Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

Deandra was Saewynn's sister-in-law and their families had shared a hame, dwarven fashion. She and her two children had stayed on after her husband was taken by Winter-fever the year before. Their place was near Ynghilda Makepeace's steading, the northernmost stop on Taarven and Engvyr's patrol route.

The families had been sitting down to dinner the previous night when their geese started kicking up a fuss. Arming themselves, the men had gone to have a look to see what was stirring them up and ran straight into the Goblin raiding party. They'd never had a chance.

The women had barred the door but the Goblins set fire to the thatched roof. Faced with the choice of capture or burning to death with their children they'd decided that some chance was better than none and surrendered. They drew the curtains of charity over the butchering of their men-folk and an infant son of Saewynn's too young to travel.

They had little detail to give of their forced-march through the night and morning. It was plain that they'd had a rough time but they were bearing up well. It took a certain toughness of mind to settle land on the edge of civilization among a folk not your own. Engvyr reckoned that they'd likely go to pieces as soon as they were safe but for now they were set on doing what needed to be done.

The small group started out as soon as they'd eaten, keeping to the road as the former captives were in no shape to move cross-country. They'd not been on the road long before they ran into the reason that the goblins had been pressing on by day. Ynghilda Makepeace herself was at the head of a mounted party nearly fifty strong. The riders quickly took charge of the former captives, their own neighbors after all, and saw to their needs.

Engvyr approached Ynghilda, carbine cradled in the crook of his arm. The woman sat her beautiful roan pony like an aging war-goddess. She was dressed in fine mail, a sword belted at one hip and a hand ax at the other. She had a handsome 12-bore rifle laid casually across her saddle-bow. That was a lot of gun, but then Ynghilda had never been one for subtlety. He grinned up at her.

“Not like you to come late to a party, Ma'am.”

“I do hate to miss the dancing,” she agreed solemnly, her eyes scanning the country around them. “Your partner took some hurt to that leg. I'd be obliged if'n you'd be my guests while he's laid up. I can send a rider to the Station with your report.”

Taarven nodded his acceptance. “Mighty kind of you. We left our pack-saddles up the road a piece, and there's a cairn with some remains that ought to be fetched before the goblins get to them.”

Ynghilda sent the bulk of the party on to fetch the Ranger's packs and the contents of the cairn while she led the rest of them back to her holding. Taarven would have ridden all day and night at need but wasn't going to if he could avoid it. He gladly suffered himself to be placed in a cart for the remainder of the trip.

Engvyr rode with the recovery party. While the others were dealing with the pack-saddles and the remains he looked over the bodies of the goblins. When he'd slashed the goblin across the eyes he'd seen something that had been niggling at him ever since.

When he examined the body he saw that the goblin's hair was braided with beads, feathers and small bones. Red and black tattoos covered his face. Engvyr had seen a fair number of Goblins over the years but he'd only seen this style once before; on the strange, fey old goblin-woman that they had found dying at the edge of the Daenteg Idengeord all those years before.

He checked the other corpses as well and they were all the same. He pondered that as they cantered back down the road to catch up with the rescue party. When they caught up to the main body of riders Engvyr rode at Ynghilda's side and filled her in on the pursuit and the fight.

“We came on them sudden-like just when they thought they were safe,” he concluded, “If they'd had any time to organize their response they'd have eaten us alive… so to speak. We were damn lucky.”

“That you were,” she agreed, “but it's been my experience that a dwarf makes his own luck.”

With all of them mounted they made good time and passed through the gates of the Makepeace Steading well before dark. By nightfall they were settled into the Great Hall within the palisade. The Afmaeltinn women and their children were given a quiet corner to bed down in. They had washed, eaten and now slept the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Before they had retired Engvyr had sought them out and assured himself that they were as well as might be expected. Seeing him approach Deandra detached herself and came to meet him. She was wearing a linen under-dress with a woven fabric belt. On a dwarven woman the garment would have fallen to mid-calf but it did not quite reach her knees. She was tall and seemed terribly thin, but even in a state of exhaustion she moved with grace that he found charming.