We've lost a lot of good dwarves. We need you and I think we could see our way clear to give you a raise in wages, mayhap even a promotion to Line Chief.”