Michael Pearce,Linda Pearce

Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

PART ONE: THE CRUCIBLE

Chapter One

“They say heroes are forged in tragedy so I suppose I qualify on that score, several times over even. But the truth of the matter is that half the time I felt like a dog that'd been kicked 'till he just couldn't stand it anymore without biting back. I'll be damned if that se ems particularly heroic to me. But the life of the boy is what shapes the man.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

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.”

His father never so much as looked tempted.

“No Tom, my mind is made up. I've given this a fair shake these last sixteen years but it's just not for me or my boy either. You've been a fair boss and you're a good man, but I've had my fill. Truth be told it's been in my mind for some time to move on.”

The Foreman argued and pleaded with him but his Father would not be moved. Seeing this, the Foreman sighed.

“Well, if that's how it's to be then I suppose that I must wish you well… But it's cruel hard of you to be leaving just when I need you most! And don't you be expectin' to come back with your tail between your legs and have that promotion waiting for you! You'll be back to running a muck-stick then, and serve you right for abandoning the company!”

They left the Foreman's place and went down the hill. Homes and shops were built half into the hillside, and many of the 'streets' were in fact stairways carved into the mountain. At the bottom they went out the gate to the station along the High road and posted the letter to their clan. It made for a fair climb back up to their own hame but having worked in the deep mines it was nothing to the dwarf and his son.

They stopped to visit one of his father's oldest friends and sat out under the stone overhang that sheltered the front porch, drinking thick earthenware mugs of coffee and enjoying the captured warmth of the early spring sun.

“I’ve known you half my life, Sergeant-Major, ever since the Regiment, and of all the folk in this place I will miss you most, you old codger!” his father told the grizzled dwarf. He gestured to indicate the town and the mine. “This is all the boy has known his whole life. If a job in the deep workings is to be his lot it will be by his choice, knowing and having lived the option.”

The old dwarf and his father had served together for five decades. When the Sergeant-Major had retired, a legend after most of twenty decades in the Regiment, he had come here, returning to the town where he was born. Engvyr's father, newly married and in need of a livelihood, had followed after when he mustered out three decades later.

“Truth is I envy you the journey. I've half a mind to pull up stakes and come along but I've taken to the road for the last time; these old bones would never put up with a long journey.”

The Sergeant-Major levered himself out of his chair with an effort. He seemed near as wide as he was tall and solid as the mountain they stood on. Engvyr realized that he must now be nearing three hundred years of age and this was likely to be the last time that he would ever see him. The old dwarf gestured for them to remain seated, and taking up his cane he hobbled into the hame.

He returned shortly with a bundle almost a pace in length and extended it to Engvyr's father. His father stood with a startled look, protesting even as he accepted the package.

“Thorven,” he said, calling his old friend by name for the first time that Engvyr could remember, “I can't; it's too much!”

“Nonsense!” barked the old dwarf with a pushing-away gesture, “You can and you will. I've told you I'll not take the road again. The old girl will serve you better than she will me, sitting on a shelf as a sad relic for an old dwarf to dote on.

“Besides which,” he said with a grin, “I'll still have her sister to keep me warm at night.”

His father held his friend's gaze for a few moments, his eyes strangely bright, then nodded acceptance and sat once again, the bundle cradled in his lap. The Sergeant-Major grunted in satisfaction and eased himself back into his own chair.

His father smiled and slowly unwrapped the object that he had been given. Engvyr stared in wonder as the weapon inside was revealed. Guns were a rarity outside of the Regiments as few dwarves could afford them. He'd never heard how his father came by the 14-bore he so lovingly kept but he knew of no other miner that possessed one.

But if a gun was rare, the weapon that was now revealed was a genuine oddity. It was a hand-gun, one of a pair given the Sergeant-Major by the Regiment after his first century of service. He watched intently as his father checked the chamber and then extended it to him. He took it gingerly; with the reverence one would give a holy relic. Having watched his father he repeated his motions and checked the chamber himself. He knew that one never, ever trusted that a gun was unloaded. Seeing this, the old dwarf guffawed.

“Isn't he a proper little Trooper,” he exclaimed in approval, “you've brought him up well, Gunnar!”

He leaned forward in his chair and gestured to a mark inlaid in silver above the breech and said, “This is 'The Hammer.' I'll be keeping 'The Anvil' for my own self. You can't expect an old man to give away all his memories!”

Keeping the gun pointed in a safe direction the boy turned it over, examining it carefully. The curved hand-grip felt good in his grasp and the fore-stock settled comfortably in his other hand. The checkering on the oiled hardwood of the stock was worn half-smooth with age and use. It could be slung about the body with a strap and a bar on the side slipped through the belt to keep the gun from swinging free as one moved.

It was a short-ranged weapon but at thirty paces the 36-bore lead ball could drop a charging horse, or hammer its rider right out of the saddle. It was worth the price of a modest hame and after examining it Engvyr gingerly handed it back to his father, who carefully re-wrapped it and set it on the low table next to his chair.

“I've no words to thank you, old friend,” his father said.

The old dwarf waved dismissively, “It's not all settled land you'll pass through on the way… If'n it helps you to care for your family that's thanks enough.”

Chapter Two

“Dwarves are but one of the five races of men. These are the Afmaeltinn, Dwarves, Goblins, Elves and Trolls. Some argue for six, separating the elves from the Fey, but that may just be splitting hairs. We know that Dwarves and Goblins were once Afmaeltinn, but the Elves maintain that they are a separate order. What the Fey and trolls think no man can say.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

The next week passed in a whirl of preparations for the journey. One of the miners had a friend coming to fill a vacancy at the mine and he was pleased to purchase the hame to accommodate his family. That being settled there was a surprising amount of work to be done to prepare for the trip. Engvyr had vaguely imagined them traveling from inn to inn along the High Road but his father shook his head at the notion.

“That's a far richer way to travel than we can manage, lad,” he told him, “We'll be sleeping rough much of the time and doing for ourselves for food and the like.”

They would be weeks upon the road, his father explained. The mining town lay at the far south of Dvargatil Baeg, as the Dwarven nation was called, and the home of their Clan was in the far north. As the crow flew it was no more than 300 miles but by road they would cover a little less than three times that distance as they must wind a snake-like path through the high valleys and passes.

Engvyr knew it would be faster to go down to the coast to the Trade Cities to take ship to the North and then cut through the mountains to their destination. But that would mean placing themselves in the hands of the Afmaeltinn, or Humans as they called themselves. This was a thing no dwarf would willingly do if it could be avoided.

Using their savings, the wergild for his uncle and the proceeds from the sale of the hame they bought oxen and a pair of wagons. The oxen were not the great lumbering beasts used in the lands of the Afmaeltinn, but smaller animals with long hair and short horns. Hearty and strong, they were bred to live in the harsh conditions and high altitudes of the mountains. The wagons were strongly built of planks with a cabin of canvas stretched over a frame on top. At need they could crowd in among their goods for protection from the weather.

They also bought supplies and Engvyr was shocked at the sheer quantity of food they must carry even for the first leg of their journey. They were but three adults, himself and the twins yet they must carry barrels of flour, great bags of beans and coffee, slabs of bacon, dried beef and sausages, barrels of dried fruit and casks of water until the wagons fairly groaned under the weight.

Of their household effects they took little but what was needed for the journey, their clothes, cooking gear, tools and a few keepsakes. Their furniture was too bulky and heavy and it was easier to simply replace it at their destination.

The day of their departure they rose at first light and broke their fast with stew left over from the night before and mugs of coffee. Before they left their little hame for the last time his father pulled Engvyr aside while his mother and aunt cleaned and packed the breakfast dishes.

“There's one last thing that you might be needing on the trip, son,” he said as he placed a new sax-knife and sheath in his son's hands. Engvyr was delighted with the gift and examined it carefully. The scabbard was of thick hide, waxed to rock-hardness and covered with deeply tooled knot-work. There was a sturdy and elaborately engraved bronze frame along the top of the scabbard, with two loops to hang it horizontally below the belt.

He drew the knife and examined the stout single-edged blade of fine dwarven steel. It was eight inches in length and shaving-sharp. The carved handle was stag-horn and had a slight curve to it that felt natural in his grip. The hilt was topped by a bronze plate with a lanyard ring.

Engvyr thanked his father profusely, and stood proudly as his father threaded it onto the front of his belt so that the hilt hung close to his right hand. His father smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You'll be doing a man's work on this trip, so I thought it time you had a man's blade,” he told Engvyr.

As they set out the last of the winter snow was still piled along the shoulders of the High Road, but it was melting day by day. Traffic was sparse but regular, with wagons of food and other supplies bound for the southern towns and trains of ore heading north to the great foundries at Ironhame.

The road was broad and well-paved and they made good time. Often they walked alongside of the wagons to spare themselves the rattle and jolting of the hard seats or simply for something to do. They passed farms and fields for days, spending their nights along the road or at caravan camps.

As they made their way through the wide open valleys they occasionally encountered parties of Afmaeltinn traveling to or from Ironhame to trade for the products of the great smelters and forges of the city. They looked very strange to Engvyr, like dwarves stretched to a third again their proper height. Some of them towered as much as six feet tall or more! Even the women among them were more than a foot taller than a dwarf.

The novelty of the journey quickly wore off for the twins. Keeping them amused and jollying them out of their fussiness was a chore for them all.

The land gradually grew more rugged as the days passed and they encountered more and more uninhabited country as they neared Ironhame. This seemed strange to Engvyr and he asked his father about it.

“'Tis by design,” his father told him, “For if the nations of men come against us we must be able to move our troops quickly, thus the southern roads are very good. But when we first took these lands for our own it was decided that the capital should be in harder country, without sources of food nearby to feed an invading army.”

His father gestured to the roads and lands around them. “This untamed, broken country provides less of what an army needs: freedom to maneuver, supplies and shelter. The High Road moves along the edges of hills and tunnels through the shoulders of the mountains. Can you guess why?”

Engvyr thought about it, studying the land. To the east the land fell away into narrow river-valleys. To the west it rose steeply, its slope varying from difficult to impassable. Occasional towers and fortifications were carved into the hills overlooking the broad highway. He thought about the stories told by his father and the Sergeant-Major in the long winter nights by the fire. After a few moments he nodded decisively and pointed to a nearby fortification.

“They've established choke-points; they can fire down on an invading army while it has few options to flee and cannot reach them easily.” Gesturing down the road he continued, “Tunnels can be collapsed and between the hill forts and blocked tunnels we can force them into the valleys, which are hard going and can be attacked from above or even flooded.”

“Exactly so!” His father said, beaming. “You've a good eye for these things; you'll be a credit to The Regiment if you choose that path.”

Engvyr fairly glowed with pleasure at the praise. They talked of this and many other things; indeed there was little else for them to do as they walked or rode through the long days. The road, while still as good as ever, was rising steadily now and they could not cover distance as quickly as they had in the flatlands of the broad southern valleys.

As they travelled his father taught him to load and shoot the handgun and the big 14-bore shoulder-gun. The two guns were similar in that each had a bulky compression tube under the barrel containing a powerful spring-piston. When the trigger was pulled this piston would be released and compress the air very rapidly to drive a projectile out of the barrel at very high speed. The Big 14 had a smooth-bore and could fire hard-waxed paper cups of shot for birds on the wing and small game or it could shoot heavy slugs for larger animals.

They took to hunting marmots, rabbits and pheasant for the pot in the evenings after making camp. One time when Engvyr had the big 14 in his hands they came upon a deer. He started to aim but stopped when with father put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

“Never shoot more than you need,” his father said. “That deer is big enough that half the meat would spoil before we could eat it all.”

He nodded and they watched the deer a few moments before quietly moving on.

As the days grew longer the climb became more steep. They'd eaten enough of their supplies that while they labored under the load their oxen weren't overtaxed by the slope. Marking stones counted down the distance as they approached Ironhame at last. Engvyr looked at his father as they passed the final league marker, his brow furrowed with puzzlement.

“I thought we'd see the city long before now!” he told him.

“Patience, lad,” his father admonished him with a chuckle, “you'll see it soon enough!”

Indeed it was not long after that they rounded the corner of the mountain and there stood the Great Wall of Ironhame, not a mile away across the shallow valley. The first leg of their journey was at an end.

Chapter Three

“Ironhame! The capital of the Dwarven Kingdom and perhaps the greatest fortification in all the world is a city of secrets. Born in slavery, our folk were reborn in freedom with a fierce determination: that no one of our people ever again suffer chains upon their wrists or shackles on their feet. But we are a race that lives or dies by our invention and devices so some must accept that their own liberty is the price of freedom for their people. The Masters of the Trades may never set foot beyond the walls of the Inner Ward of the city lest their secrets be at risk. 'Tis a gilded and comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless. This is their sacrifice, their gift to all their folk.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

They stopped to regard the capitol city with awe. The Great Wall of Ironhame was of gleaming white stone and bisected the valley like an immense dam. It was a full hundred feet tall if it was an inch and seemed to stretch a league or more across the valley, with five great towers topped with black iron domes spaced along its length. After crossing the valley, the road that they were on ran along a ledge on the face of the wall to the Grand Gate. That great portal was carved from the granite of the mountain at the wall's eastern edge. Perhaps a half-mile beyond the Great Wall rose another wall, even higher, with three towers of its own and still further beyond that were the grand spires of the Palace.

“They say that the Great Wall of Ironhame took a hundred Stonewrights and over a thousand laborers more than twenty-five years to erect,” his father said, “And that it contains more cut stone than all of the rest of the city and palace combined.”

Engvyr nodded. All dwarven children were taught the basics of magecraft so he knew that Stonewright's magic allowed them to 'feel' stone and know its properties, strengths and flaws, but more than that they could influence its structure to get the results that they desired.

As they continued around the shoulder of the mountain the High road descended down a long ramp to the valley floor. The granite face of the valley's wall along this stretch had been flattened ruler-straight and smoothed to a high polish. But now the surface was pock-marked with hundreds of craters, from just above the road to head-height along its entire length. Each crater was around two feet across and nearly a foot deep. He looked a question at his father, who favored him with a grim smile and gestured to the towers.

“The Tower-Guns of Ironhame, “he explained, “An unsubtle reminder to visitors to mind their manners.”

Engvyr imagined an army trying to make its way down that long ramp under the merciless hammer of the guns and shuddered.

They made their way across the valley, joining the throngs queuing to enter the city through the Grand Gate. Ore wagons from the south, traders, travelers and pilgrims to the great shrines. All Dwarves came to Ironhame sooner or later, or so they said.

As they passed through the gate he stared in unabashed awe. Each of the sections of door was of the finest steel, more than a foot thick. When the leaves were closed another foot-thick panel dropped straight down behind them in grooves cut deep into the rock of the mountain. No battering ram, no boulder or bolt from any siege engine made by mortal hands would ever penetrate those mighty doors.

They moved with the stream of traffic through a high, wide corridor under the great wall to a second set of gates. His father spoke briefly to a guard, then clucked to the oxen and they passed into the city proper. They had to pause to wait a moment while his Aunt also spoke to the guard before moving the second wagon up to join them. Engvyr took the opportunity to look around.

They were within the Outer Ward, and it was filled with people. Dwarves of every description, tall, lanky Afmaeltinn, even a party of Goblins!

The Goblins wore broad-brimmed hats and scarfs, long coats and gloves. Not a single square inch of them was exposed to sunlight, which Engvyr understood was harmful to their kind. They wore long knives at their belts but were otherwise unarmed.

“I can't believe they let those filthy creatures in here,” Engvyr said, “They ain't fit to be among decent folk!”

His father stared straight ahead for a second and then looked at him thoughtfully.

“Didn't know that you knew any goblins,” he said.

Engvyr was surprised, and quickly said, “I don't know any goblins! How would I know any of them?”

His father shrugged.

“Well,” his father said slowly, “They don't look particularly filthy, and I can hardly see them under those get-ups. Certainly not well enough to form an impression of their character.”

For all of his mild speech Engvyr could tell that something was wrong. His father was acting strangely. I suppose it's natural, Engvyr thought, seein' as to how they killed his brother and all.

“I just mean that they kill our folk, and eat people… and…”

He trailed off, not sure exactly what he meant. His father was staring straight ahead as he guided the wagon through the crowds. His father's fists clenched and un-clenched on the reins for a moment before he spoke.

“You know where goblins come from, don't you?”

“Of course,” Engvyr said indignantly, “They were created by the Maker, same as dwarves. Everyone knows that.”

His father nodded.

“That's right, the same as us. Are all dwarves thieves and murderers?”

“Of course not!” Engvyr said, “Folk aren't all the same.”

“That's right,” his father said. “Folk aren't all one thing or th'other.”

He turned and stared his son full in the eyes and Engvyr recoiled. His father was furious!

“So what gives you the bloody right to assume that all goblins are the same?” his father asked with quiet intensity, “To judge those folk yonder, call them filthy and say they aren't good enough to walk the streets?”

“I… I guess I never thought about it,” Engvyr said, “I mean, about goblins being like other folk…”

His father heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he returned his attention to the road.

“I suppose that it's my own fault,” his father said, “For not teaching you better than that. So I'll tell you now don't ever, ever judge a man solely because of his race. Judge him by his words, his actions and the company he keeps but not by his race. You hear me?”

Engvyr nodded, subdued. He'd seldom seen his father angry, and the thought that he had made him so mad…

“You know that the Maker made Dwarves to be his slaves,” His father said, “He made us short and strong to mine the hard rock for the ore he needed. He channeled our magic so that we would have the talents to help build his empire, to be Stonewrights, Metalwrights and Woodwrights. But what he couldn't make us was obedient. We rebelled against him, time and again. So he gave up on us and created the goblins to replace us. He made them clever at mining and machinery, but he also made them so they couldn't tolerate the light of the sun so that they would be stuck beneath the ground. He made them eat their own dead because it was efficient. But he also made them hunger for the flesh of dwarves, so that we would never band together to oppose him.”

Engvyr nodded. He'd never thought about it, but it made sense.

“Thing is those goblins had no more choice than we did. They can't help their appetites any more than we can help growing beards,” his father said, “Though most a'them have mastered that hunger, exceptin' a few renegades now and again. They're an odd folk, notional you might say, but no more likely to be good or bad than any man. So we let 'em come among us and trade, toys, clocks and instruments mostly and they behave themselves about as well as most folks.”

Engvyr thought about this as his family slowly worked their way along the broad, crowded avenue past the great trading houses and warehouses of the Outer Ward. Occasionally along the cross streets he glimpsed the walls of the valley, stacked with hames of the sort he was used to, presumably where the folk of this district lived.

As they rounded the corner of a broad cross-street he could see a great open space some distance away between the buildings. Awnings, banners and a great mass of people filled the space, their combined voices an inarticulate roar.

“The Great Market,” his father told him, “Goods and commodities from all over the world are traded there.”

At length they approached another grand gate that passed through the Inner Wall. The avenue dipped downward as it went through the portal into a huge tunnel. His father indicated the opening with a nod and explained.

“This is The Underpass. It takes us right under the city and palace to the Upper Ward and its markets. Through them the road leads to the Central Valleys beyond. This great passage bypasses the Inner Ward of the city that holds the mines, smelters and workshops of the Dwarven people. The Inner Ward is forbidden to humans, goblins or anyone else for that matter unless you have an official pass.”

They were questioned by another guard before being allowed to enter The Underpass. The broad, high-ceilinged passage was amazingly noisy within. The creaking of wagon wheels, booted feet on the stone floor and countless voices assaulted their ears. The great passage was dim after the bright daylight of the Outer Ward, with the lamps of the merchants, inns and taverns that lined the walls supplementing the large skylights set into the roof at intervals.

Engvyr looked around until he thought his head might swivel right off of his neck; there was so much to see! Anything a traveler might need was on display, but there were also colorful bolts of exotic fabrics, glittering jewelry and weapons, richly tooled leather goods and finely carved wood. He felt he could have spent days in this tunnel and not discover all of the wonders it held.

At last they passed out into the daylight of the Upper Ward. This part of the city was filled with low buildings- breweries, stables, and shops. Engvyr also caught the distinctive smells of a paper-mill and a tannery. The streets were narrower and if anything even more crowded than those in the Outer Ward.

Darkness was falling as they made their way to a caravanserai near the outer wall. This was simply an expansive, walled space filled with wagons and corrals of oxen, mules and ponies. A covered area at one end was filled with tables and benches. Even the smells of the livestock could not entirely overwhelm the savory aromas wafting from that end of the compound. This was some feat, for even though dwarves with carts moved among the wagons and corrals scooping up manure and spreading sawdust they could not entirely banish the ancient odors of too many animals in too small a space.

Opposite the eatery was the bathhouse and washing facilities. Engvyr was ecstatic when he discovered that the family planned to make full use of those. Dwarves at home were a cleanly folk and bathing and washing along the road had been catch-as-can. The idea of a proper bath and really, properly clean clothes was nearly as exciting to the young dwarf as the thought of fresh food cooked in a real kitchen!

The family went to their bedrolls that night clean and well-fed. Under the influence of the eatery's strong, unfiltered beer Engvyr was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

In the morning they rose early, both from habit and necessity as the caravanserai roused at first light. They broke their fast from their own supplies and Engvyr was disappointed to discover that he would not be able to accompany his father on his errands to the Inner ward of the city.

“I'm sorry, Engvyr,” his father told him, “I had intended that you should go with me, but it's just too expensive for us to stay here longer than we must, and there's much to be done before we take the road again.”

His father went on his way and the family set to washing every scrap of clothing that they had brought with them. It was far from Engvyr's favorite chore but he went to it with a will, and by that afternoon the lines they had strung between their wagons were covered in clothes drying in the breeze.

After the washing was accomplished Engvyr was sent to a nearby wainwright to purchase grease for the wagons axles. As he neared his destination he saw a knot of rough looking dwarves gathered in the street. There was an ugly edge to their laughter and as he neared them he could see they were shoving someone back and forth between them. They were shouting at their victim, accusing him of snooping, thieving, and worse. The figure that they were heaping abuse on was a goblin.

Other people on the street had stopped to watch from a safe distance, muttering to each other and looking concerned but no one moved to intervene. Suddenly one of the dwarves, a drover by the look of him, reached out and tore away the goblin's hat and scarf and knocked him sprawling.

The goblin screamed as the sun touched his white, exposed skin. He tried to cover his head with his arms but the dwarf holding his hat and scarf kicked him. The creature's skin was already reddening with sunburn and he howled in pain.

Engvyr was overcome with horror, and not just for the goblin's suffering. The attitude of the men tormenting the hapless creature was only a small step beyond his own thoughts of the previous day, and he saw the ugliness of these men reflected in his own heart.

Without thinking he stripped off his great-cote, threw it over the goblin and stepped between the drover and his victim.

“Leave him alone!” Engvyr commanded.

“Sod off, sprog!” the drover said, angry at having his fun interrupted as he reached out a hand to give the boy a shove.

Engvyr's father had trained him in the wrestling taught in the regiments and he reacted automatically. He side-stepped to his right, brushing the drover's hand aside as he struck a powerful blow with the heel of his hand that split the drover's cheek and knocked him to the ground.

The crowd went quiet, shocked by his sudden action. The drover touched his cheek disbelievingly and looked at the blood on his fingertips. With a bellow of rage he lunged to his feet, his sax-knife appearing in his fist. Engvyr stepped back, his own sax sliding into his hand as a sudden cold wariness overcame him.

Suddenly his father stepped from the crowd and casually batted the knife from the drover's hand with the barrel of the Big 14. Twisting his left fist into the dwarfs dirty beard he turned and slammed him into a nearby post with bruising force. Sticking the muzzle under the man's chin he growled, “Go for my boy again and you'll get worse than he's given already.”

Turning to the crowd he said, “You lot ought to be ashamed! Get out of here. Now.”

The dwarves slunk away muttering and the rest of the crowd began to disperse as well. Engvyr's father slung the drover to the ground by his beard and fetched him a boot in the backside as he scrambled away, clutching at his wrist.

“Go on, you cur! I shoulda' let the boy kill you!” he shouted after the fleeing drover.

He picked up the hat and scarf as he and Engvyr helped the battered goblin, still covered by the great-cote, into the shade next to a nearby building. The goblin gratefully donned the hat and scarf again, peered at each of them intently for a moment.

“I t'ank you bot',” he said simply.

The dwarves nodded acceptance and then Engvyr's father told the goblin, “You're welcome, but best you get yourself far from here before that group finds their courage again.” The goblin scurried off. His father gave Engvyr an approving nod and a warm smile, “Best we not mention this to your mother, eh?”

Engvyr agreed and they went into the wainwright's shop together.

Chapter Four

“I've traveled far in my days and have seen many wonders and often enough I have wondered at what I have seen. One thing is plain to me, men are men. I've met each of the Five Races of Man and they are each of them very different and very much the same. They all have in common that they are none of them all one thing; each man of any race may be good or bad, and it's his own choosing which path he will follow at the end of the day.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Engvyr found that the land outside of the Upland Gate was heavily settled, much like the south. At this altitude the growing season was just starting so rather than fields green with the sprouts of the first crops of the year; they were still barren and muddy. As the days and weeks wore on, they spent more and more time in the wild lands of the passes between the valleys. They began to keep watch when they camped at night, for outlawry was not unknown amongst the Dwarves and there was also an increasing threat of encountering goblins, trolls or other dangerous creatures.

Goblins were not at war with the dwarves, but small parties of renegades did occasionally launch raids into the dwarven kingdom. A Goblin will eat pretty much anything, and the renegades among them had no compunctions against a nice bit of roast dwarf now and again.

Trolls were another matter. Shy and solitary, these hairy giants were likely to see you coming before you saw them and make themselves scarce. But they had been known, on rare occasions, to assault travelers or to attack their camps. The first time they set a watch was the night after they had seen the huge, distinctive tracks of a troll in the mud along the side of the road.

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.”

His father lay half-conscious, his face bloodied and his body slack. The rough looking dwarf from earlier had the Big 14 gripped in one hand. He gave it a savage jerk, trying to free the sling and his father gave a short shriek of pain. Engvyr's head reeled and his vision kept going in and out of focus. A feminine cry of distress caused him to roll over and look towards his aunt.

One of the twins lay unmoving. A dwarf held his struggling aunt's arms while another tore at the fastenings of her Great Cote. The second twin launched herself onto him, pummeling him with her fists and began screaming at him to leave her mother alone. He backhanded the child to get her off him and to Engvyr's horror the force of the blow caused her to stagger across the trail. She teetered on the precipice for a moment before she vanished over the edge with a terrified shriek. Everyone froze for a moment in shock.

With a bellow of rage Engvyr rolled up onto one knee and without thinking leveled The Hammer and shot the dwarf that had struck her through the skull. There was a shocked exclamation from behind him.

Unlike his father's gun The Hammer was a repeater. The piston was cocked by the stroke of a long lever, and as the lever was returned to rest a mechanism loaded another 36-bore ball from the tubular magazine that lay alongside the barrel. With muscles developed mucking out ore in the deep mine and fueled by rage he braced the butt against his hip and savagely stroked the charging lever as he rose to his feet and turned.

The dwarf trying to wrest the Big 14 from his father released his grip on the gun and spread his hands. Engvyr gestured with The Hammer for the man to move past him and up the trail. He crowded back against the slope as the dwarf, hands extended placatingly, edged past him.

“Easy there, boy- you don't want to shoot me…”

Engvyr looked him dead in the eye over the sights and replied, “I beg to differ. Try anything at all and I will end you.”

The miner looked into the boy's eyes and did what he was told, joining the dwarf that had just released his Aunt. She crawled away as their friends came back along the trail to join them.

“Don't be stupid, boy!” one of them said, “there's five a'us and you got one shot before we'll be on you.”

Engvyr shrugged.

“At this range I'll kill one of you for sure,” he said, shifting his aim slightly, “You volunteering?”

“I'll do for another,” a voice said weakly from behind him. He saw their eyes shift and knew that his father had managed to level the Big 14 at them as well.

“Best you all cut your losses and get yourselves gone,” Engvyr told them.

They looked at each other and stood uncertainly. They were not really a group, and it was as individuals that they acted now. Not one among them wanted to be the first to back down but they didn't like their personal odds.

“Bugger this!” one of them finally said, “Let the mountains kill them.”

With venomous glances at the boy and his father they moved up the trail and out of sight. He could hear them as they gathered the remaining oxen and moved off into the distance leaving them alone. Alone… without food, shelter or supplies.

Chapter Five

“A dwarf never knows himself until he faces ruin. Whether that ruin be death at the hands of his enemies, natural disaster or the whims of the Gods, it is then that his true mettle is shown, to himself and all the world.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Engvyr did not know how long he stood with the big handgun pointed up the trail after them. When his arms began to shake he lowered the weapon. He could not later recall thinking anything at all, his mind shying away from the catastrophic events of the last few moments.

A groan of pain from his father broke his stasis and brought him back to himself. He set the gun's safety and unslung it but kept it near to hand as he moved to see to him. He only half-noticed as his aunt gathered up her daughter, who clung to her frantically. She carried the child over to join Engvyr at his father's side.

Sparing her a quick glance he asked, “How is she?”

“She's alright, just had the wind knocked out of her,” his aunt responded.

His father lay among the tumbled rocks, battered and bruised, one leg twisted in a bad way. He had slipped from consciousness again and Engvyr moved to make him more comfortable but was stopped by his aunt's hand on his arm.

“We dare not move him yet, his back may be broken. Start a fire and I'll look to your father and see what's what.”

He nodded and started to move off up the trail when they heard a distant shout.

“Hallooo!”

Past the damaged section of trail there was a dwarf hailing them. It was Eggil Burenson from the pack-train.

“Are you all right?” he yelled to them.

“My brother is hurt,” his aunt yelled back, “And our supplies are stolen.”

“Who stole your supplies?” Eggil yelled back.

“It was those miners and their friends!” Engvyr replied, feeling a fresh burst of rage at the memory.

Eggil put his hands on his hips, nodded and peered at the damaged trail. Engvyr looked as well. The trail had been carried away in sections, dropping into the gorge and the raging river more than three hundred feet below. Of his mother and their Guide, there was no sign; the raging torrent had already borne them away. It was clear there was no chance that they had lived, no chance at all.

The thought of his mother brought fresh tears to his eyes. That she was truly gone, that he would never see her, hold and be held by her again… he forced those thoughts away with an effort of will. It was their own survival he must think of now. There would be time aplenty to mourn their loss later. For now the living must see to the living.

Turning his regard back to the collapsed trail he studied it carefully. It was truly impassible. The hundred paces that separated them from the train might just as well have been a hundred leagues. He held up his hands helplessly to the other dwarf.

“It's no good!” he shouted, “We can't cross!”

The other dwarf gave them an exaggerated nod and yelled that he would be back. As he turned back to his father his aunt reminded him to get the fire going. He left The Hammer with his aunt, taking the Big 14 with him as he moved cautiously up the trail to find wood. It took time to gather as he had to go some distance to reach the trees and brush; all the while he kept a wary eye out.

When he got back to the others his aunt had the rocks moved from under his father's body. Her great-cote was balled-up under his head for a pillow. She had already splinted his leg and was cleaning the gash on his forehead with water from the leather bottle that she carried slung about her body.

“How is he?” he asked as he laid out the kindling and struck a light.

His Aunt shook her head, her lips tightened to a thin line before responding.

“Well, none of his wounds are fatal. He's got a busted knee and some cuts and bruises. His back isn't broken, near as I can tell, but it's probably badly sprained. I don't know that he can travel, but we sure as anything can't stay here for long.”

Engvyr nodded as he got the fire going. Hunting around a bit he found a flat slab of rock and propped it up to reflect the heat of the fire before making another trip for wood. Then he arranged some more rocks to help block the wind.

Eggil reappeared on the lower section of the trail and shouted up to them, asking if they had line. They hadn't and he left again, coming back a moment later with a weighted rope. If he could get the rope to them they might be able to cross the gap or at least pass some supplies across. He swung the rope around and around in a great circle before letting fly. It fell short and he reeled it in and tried again, again falling short. He made several more attempts but the distance was just too great. He shouted his apologies.

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.

His father looked better for the hot meal and coffee so while they ate they discussed their plans. He and his aunt took turns keeping watch. As Engvyr sat listening to the night he had time to reflect and grieve. He thought much about his mother and cousin and felt a great, aching gulf within him. He felt sorry for his Aunt as well, for she had lost her husband, her sister and her child. He could scarcely imagine what she was feeling.

His cousin remained in her shocked, staring state and that was a worry as well. She was too young to really grasp what had happened. As Engvyr understood it, losing a twin would be like losing half of herself. When his Aunt brewed her some medicinal tea from among her simples the girl had held the cup but would not drink until the cup was raised to her lips.

He was also uneasy within himself. He had killed two men and it had seemed far too easy a thing. It was true that he had little choice and it had all happened very quickly, but it seemed to him that it should be harder to take a life. He knew that the act of killing had changed him in ways that he could not define. He resolved to speak to his father about it when he had the chance.

In the morning they made a travois from the beams and canvas of the tent. He hated to cut into that cover as it was their only shelter, but they needed to get his father if not to safety then at least to some place better suited to his recovery.

They made poor time that day. Each jolt and bounce of the travois brought a fresh grimace of pain to his father's face. By mid-afternoon he was feverish and Engvyr began to fear for him. They stopped and made camp among some tumbled boulders in a hollow off the trail. Covered with the remains of the tent canvas it was far more snug than their exposed position on the trail had been.

Having stopped so early in the day they had time to gather a good deal of firewood and even fresh boughs for bedding. For the first time since the accident they had adequate shelter from the bitter cold of the mountain night and they slept the deep sleep of exhaustion. They were too tired to stand watch and simply trusted themselves to the Lord and Lady's care for the one night.

The next day they moved stiffly about their morning chores. His father's fever had worsened and he would take no food. His Aunt made some meat-broth and got some of that into him but Engvyr could tell that she was worried.

He spent the morning enlarging and improving their shelter. In the afternoon he found some fresh greens, mushrooms and berries to supplement their food stocks. He held himself ready should game offer itself up but none did.

That night his father's illness deepened. His Aunt sought out herbs she knew of to fight the fever but found nothing that she knew would help. The plants at these altitudes were different than the ones that she had known in the lowlands.

They were both aware he was failing and Engvyr was desperately afraid of losing him too. The best they could manage was to make sure that he had plenty of water and broth and to sooth him with damp cloths on his forehead. That, and pray to the Lady for her mercy.

His father spoke to Engvyr during one of his lucid periods.

“This might be it for me, son. No, don't shake your head- it's as may be. You've done well, better than could be expected even, and it's no fault of yours one way or t'other. But if'n I don't make it you need to get your aunt and cousin down off this mountain and home to the clan. I know that you can do it if anyone can.”

He blinked back his tears and promised that he would.

Later after his father had passed into a fitful, fever-haunted sleep he sat by his side drowsily. He knew that he should take the Big 14 and go on watch but felt himself drifting into sleep and jerked himself awake. He stood and reached for the gun but froze as the flap of their shelter was rudely thrust aside. He heard his aunt gasp as he locked eyes with the creature in the entry.

It was a Goblin.

Chapter Six

“I'm not sure that I believe in coincidence. What seems a chance meeting may simply be the workings of a plan too great and complex for our knowing. Our lives may be but cogs in a vast machine churning away the hours of creation for some purpose that we are too small, too limited, to comprehend. Or maybe it's just blind, bloody luck.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

The goblin regarded them all without expression, his large pale pink eyes flitting from face to face, taking in the contents of their shelter. In his hands he held a crossbow at the ready but as yet it was not pointed at any one of them. Then his eyes alighted on Engvyr's father and he peered intently at him for a moment before his face split in a toothy grin.

“Good Stew!” he said.

Engvyr was shocked that the creature had spoken and it took a moment for the words to register. He nearly made a suicidal lunge for the gun but then his father chuckled.

“Good Stew indeed!” He agreed, visibly perked up for the first time in days.

Engvyr stared at his father who, to his surprise, was returning the goblin's grin weakly. Their visitor braced the crossbow's butt against his thigh and carefully released the string. He set the weapon down, reached back through the flap dragged his pack inside and settled by the fire.

His cousin was hiding behind her mother and staring over her shoulder. His aunt was looking from the goblin to his father and back, plainly at a loss.

“Gunnar… what…?”

His father chuckled again and replied, “Offer our guest a cup of coffee if you please.”

She stared at him as if he had lost his mind, then blinked, poured a cup of coffee and extended it to their visitor. He accepted it and continued to look around before once again settling his gaze on Gunnar.

“Thes time ets you thet is hert,” he commented.

His father agreed. The goblin turned his big, strange eyes on Engvyr and examined him minutely.

“My son,” his father said.

When he turned his gaze to Engvyr's aunt and cousin his father said, “My brother's wife and daughter.”

The Goblin nodded. Still staring at his aunt the goblin asked, “Wound-fever er Cold-fever?”

“Cold fever I think… maybe some of each,” she replied hesitantly.

The Goblin bobbed his head and dug into his pack with long, strangely delicate fingers and handed her a waxed-paper packet.

“Boil en water. Fer fever.”

His father nodded and she did as she was bid while the goblin sat sipping his coffee. When the herbs were heating she looked meaningfully at Gunnar.

His father looked at the Goblin and smiled.

“It's been, what… a hundred and thirty years?”

“One-hunnert en twentay-six yeers, foor months end eleeven days,” the Goblin corrected.

Engvyr's father went on to explain that he had been hunting a rogue boar. One night someone had hailed him out of the darkness. He told whoever it was to come in and a wounded goblin had limped into his camp, torn up from a bad fall. He handed Gunnar a pair of coneys and eased himself down.

Not sure what to do he'd given the goblin a cup of coffee, skinned the rabbits and cut them up into the stew. After they ate Gunnar treated his visitor's wounds and they settled down. His father had dozed fitfully through the night, not trusting himself to sleep too deeply but the goblin never moved except to pull his broad-brimmed hat low over his eyes and wrap his scarf around his face when the sun rose.

His father left him the remains of the stew and went back to hunting. He got the boar and when he returned to camp the Goblin was still there. He cooked dinner and coffee again and when he departed in the morning he left a good-sized chunk of the boar and plenty of firewood.

“Sevved my life,” said the goblin, nodding.

Engvyr examined the Goblin as his dad told the story. He was about the size of a dwarf but spindly of build with a look of wiry strength about him. His skin was beyond pale- it was paper-white. His face was dominated by a huge, hooked nose. His forehead sloped sharply back from his eyebrows, accentuating his large round eyes. He had a broad mouth full of uncomfortably pointed teeth and a receding chin. The overall effect was ferret-like but after the first impression he was not so much ugly as just different.

At first glance the Goblin’s clothing appeared ragged and filthy. He wore rough trousers bloused into high, soft boots and a quilted tunic under a long great-cote. In addition to his crossbow he wore a long knife and a hand-ax in his belt. Looking closer Engvyr realized that neither the pants nor the great-coat were truly ragged. The seams of the trousers and cote were frayed-out deliberately. The splotches of subdued color weren't stains but were deliberately placed. The combination of the splotches and frayed seams would help to blur the goblin's outline in the brush and make him harder to spot at a distance.

This isn't to say he wasn't dirty; they all were. But it was no more than the normal dirt any traveler was bound to accumulate. He never did learn the goblin's name; it seemed it was bad luck for them to give that out to any but their most trusted associates.

Engvyr couldn't exactly say that he got to know that goblin over the next few days but he did get to do a lot of thinking about people. Goblins had sabotaged the mine and killed his uncle. But his own kind had taken advantage of their misfortune, robbed them and would have done worse given a chance. Then a goblin, the next best thing to an enemy of his folk, saved his father's life.

And save his life he did. The goblin's herbs eased his father's fever and he pointed out edible and medicinal plants to Engvyr and his aunt. He also showed Engvyr how to improvise simple traps, like a deadfall with a figure-4 trigger, some snares and the like. He taught him more of tracking though he had a strange way of teaching. He'd point something out and wait for Engvyr to suss out the meaning, giving hints only if the boy was completely stumped.

The goblin stayed with them most of a week. By that time his father's fever was long passed and he was able to move about at least a little. His back was much improved but the broken knee would take weeks or months to heal. In fact he might never walk again without the aid of a cane or walking-stick.

In the end the goblin took no leave of them, but slipped away in broad daylight without a word. His father advised them not to be hurt by this, saying that it was just his way.

The reason for his abrupt departure became apparent within the hour. Engvyr was gathering firewood when he heard a shout. Looking up he saw a pair of Rangers of the Mountain Guard. One of them was waving and he returned their wave as he moved forward to meet them. Taking in his appearance and the weapon that he bore the Ranger greeted him with a question.

“Would you be Engvyr Gunnarson then?”

“Aye, that I would.”

The Ranger nodded and explained, “We met up with your pack-train. They told us of your misfortune and we came to see what could be done. It took us some time to work around the mountain and come down from the north. Are you and your folk well?”

“As much as can be expected. My father is busted up some from the rock-fall. You can come and see for yourselves if you like, but for the moment you have the advantage of me…?”

The Ranger shook his head at himself and said, “Where are my manners? I'm Rolph Fehrenson and this is my partner, Roel Cooper.”

The other Ranger nodded and touched the brim of his hat in greeting. Engvyr brought them into the shelter and introduced them all around. His Aunt served them up coffee, biscuits and beans with beef. None of them made any mention of their previous visitor. The Rangers seemed a bit puzzled and soon voiced the cause.

“We'd been given to understand you had nothing; that some ne'er do wells had made off with your oxen and all of your goods? Was this not the case?”

“It was,” his father confirmed, “but Engvyr managed to recover the one ox.”

“And the pony?” asked Rolph, who seemed to do the talking for both of the Rangers.

“Fella' that was riding him had no further need of him,” Engvyr said, keeping his eyes on his food.

“Would that be the fellow with a hole in his chest that you could pass a tent-pole through?” the Ranger asked dryly.

“Likely so.”

“By the Lord's teeth, boy! We're the Law out here. It's no more than our duty to look into people dead of mischief, and I think that a gunshot wound qualifies as 'mischief' if anything does! Best that you tell us what happened.”

In the end nothing would do but that he tell the whole story. He kept to the bare facts and when he was done his father and aunt were staring at him, astonished at the tale. He felt uneasy with their regard and ducked his head, flushing.

“Engvyr” his father said, “I had no idea…”

He shrugged, his appetite gone, and set aside his bowl and spoon.

Rolph said, “Well, your account agrees with that of the folk of the train and such evidence as we could discern. We'll report it as you say. You've done a man's portion, boy.”

He shrugged again. “I just did what needed doing.”

His father leaned across and put a hand on his shoulder and said, “That's what a man does, son. What he must. Now finish your supper; a man needs his strength in this country.”

They got to know the pair of Rangers well over the course of the next week. At first Engvyr was a little put out that they didn't take out after the thieves but Rolph explained it.

“It might be we could catch up with them despite them having such a good head-start. That won't bring your kin back, and I doubt your Ma would thank us for neglecting you all when you need our help. We'll make our report and the word will get out so don't fret. Folk will be looking for them soon enough.”

Engvyr had to admit there was some sense to that. While they had done well with their makeshift shelter it was small, cramped and fragile. The first good storm would likely shred it and leave them exposed. Fortunately there was better to be had fairly close at hand.

“There was a family tried to settle up here about seventy years back,” Rolph told them, “ran some trap lines, did some placer mining and did alright for themselves for a time. Then the father got taken by winter-fever and his widow took their kid back to her clan. Their hame is about a good day of travel north and has been vacant for some years.”

“You reckon it's still standing?” his Aunt asked.

This seemed to amuse the Ranger for some reason.

“I reckon so.”

In the event it took them most of two days to reach the Hame, owing to his father's condition. When they arrived Engvyr stared at the building in surprise. Still standing indeed, he thought, and likely to be standing as long as the mountains!

The roof of the hame was an enormous slab of granite, its base set into a ledge on the side of the mountain. Its sides were set onto four roughly finished stone blocks, each half-again as tall as a dwarf and an arm's length thick. The spaces between were filled with dry stone walls, the rocks shaped and fitted until you couldn't have slipped a knife-edge between them. There were two small windows flanking the opening for the door and a chimney poked up near the back of the slab.

“How in the Lord and lady's name did they build this place? I just can't figure it.”

His father looked at the hame for a moment and shrugged.

“Danged if I know,” he said, “But folk are mighty clever and people can do amazing things when they put their minds to it.”

Engvyr shook his head, looking at the slab with a miner's eye.

“But that rock must weigh fifteen tons if it's a pound! I just can't make out how they managed it,” he said.

“That's a Stonewright's work for sure,” Roel said and gestured to the structure, “They can do some surprising things. A good one with a small team can erect a hame like this in a couple of weeks. I once watched a Stonewright and his apprentice lift a slab like this, must have weighed ten tons, in a day with nothing but a bunch of sticks, a couple of beams and some rope.”

He must have looked skeptical because the Ranger went on to explain.

“They'd already cut the slab with drills and blasting powder and they horsed it into position with levers and rollers. They set the beams into the ground hard up against the slab with their tops sloped towards each other and tied a rope between 'em. Putting a heavy stone on one end of the slab tipped it just enough that they could slide a narrow pole under the high side between the two beams. Then the 'prentice picked up the rock and walked to the other end of the slab so that it tipped it the other way and the wright put a pole under that end. He just kept carrying the rock from one end of the slab to the other while the Stonewright slid the poles under it. They kept at it until that big 'ol slab was as high as a dwarf can reach. Dangdest thing I ever saw.”

Engvyr studied the hame for a moment and then pointed to the side.

“So then they did somethin' similar to lift those side-blocks into place and dropped the slab on it, I reckon.”

Roel nodded.

“They just cut the rope between the beams and it settled right down into place. Next time we came through on our rounds that place was all finished. The family had already moved in and was planting crops.”

Once Engvyr had heard it told it seemed like the easiest thing in the world. He reckoned that a lot of things were like that. A dwarf needed to learn to look at things in different ways when the way that he knew wouldn't do.

“Might be we could stop admiring the place and go about getting it ready to live in?” Egerta inquired dryly.

The rangers made sure that nothing bigger than spiders and bugs had taken up residence. After they announced that it was safe they lit lamps and went within. There was a large main room with a fireplace under the slab itself. Three smallish rooms had been mined into the rock-face at the rear. A latrine had been built off to one side in a small addition.

The roof of the addition had rotted and fallen in, and the interior needed a good cleaning as animals had sheltered in it from time to time. A stout table made of a thick slab of wood still stood in the main room, likely left as it was too heavy to move and in fact wouldn't fit through the low, narrow door. It was still sound after all these years owing to its heavy construction and the dryness of the interior. They set to work with a will and that night they slept under a proper roof, with a fire in the newly cleaned fireplace.

They found the head of a broadax along one side of the hame, its haft long rotted away. They scoured it with sand to remove the worst of the rust and Rolph showed him how to cut and trim a new handle for it. They used it to cut planks for a door, a new roof for the latrine, some benches and other furniture. They also set up a corral for the livestock and trekked to nearby meadows to cut the tall grasses for feed. In a surprisingly short time the hame was becoming comfortable, even homey.

One afternoon Engvyr was gathering firewood and he heard a soft sound from the hillside above the hame. Moving carefully he came upon his aunt, curled into a ball and sobbing uncontrollably. He knew that she had hardly had time to properly mourn her lost husband before they had departed. With the fresh loss of her daughter and sister-in-law, who had been her best friend in the world, it was a testament to her inner strength that she had held herself together this long.

He moved off quietly and watched over her through the long afternoon until at last her tears ran out. She fell into a deep sleep right where she lay. Not wanting her to take a chill lying on the cold ground he worked his way back down to the hame and called out for her. She came down the hill, eyes dry and once again the model of strength she had been these last weeks.

Nor was his father immune to grief, and though he gave little outward sign he was a quieter man than the one that had raised Engvyr. Though Engvyr never saw him cry he was prone to nightmares and on more than one occasion he was red-eyed and puffy-faced when he rose in the morning.

Berget was now seeing to her own needs and would do as she was told but had yet to speak. When not occupied she would sit for hours staring blindly at nothing. Engvyr took to setting her small tasks to keep her busy, which seemed to help.

Rolph borrowed the Big 14 and went out hunting one day and brought down a boar bigger than he was. He had to fetch Engvyr and Roel to help carry it back to the hame. It took the rest of the day to skin and butcher it. They used some of their remaining salt to preserve large chunks of it and cure the side-meat. His aunt used the intestines and some local herbs to make strings of sausages that they hung by the fire to dry.

Finally Rolph told the family that it was time for them to move on.

“We've been off our rounds for weeks. As it is we'll not make our check-in without cutting out a loop of our patrol route.”

“We'd not meant to keep you from your duty, Ranger,” His aunt said.

He dismissed that concern with a wave.

“We've been doing our duty, ma'am. We patrol against threats and enforce the King's Law, yes, but it's just as much our job to help folks like yourselves. We do need to report in, and more-or-less on-time. If we don't they will have to take other rangers away from their patrols to search for us.”

“No worries,” his father assured them, “Get on with you. We're well set-up here, thanks to you. I'll be up and around soon enough and we'll be on our way.”

The Rangers shook hands with them all and accepted hugs from his aunt along with a bag of freshly made biscuits.

“Next time our rounds bring us this way we'll stop in and check on you. That'll likely be a month or so” Rolph told them, “until then be well.”

He swung into the saddle and gave a small wave. Roel touched the brim of his hat in farewell and they set off.

Chapter Seven

“A Dwarf may set his foot on any path he chooses, but that path will lead where it leads regardless of his intended destination. If he is too set in his mind on his original goal he may in his disappointment entirely miss the wonder of where he winds up.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

“You've done well for yourselves here,” Rolph commented, looking around the hame.

Good as their word the Rangers had returned. They brought with them some small things that the family might need, odds and ends like a spool of strong thread, some iron needles, a small bag of salt and a box of 14-bore slugs. They even brought some hard candy for Berget, which she accepted gravely. She still did not speak but a spark of life was coming back into her eyes at last.

Busy as they had been the month had passed quickly. They had never stopped working on improving the hame, little things like shutters for the windows, shelves, a couple of small benches and the like. It didn't matter that they were moving on, dwarves are folk with a love of making things, and making things neat and tidy. Besides, other folk in need might come along and be able to make use of them.

Mostly they had gathered food for their trip and to extend their scant supplies. Engvyr and Egerta constructed a make-shift smokehouse to preserve the game that he shot. He took a deer and a smaller boar and they sliced up all the meat that they could and smoked it. His aunt collected herbs and dried them, both for seasoning and for simples.

His father was doing better. His back was all but healed and he was moving about the place, even going outside with the help of a stout cane. Even as he recovered he had spent much of his time carving bowls, spoons and other small, useful things.

“You'd hardly know it for the same place,” Rolph said as he looked around admiringly, “have you thought of staying, then?”

His father shook his head.

“Might be we could make do through the winter if I weren't crippled up. We can manage a few weeks on the trail but winters are long and cruel hereabouts. Best we make for our Clanhame.”

“You'll need to move out smartly, then, if you're to make it over the High Passes. The Endelg Afkol, the Death Chill will hit them early this year,” Rolph said.

“Death Chill? What is that?” Engvyr asked.

“Those High Passes never really get snowed in but they get fierce wind and cold. It gets so cold if you spit it will freeze before it hits the ground. That's when you know you're in a Death Chill, when you can't bundle up or be active enough to keep from freezing to death. That happens, well, you need to get back down the mountain in a hurry, or else somewhere warm to wait it out.”

After supper they talked on about conditions on the road ahead and the hazards that they might encounter along the way. When they grew tired the Rangers rolled their bedrolls out by the fire and the family retired to their rooms. In the morning they broke their fast with meat left over from supper and griddle-cakes cooked in bacon-fat.

“Mind you don't tarry if'n you mean to make it to your Clanhame before the passes close,” Rolph advised as the Rangers swung into their saddles to ride on, “The town of Loevpas is two or three days up the trail and you can pick up some necessaries there. I don't know as there is any place you can winter over twixt there and the High Passes. Worst come to, if you get stopped in the mountains you might be able to make it back to town.”

They watched until the pair passed out of sight and his father sighed.

“Guess that we'd best be about it then.”

They had a good store of smoked meat and dry sausages at this point, but not enough to over-burden the ox. This was good, as his father would need to ride their one pony. While he could get around after a fashion he would never be up to traveling any kind of distance on foot.

They gathered tubers and wild onions from the land about, and the blackberries were coming into season. They picked these with caution, mindful that they were a favorite of the bears that lived thereabouts.

His aunt took the fruits of their gleaning and made a strong, spicy stew to put into Travel Pyes. These had a thick, salty crust that after baking was hard enough for a dwarf to break his teeth on. She'd filled these with the stew and sealed them with a top-crust and baked them again. The pyes would keep for weeks and make for an easy meal on the trail. The crust was not really edible so they could just set them in a pan to heat and eat the contents.

Finally they were ready. The ox had been living high these last weeks and wasn't keen to wear the packs again but resigned himself to it quickly enough. Unlike the first time they took to the road there was no issue of what to take and what to leave; they had little enough that the beast was far from fully loaded when all was said and done.

Before they left they erected a simple marker with the names of his mother and cousin, the year and the simple notation, “Taken by the Mountains” scratched deeply into the stone. Each of them said a few words over it, excepting Berget who simply placed a bouquet of wildflowers and her lost sister's doll before the stone. Even then she shed no tears, just looked on gravely as they each said their piece.

They closed the door to the hame firmly and double-checked that it was latched. They had no thought that they would return but others in need might come upon the place. It was hard to leave that snug little hame- it had been a home to them, however briefly. It had given them time to rest, recover and grieve. Even though Berget said nothing Engvyr caught her looking back several times as they walked away.

They stopped in Loevpas overnight. The settlement consisted of a dozen hames, a smithy, tannery, general store, stables and not a lot more. His father was able to purchase some supplies, mainly bulk foodstuffs. His Aunt was able to secure some willow-bark tea and local remedies to help with altitude-sickness for when they traversed the High Passes. Even after loading their purchases onto the oxen its packs looked lighter than any of them liked.

With his father mounted on the pony and Berget riding atop the packs when she tired they made fair time. The trail was broad and well-travelled and they took to stopping early. While his aunt and father set up camp Engvyr would take the Big 14 to go gather wood from fallen branches and deadfalls. They cut these to manageable size to carry with them as there would be no fuel to be had in the High Passes. The trails there were far above the tree-line.

They made it through the first two of these passes without incident. The willow-bark tea and simples that his aunt had procured helped quite a bit but it was never other than a miserable experience. This prompted Engvyr to thinking and examining the terrain carefully as they travelled. Finally one afternoon as they crossed a valley towards the third of the High Passes he talked to his father about it.

“I've been looking at the lay of the land,” he said, “And it seems to me there are places folk could tunnel through the mountains to avoid these awful passes. Why hasn't anyone ever done so?”

“There's been some argument over the years on that score, believe you me,” his father told him, “And the answer lies in the history of our folk.”

“How so?”

“Well, you know that in the beginning we were slaves. They say that once we were of the Afmaeltinn, or at least related to 'em, and that The Maker remade us to work his mines.”

Engvyr nodded, every dwarf knew that.

“Well, one of the things that he did was to make us long-lived, which tends to make us think in terms of the long view. When we won free of him and moved into these lands we looked 'em over carefully and settled them with a plan.”

“Seems like that plan might've included makin' things a bit easier on folk,” Engvyr grumbled, not looking forward to the next climb.

His father smiled as his eyes scanned the country about them for trouble even while they talked.

“It has to do with the lay of the mountains. There's only one really good way to move an army into the deep mountains, and they set Ironhame right in the middle of it, like a cork in a bottle. In the southern lowlands it's pretty easy to move about, and we built the best roads there to move trade and to move our own armies. In time of war folks can use those roads to fall back on Ironhame.”

“And when they do, you can then move them through The Underpass to the lands beyond!” Engvyr exclaimed.

It was like the problem with lifting the slab. You just had to look at it in a different way.

His father nodded approvingly. “Now you're thinking.”

Engvyr was, and continued to do so. After a few moments of consideration he admitted he was still baffled.

“So the question in your mind,” his father said, “Is why wouldn't the best miners in the world not make an equivalent to The Underpass to move folk into the Highlands should Ironhame fall?”

“Because they didn't want to,” said Engvyr, the light dawning at last.

“Just so. Can you imagine trying to move an army and its supply train over the High Passes?”

Engvyr shuddered and said, “It would be a nightmare.”

“That it would, and to do so without our mountain-bred ponies and oxen it would be beyond just difficult.”

Engvyr knew about the idea of a 'Defense in Depth' from listening to his Father and the Sergeant-Major's conversations, but the thought that one could build an entire country around such a concept would not have occurred to him. He pondered this some more as the day wore on and decided that he would bet good money that such tunnels did in fact exist but were kept secret against just such an invasion.

They stopped even earlier than usual that afternoon lest darkness catch them in the pass. That night was the coldest they had yet experienced. As he sat shivering through his watch in the small hours of the morning Engvyr thought that this did not bode well for the morrow. Not well at all.

Chapter Eight

“ Dvargatil Baeg's eastern border to the north is quite secure, if by 'secure' one means that no threat may be forthcoming from any of the Five Races of Man. I am less convinced that we are entirely safe, for that high desolate place where no life dwells has a curious life of its own…”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

The knowledge that something was terribly wrong came upon Engvyr gradually. His head was pounding and his vision dim. He felt warm and sleepy but was aware that if he slept he would never wake. He looked about him, blinking to clear his vision.

His mouth was intolerably dry and when he felt under his coat for his water-bottle and found only a hard lump. As he explored it he realized that he felt no sensation from his fingers. He fumbled the lump from within his coat and stared. It was his water-bottle, frozen solid. With a jolt he came full awake and realized that he was freezing to death.

It was the Endelg Afkol. They were in the Death-Chill.

Looking about he realized that he was alone. He could see no sign on the narrow, stony trail that any other had passed. Back tracking down the trail on insensate feet he saw a shape which resolved itself into the figure of his father, slumped in the saddle on the stumbling pony. Engvyr tried to speak to him but his throat would not form the words.

Grabbing the reins he turned the pony and led it back down the slope. Once he nearly walked off the end of a switchback in the trail as he fought the urge to sleep. Fighting back the dimness of mind and vision that struggled to overcome him he put one foot in front of the other. He did not know how long he went on in that fashion.

“Engvyr!” The voice was scarcely more than a croak, but he recognized it as his Aunt's.

Then her hands were on him, guiding him into a hollow in the rock where a fire raged. He could not hold the steaming mug that was pressed into his hands, so his aunt helped him and he was able to swallow some measure of it. It was coffee and something else, strong with the heat of peppers, and it cleared his head though it did not relieve the throbbing headache. The pony had instinctively crowded into the opening, standing up against the ox for warmth. They got his father down from the saddle and settled him by the fire next to his niece. He mumbled incoherently as his sister held the cup to his lips.

As the warmth penetrated and his vision cleared, Engvyr looked around their sanctuary. The hollow had been formed when a great spear of granite had split off of the mountain. Over time dirt and debris had sifted into the crack, forming a floor for a space just big enough for them all to crowd into by the fire.

At his aunt's direction he helped her string the tent-cover across the opening. It was not warm in the small enclosed space even with the roaring fire but closing it off from the wind helped. Soon it had heated up enough that his face and fingers began to throb painfully as they lost their chill. It was several minutes before he could unwrap his scarf as the moisture in his breath had frozen it to his short beard. As they all became more comfortable his Aunt told him what had happened to her and Berget.

“I was altitude sick, we all were, and I didn't realize the danger. Berget slipped and fell on the trail, so I picked her up and carried her and she was so cold… then the ox walked into this hollow and wouldn't leave again. I realized we were freezing to death and started the fire.”

She looked at Engvyr and his father imploringly and continued.

“I wanted to search for you both, I did! But I could not leave Berget. All that I could do was watch for you and pray that the Lord and Lady would deliver you.”

“And so they did,” his father said, “and you must not blame yourself, sister, you did right. Had you sought us we would have had no fire to come back to. Likely we would all have died! We've been very, very lucky.”

His Aunt nodded but would not meet their eyes. She went to the pot at the fire and dipped them each a mug of the boiling liquid. Engvyr sipped at it cautiously, wary that it would burn his mouth but it was not hot enough to do so.

“It's barely hot when it boils,” his aunt said, “I think it's the altitude.”

Engvyr nodded without really considering her words. They had found a temporary island of safety but the danger would only grow now that the sun had dropped behind the peaks. Soon it would be true night and the temperature might drop further still.

“We've enough wood to last,” his father said, “I think that we must spend the night and try to get back down the mountain as soon as we have light to do so. We can consider what to do once we are safe.”

They all agreed that was the best course and settled down to rest as best they could. His Aunt's concoction was a strong stimulant. By the time he finished his mug Engvyr felt he might not sleep for a week. The others eventually did drift off and he kept the fire supplied through the night.

At dawn he woke his father and aunt and they fortified themselves with more of the hot drink. Bundling up as best they could they left the shelter. They roped themselves together lest they get separated again and moved down the trail as quickly as they could. They were now in a race against the cold.

They won that race by the time the sun peeked over the mountains. The trail had descended rapidly and soon the cold was no longer immediately life-threatening but they had another problem. They were no longer on the trail that had taken them up the pass. Sometime in the haze of cold and sickness they had taken a wrong turn.

“I think that we have come east of the pass,” his father said after studying the lay of the land.

“Gunnar, what are we to do? We haven't supplies or money to winter over even if we could make our way back to Loevpas.” his aunt said.

His father nodded agreement as he continued to study the mountains. Pointing along the trail he said, “This seems to trend North, around the shoulder of the mountain. Perhaps it runs to another pass, or maybe another road.”

“Can we really take that chance?” she asked.

“I'm not sure that we have a lot of choice,” his father replied. “The only way back is through the Death Chill, and that we cannot do.”

They stopped and broke their fast and then set out. The trail did indeed take them around the mountain and northward, the ground slowly rising as they went. Engvyr kept a weather-eye on the countryside, the lay of the trail and the signs along the way. He was becoming a better tracker and what he saw now disturbed him. He spoke to his father about it as they travelled.

“Have you thought about who made this trail, and where it might lead?” he asked.

His father nodded and cast a quick look at his sister and her daughter, who were following behind.

“I've noticed too. Seems we're following a Goblin trail. I'm not sure what that means for us but it's nothing good. I don't want to alarm your aunt but I reckon she'd best know. I'll tell her at the next stop.”

“What should we do?”

His father shrugged and said, “Keep an eye out and that hand-gun ready. Lord and Lady know what we might find.”

As they rounded another turn in the trail the sky ahead seemed to change, to open out before them. He could tell that for some reason this worried his father more than the Goblin trail did. The altitude sickness returned but it was fairly mild and his aunt's herbal simples helped them to sleep that night. The next day they passed between low peaks and they could see that the country leveled out.

It was a strange land that they beheld, almost flat to the horizon. Odd shapes loomed in the distance and Engvyr could not tell if they were wind-carved rock or ruins, but they made him uneasy. In all the vast expanse stretching before them he could see no sign of life. The wind swirled the dust into disturbing shapes that seemed to whisper in a tongue he did not understand and he felt a thread of fear tickling at the back of his neck.

“Gunnar,” said his aunt, speaking slowly between breaths, “What is this place?”

“In the Old Tongue it's called the Daenteg Idengeord, 'The Roof of the World.' It's a high plain, a league or more above sea-level that stretches to the north and east; no one knows for how far.”

“No one has ever crossed it?”

“Not that I ever heard tell,” he said. He looked as if there was more to say, but hesitated.

“Likely if we head north we can find a way back to dwarven lands.”

Indeed the trail wound north along the edge of the peaks, skirting the strange, high plain. Their altitude-sickness worsened and they were still climbing. They were all gasping for breath, their vision greying at the edges when his father called a stop. He produced a waxed paper package of a kind Engvyr had seen before, when the Goblin had given his aunt herbs for his father's fever.

“Our goblin friend said this would help if we were too long at high altitude. I haven't broken it out because there are side-effects but it’s time. Chew it slowly and don't swallow it.”

Carefully unwrapping the package he passed each of them a small portion of the contents, some kind of leaf candied with honey.

They did as he bade them and it seemed to make it easier to breath. Engvyr's headache didn't go away but it faded into the background and he felt more alert as well. They followed the trail along the peaks at the edge of that unearthly wasteland, searching for a way back into the mountains. It was bitterly cold as they trekked along. They stopped occasionally to rest but could not sleep, a side-effect of the leaves. They felt little hunger but forced themselves to eat regardless, knowing that they needed sustenance.

They continued even after night fell. At that altitude the stars gave enough light to travel by. Engvyr began to feel a sense of unreality creeping over him as if they moved through a dream. He kept thinking that he saw movement from the corners of his eyes out on the plain. He dismissed these at first as mirages, the product of fatigue or a side effect of the leaves. But he could not shake the sense that there was volition behind these movements, and that he was being observed. The others were similarly nervous, except for Berget who stared out into the wastes calmly, eyes moving as if tracking things unseen by the rest of them.

“Honey- what are you looking at?” her mother finally asked, not really expecting an answer.

“The sleep-walking ghosts,” the child replied quietly. These were the first words she had spoken since her sister’s death.

They all turned to stare at her and her mother moved quickly to her side and crouched next to her.

“What did you say?”

The child turned her disturbed gaze on her mother and said, “The ghosts that walk in their sleep. They're waking up and they don't like us being here.”

His aunt gave Engvyr and his father a look of bafflement and concern. She took her daughter's hand and told her, “Well, they are just ghosts, love. Everyone knows that ghosts can't hurt you.”

Berget looked at her gravely and whispered, “Not yet they can't.”

She kept ahold of her mother's hand as they went on, but continued to glance at the barren plain from time to time.

As night turned towards morning they saw a hunched figure seated by the trail. Approaching warily they perceived that it was an ancient goblin woman, staring sightlessly over the plain with blind, white eyes. Tumors disfigured her wizened face, distorting the tattoos of red and black that crawled over her features. Her thin tufts of gray hair were braided with feathers, beads and the bones of small animals. Her shapeless clothes pooled about her wasted figure. Engvyr almost thought her dead, mummified by the cold desert air until she turned her blind face to their approach.

“Well, well, well!” she said in a cracked, dry voice, “forgive me that I cannot offer you hospitality. I was not expecting visitors.”

Ignoring her sarcasm his father knelt before her and asked, “Are you well, mother? Are you in need of help?”

“I am not your mother, dvaerg!” she spat viciously, “And as for help I am beyond any in your power to give! Leave me be.”

He stood and exchanged a look with the others and shrugged helplessly. Berget looked at the shriveled figure curiously, unaffected by the crone's overt hostility.

“Aren't you afraid of the ghosts?”

“Ghosts? There are no ghosts here, child.” She turned her blind eyes on the child and continued, “No, those are not spirits you see. They are the dead gods of the forgotten folk that dwelled in this place in the Time Before Time. People not of the races of men.”

She made a sweeping gesture to encompass the wastes before her.

“In their dreams they wander the great cities and temples of their long vanished folk. Their heaven stands cold and empty, its gates barred to them. Now you are waking them to fury and hate, for by your very presence you show the lie of their dream and they will destroy you for that.”

“Oh? Then why have they not woken and destroyed you, crone?” Engvyr challenged her.

She cackled in response, a horrible grating noise.

“I have too little life left in me to be worth the taking, boy! Can you not see? Cankers eat me alive from the inside. I am here to die!”

“You came to this place, Ma'am… surely you know a way that we might leave it? Will you help us?” Egerta asked.

The ancient woman gave a guffaw of surprise at the thought.

“Help you? Help you, dvaerg? That I will not.”

“But why?” his aunt said, “We have done nothing to you!”

The old woman turned on her with an expression of fury.

“Have you not? Truly? Your very existence is an affront to the natural order! Help you? I should spit!”

“But what of my child? Have you no mercy in your heart for her?”

The crone turned her blind face to Berget.

“Mercy for your child? I ache for the strength to wring her tiny neck! I long to feel her tender skin part under my teeth, to suck her sweet flesh from her pretty little bones! That is what I have for your child!”

Enraged, Engvyr made to lunge for her but his father barred his way with an extended arm.

“No, Engvyr! You cannot cure hate with blows.”

The crone cackled again and bowed to his father in mock-respect.

“Such wisdom must be rewarded. A day's travel north you will find the Laagelliev, built by the First Men to contain the Dead Gods in this place. Safety lies beyond that gate.”

His father bowed stiffly to the ancient figure.

“We thank you for your help.”

She waved a hand in dismissal.

“Oh, I have not helped you! I tell you of this to give you hope, but you will never make it to that sanctuary alive. The thought of your horror and despair as that hope is betrayed will be the last, greatest joy of my life!”

The sound of her hideous cackling followed them long after she was lost to their sight.

Chapter Nine

“There is greater evil tucked away in the odd corners of this world than is held by the hearts of men. The earth was ancient beyond imagining before the first man set foot upon her soil and it would be prideful to suggest that we stand at the peak of this world’s achievements in good or ill.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

As dawn approached, Berget, who had been looking into the desert with increasing frequency when they stopped for rest, tugged at her mother's hand.

“They are gathering. I think we should hurry.”

Engvyr agreed. He had been feeling more and more nervous. A sense of a malign presence had been growing on him. Several times he had thought that something had brushed against him.

His father distributed more of the candied leaves, a larger portion this time to each of them, and his aunt brewed more of her spicy medicinal drink. They gave the ox and pony the last of their feed and water, along with a cautiously small portion of the leaves, and set out at the best pace that they could manage.

The rising sun did not dispel the half-seen shapes in the corners of their eyes, which were constant companions now. Neither did it reveal them. They were each aware of a growing sense of menace and they hurried their steps, gasping for breath in the thin air, hearts pounding.

His aunt handed Berget up to her brother. They were all exhausted but the stimulus of the leaves kept sleepiness at bay, though it also made them edgy. They drove themselves on as the sun climbed in the sky. More and more often Engvyr felt invisible hands pluck at his clothes, his beard and hair. Sudden flurries of wind blew grit in their faces. From time to time his Aunt or father would flinch for no reason he could see. Berget buried her face in his father’s cote, peeking out occasionally with wide, fearful eyes.

Abruptly the ground fell away before them in a long slope. Far away they could see a structure of some sort nestled between the distant hills.

Without a word they all picked up their pace though they felt as if their lungs would burst. As if this was a signal to their strange pursuers the manifestations increased. Engvyr stumbled as an unseen presence shoved him. The strange wind-bursts now pelted them with gravel as well as grit. Ghostly hands- or some other appendage- pinched and tugged at them. Egerta cried out and fell. When she rose Engvyr could see a triple-row of welts running from her temple to her cheek. She clung to the pony's harness to keep her feet under her as the invisible assault continued.

Sounds that he had thought were the wind resolved into inhuman voices, chanting, wailing and shouting. He grabbed the pack-straps and held tight as he was pummeled by small stones and rocked by sourceless blows. They staggered down the slope towards the distant structure, helpless against enemies they could neither see nor touch.

Dust devils raced them down the trail and the voices grew louder in their ears. They spoke in no language Engvyr knew, words that no human throat could form that twisted his guts and made his head spin.

As they drew near the gate the pony, as if sensing that sanctuary, broke into a fast trot. His aunt held the harness and bounded alongside. The ox would not be left behind and Engvyr found himself letting it pull him along, struggling to keep his feet under him.

He looked back and saw the dust-devils converging into a single great, translucent shape that towered into the pale blue sky. It strode towards them on more legs than any natural creature possessed. The blowing dust seemed to form mouths and limbs randomly, only for them to swirl away an instant later.

The pony and ox succumbed to panic and began to race across the final ground before the stone arch. The voices merged into one great wall of sound that hammered at their ears and tore at their sanity. He saw his father grab his aunt's cote and lift her feet from the ground as the pony, screaming in fear, bolted the last few feet to the gate.

Engvyr fell but kept his grip on the pack-strap and his legs were dragged along the barren ground. The massive shape of wind-blown dust was solidifying into a form his mind recoiled from comprehending. It seemed to be reaching for him as the maddened ox plunged through the stone arch into silence.

The instant he passed beneath its stones, the voice was cut off and the massive shape dissolved into blown dust. The ox slowed and stopped, eyes rolling and sides heaving. Its long, matted hair was soaked with sweat. Engvyr released the strap and fell to the ground, his lungs clawing for enough of the thin air to catch his breath. He lay on the ground, content for the moment to wait for his racing heart to slow. Already the memory of that massive, eldritch shape was slipping from his mind.

“Engvyr! Are you alright?”

He looked up to see his aunt standing over him and levered himself to a sitting position, wincing as various hurts made themselves known.

“More or less,” he half-gasped. He could see that she was no worse off than he and asked after his father and Berget.

“Well enough.” She braced herself against the ox's pack-frame with one hand and extended the other to help him to his feet. Boyish pride be damned he thought, and accepted her help gratefully.

His father stood, his great-cote torn and his face flecked with blood from many small cuts, holding Berget next to the tumbled body of the pony. The altitude and fear had burst its great heart, he guessed sadly. His father had protected Berget as he rolled from the saddle when the beast went down. But other than superficial wounds and exhaustion they were all whole, for a miracle.

The trail wound down a steep slope into a small valley before them. At first glance it appeared no different than the lands they had just left, but further study showed grey-blue lichens coating the rocks, and a trace of green along a crevice in the valley floor that hinted at water.

They took the tack, harness and saddlebags from the pony and tied them to the ox's pack. It now stood phlegmatically as if nothing had happened at all. His father patted the great beast with an expression of wonder.

“If we live to see the Clanhame, old fellow, it's green fields and never again the road for you! You've earned a bountiful retirement.”

Though they needed meat they had not the heart to butcher the brave pony that had seen them through so much. Engvyr wished that they had the energy to build a cairn for the poor beast but knew that they could not spare the strength.

Though they ached to rest they had nothing to drink and no water to cook with, so they made their way down the steep trail and across the rocky valley as the sun dropped behind the peaks. There was indeed a stream, and the ox woke to new life and broke into a trot.

“Let him go,” his father said, “It's not as if you could hold him back from it anyway.”

They followed after, his father limping slowly along with the help of a cane, and found the beast knee-deep in a wide, shallow pool, his muzzle buried in the stream. They fell to their own bellies and eased their parched throats in the icy water and rinsed the grime and dust from their faces, then set about making camp.

They did not care that they were near the end of their supplies, and the aching head of altitude sickness seemed of little matter compared to their recent ordeal. They did not any of them care to chew more of the candied leaves for relief, either.

They lay their bedrolls on the sand by the pool, snuggled together for warmth as they had used the last of their store of fuel for the cooking fire. They slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, and if their dreams troubled them they did not recall them in the morning.

They rose the next morning stiff and sore but glad they were alive to feel it. Two days later in the second valley they passed through they found the road; a good, dwarven road. It was just a strip of dirt and gravel but to them it looked like home.

Chapter Ten

“There's an old saying that 'The guilty flee when none pursue.' They are forever hunted because no matter where they go they cannot escape the guilt in their own hearts.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Haaken Elovson swore bitterly as he studied the trail ahead of him. He stood and turned to the others.

“It's them, right enough,” he said. He was the best tracker among them and they respected his judgment when it came to such things. Several of the thieves swore in their own turn at this news.

“They gotta' be huntin' us!” exclaimed Darrol Reddolson. He was a miner by trade, with narrow, piggish eyes. “We're off the path that ox-train was takin' and we been windin' all over the country.”

“What I want to know is how'd they get ahead of us?” another wondered.

“It doesn't matter, they managed it somehow. Who'd a' thought they'd take after us? A woman, a kid an' a crippled up fella?” asked the trapper named Noak.

“It's that Maker-damned kid that killed Weart and Doelyr. They must all be as nuts as he is,” said Graegyr, another miner. “If Weart hadn't killed that brat…”

“Well he did kill 'er,” Haaken said, “an' he paid full price for the doin' of it but that don't mean those folks are likely to forgive and forget. If'n they set the Law on us…”

He didn't need to elaborate. Bad as it was to steal they'd laid hands on a respectable woman, and worse yet been involved in the killing of a child. Dwarves had but few children in the course of their long lives and they treasured them. The fact that the killing was an accident, even that the guilty party had died for it, mattered not one bit. It had happened during a crime they were all involved in. In the eyes of the Law they were as guilty as he was.

“Well if they're ahead of us they've lost our trail. We need to get off this road and take out another way,” said Noak.

“Don't be stupid,” Haaken said, “They trailed us this far, do you think they are just going to shrug and go their merry way when they realize they've lost us? No sir, they'll back track and keep right on coming.”

He overrode their muttering at this.

“Ya'll don't see it,” he said, “This is a chance for us. We can take them by surprise and end our troubles here and now.”

“I wouldn't mind meetin' up with that there woman again,” said Noak, “We got us some unfinished business, her and I.”

“Only way Noak can get him a woman, ugly as he is,” one of them said and they all chuckled. Noak just shrugged and grinned.

“Best we move out then, boys,” Haaken said, “Likely we can come up on them before dark, fresh as those tracks are.”

– **-

Engvyr was returning to camp with a double armload of wood when he heard the screams. Dropping the wood he unslung the Big 14 and rushed to investigate. He was just about in sight of the hollow where they had made camp when a figure loomed out of the brush ahead of him. He tried to stop to shoulder the gun but he heard a shot and something slugged him in the chest.

He found himself staring up at the sky through the leaves. He was lying flat on his back on the loam of the forest floor and there was no noise but the sounds of the woods. Breathing hurt, moving was worse, and he fell back with a grimace as he tried to think what had happened. Then he remembered the screams and struggled to his knees. He looked for the Big 14 but it was nowhere to be seen. His belt, pouch and knife were missing too.

He felt another stab of pain that took his breath away and realized that he couldn't move his left arm. He found he'd been shot high in the chest, two inches below the collarbone. The wound had bled plenty but was just seeping now. He used his good hand and his teeth to tear the hem off of his linen undershirt and wad it over the wound under his tunic. He tore another strip and used it to tie the pad in place.

By then his head was swimming and he had to fight down nausea. He was able to get to his feet with the help of a tree-trunk and lurching from tree to tree he came in sight of the camp. The ox was gone and their goods were scattered. A dwarf holding the Big 14 was bent over his father and rummaging through his coat.

Feeling a surge of anger he moved forward quietly and picked up a length of firewood. He almost fell when he bent over but recovered and staggered towards the thief. Hearing his approach the thief started to turn towards him and Engvyr hit him across the face with the stick.

The blow was fueled by rage and he felt bone crunch as he struck. The blow knocked the dwarf over backwards and the gun flew from his hand. Engvyr had to struggle to keep his own feet and when the thief tried to rise Engvyr struck him down savagely.

Dropping the wood he staggered back to check on his father. He was dead. He had been shot in the back with a crossbow and his throat was cut. His aunt had suffered before she died. He covered her and suddenly wondered where Berget was. Trying to rise again he found that he could not. He knelt there, gasping from the ebb and flow of the pain until his sight went dark and he felt no more.

PART TWO: THE FORGE

Chapter Eleven

“There's a trick to fighting a superior force. You need to hit them hard and fast, keep them off balance. Give them no time to organize their response. Get them to react as individuals, without thinking. Do it right and you can more or less scare them to death.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Engvyr watched from cover as the goblin raiding party herded along a pair of women and a half-dozen children. All of the captives showed signs of abuse. Most likely their men-folk had been killed, butchered already and their remains divided up among the goblin's packs.

The prisoners were Afmaeltinn, humans that had settled on the edge of dwarven lands as they sometimes did. Engvyr didn't much care about humans one way or the other but he'd be damned if he'd let the goblins take anyone off of Dwarven lands.

The goblins wore broad-brimmed hats and scarfs to shield their eyes and faces from the sunlight, typical when they were out by daylight. Long coats covered their rag-tag armor, with gloves on their hands and hob-nailed boots upon their feet. Three of them carried repeating crossbows, high on rate-of-fire but short on accuracy. The rest were armed with an assortment of hand-axes, spears and short bill-hooks. With just himself and his partner Taarven Redbeard to stop them Engvyr wasn't liking their odds.

Engvyr and Taarven were Rangers of the Mountain Guard, and they patrolled the remote hames and steadings among the high valleys and mountain passes of the Northlands. In the course of making their rounds they were called upon to do everything from dealing with incursions such as this one to putting down a rogue bear or boar, even acting as judges of the King's Law when they needed to. They spent three to four weeks at a time in the saddle and their only home was the Station that they were based out of.

Rangers were issued repeating carbines and they lived or died by them on their long patrols. These were standard spring-piston guns and they carried twenty 36-bore balls in their tubular magazines. A good dwarf could fire as many as ten balls a minute with one, and they were both very good. However with them outnumbered six-to-one even that rate of fire was likely to prove insufficient. Seeing as we're the only ones here, Engvyr reflected, and someone has to do it this is going to get real interesting.

He nodded to Taarven that he'd seen enough. The two dwarves edged back from their vantage-point and quietly crept back to their hobbled ponies. They had two riding-ponies each and a pack-pony between them. They gathered them up while discussing the situation in low voices carefully pitched to not carry in the mountain air.

“This is going to be all kinds of hairy,” Taarven said

Engvyr snorted in agreement and said, “Reckon if we go down along Goren's Creek through the cut we can get ahead of them before the Eyrie. Give 'em a warm welcome home.”

Taarven nodded. The Eyrie was a pass on the northwestern border of Dvargatil Baeg, and once past that the goblins were free and clear. “Reckon that's the best that we can do.”

They didn't discuss the obvious fact that they'd need better than usual luck to come out of this with their skins intact. But even if they failed and died in the attempt they had a point to make to the goblins: you don't come into Dwarven lands to murder, pillage and kidnap people without paying the price. The two Rangers were determined to make sure that price was as high as possible.

They cut over to the creek and began to work their way up the bed. It was early summer and the water was running less than a foot deep over bedrock with pockets of gravel and debris trapped in the bends, so the footing was good enough for their mountain-bred ponies. It did make for rough going and they had to portage the occasional rapids, but the creek cut across land the road went around so they were able to outpace their quarry.

“If'n we're too far off when we open up on them,” Taarven said, “They'll scatter and we might lose the captives. If we're too close they'll overwhelm us right off.”

Engvyr nodded. “We'll take out the crossbows first and then whoever else we can manage.” Too likely, he reflected grimly, what we'll see is us joining the men-folk in the packs, the choice bits at least, all neatly wrapped and ready to cook.

They joined up with the road again a few hundred yards short of the Eyrie and well ahead of their quarry. After they picketed their ponies in a hollow away from the road Engvyr slid his Infantry Long-Rifle from its scabbard, a memento from his days in the elite 3rd Rifles. He inspected it quickly then broke open the action, which was hinged a few inches from the trigger-guard. The stock acted as a lever to cock the piston in the compression-chamber mounted under the barrel.

The gun fired heavy 36-bore/325 slugs instead of balls and he slid one into the breech, closed the action and mounted the weapon's socket-bayonet. The twelve inch long blade looked a lot like a sharpened garden-trowel. In fact they were used for digging latrines and the like when making camp.

The fastest reload is a second gun, so Engvyr charged his carbine as well. He brought both weapons with him and they crept back to the road to lay their ambush. Taarven had a two-handed long-ax strapped to his saddle. He slipped it from its sheath and brought it with him for when the fight got too close.

Taarven set up on one side of the road and Engvyr on the other, as far back as they could be and still see clearly, maybe sixty to seventy-five paces from the road. It wasn't a high pass so there were scattered trees but they were sparse and ran to stumpy, wind-gnarled pines among the scattered boulders. They each picked out one of the low-growing trees and concealed themselves underneath. Engvyr would get two shots and Taarven might or might not get a second shot off with his carbine before the goblins closed the distance. Then they would be down to their hand-weapons, skill and luck.

While they waited, Engvyr loosened the quilted linen great-cote that he wore over his light, blued steel breastplate. That and the hardened leather uppers of their boots were the only armor the rangers wore, though the great-cote itself offered some protection.

The Goblins had no reason to suspect the Rangers presence but they were leery just the same, sending one of the crossbow carriers out on 'point' well ahead of them. Goblins don't travel by day when they have any choice and Engvyr wondered idly what was driving them so hard. It might be that someone was already on their back-trail. If that were so, whoever it was had lost the race to the border.

The Rangers let the point-man pass between them. They tracked him with their eyes but never moved a muscle else-wise, trusting their neutral-colored uniforms to blend in with the foliage and rocks well enough to avoid notice as long as they remained still. They knew that nothing draws the eye like movement when a man is on his nerves.

The main party of Goblins drew near, the crossbowmen forward and out on the flanks, each looking off to one side of the road. Engvyr drew a bead on the one farthest from him with the carbine, Taarven doing the same. If they missed their targets the goblins would have to turn to spot them, which might give them precious seconds. As if we would miss at this range, Engvyr thought.

When the goblins and their captives crossed the marker the Rangers had agreed upon Engvyr stroked the trigger and the carbine leapt against his shoulder with a loud Whack! His first target went over backwards, shot through the heart. Taarven's man went down with a shout, losing his crossbow and scrambling for cover.

Dropping the carbine Engvyr snatched up his rifle and turned just as the point-man came rushing back. The goblin was maybe twenty-five paces away and caught the movement. He was lifting his crossbow for a shot when Engvyr put a slug through his throat.

He heard a second shot from Taarven's carbine and saw one of the three goblins charging his partner drop like a pole-axed steer. The three charging Engvyr were almost upon him. He saw the rest herd their prisoners up the road towards the Eyrie and then he was too busy to pay attention to anything but saving his own hide.

If the goblins had come at him in a group he'd have been a dead man. But the shock of the sudden attack had panicked them and their only impulse was to close the range before he could fire again so they came in one after the other.

The first one to reach him took the bayonet in his guts as the Ranger exploded from cover. The impaled goblin grabbed at the rifle-barrel but Engvyr shoved him aside, clearing the weapon. He swept aside the next attacker's blade with the rifle barrel. Reversing the weapon Engvyr butt-stroked him in the face and felt bone crunch under the impact of the iron-shod hardwood.

The last goblin had a short spear and they dueled briefly, spear against bayonetted rifle, before Engvyr hooked the spear with the rifle-butt and slashed the goblin through the eyes. He finished him off with a thrust to the throat and then did the same for the one that he'd struck with the rifle butt.

He quickly looked around to check on the first goblin Taarven had shot, the one that had tried to take cover. That one's crossbow still lay in the road where he'd dropped it and the goblin was some distance away, lying in a pool of blood and not moving. He reloaded and shot him through the chest just to be sure.

Across the road his partner was leaning on the haft of the long-ax and clenched his bloodied thigh with the other hand.

“Go!” he shouted, “I'll be alright.”

Engvyr reloaded again and ran after the remaining goblins, holding the rifle at the balance with the carbine grasped pistol-fashion in his right hand.

If the Goblins had left their captives they would have gotten away clean. As it was the prisoners slowed them down, the women dragging their feet and struggling. They looked back and saw him coming and one of them took up his axe, screaming a battle-cry as he rushed the dwarf. The other two abandoned their captives and bolted for the trees.

Raising the carbine one-handed, he put a ball through the face of the charging goblin and dodged to the side as his attacker's momentum carried him stumbling, already dead, through the spot Engvyr had just been standing on. Dropping the carbine Engvyr shouldered the long-rifle and shot one of the running goblins. The slug took the goblin through the lower spine and passed completely through him in a spray of blood visible even at this distance. The other goblin disappeared into the trees.

He scanned the area as he thumbed another heavy slug from his ammunition-pouch into the breech. The dwarf was breathing hard and shaking with reaction from the fight but after two decades in the 3rd Rifles his hands performed the task with machine-like precision.

He went back and recovered his carbine, charged it and slung it over his back before turning to the erstwhile captives. They were huddled in a group, the women holding the children gathered between them. They stared at the dwarf wide-eyed as if he were some new nightmare rather than their liberator. Engvyr shook his head at them and gestured down the road and addressed them in Common-speech.

“We're not here to hurt you,” he said, “And Lord and Lady willing we'll have you safely away before nightfall. For now you had better head down there a piece to where my partner is. He took some hurt on your behalf and like as not could use some tending.”

Still wide-eyed the women began to move, herding the children before them. One of them met his eyes and managed a nod of thanks as they scuttled past.

We've a powerful need to get them well away from here before sundown, Engvyr thought as he approached the Goblin he'd shot in the back. Goblins run by night and they were too near the border for comfort, given that at least one of them had gotten away clean. Lord and Lady knew whether he might come back and bring some friends with him.

He approached carefully, keeping his crippled foe covered. The goblin squinted up at him, clutching his lower belly and panting. The Ranger looked down at him and shook his head.

“You're gut-shot, friend. Ugly way to die I guess, but no more than you deserve,” he said.

“Mercy!” the goblin croaked at him in common speech.

Engvyr thought a moment before relaxing and pointing the rifle away.

“Nope. Sorry, but I got none to spare for you at the moment. Lucky that you still have your belt-knife. If you cut your forearm long-ways between the tendons you'll bleed out fast enough.” With that the dwarf turned and walked away. He could still hear the wounded Goblin screaming curses after him as he made his way back to his partner. Taarven was having his thigh bound by one of the women.

“That feller sure has a lot of energy for a dead man,” Taarven commented as he approached.

“He'd do a sight better using that energy to end himself before the scavengers arrive or wound-fever takes him,” Engvyr replied. The children were huddled with the other woman and looked to him to be in shock. Looking back to his partner he asked, “We're going to need to move out smartly. Are you going to be able to ride?”

“I'll sure as hell ride out of here!” Taarven assured him, “But this lot don't look fit for travel.”

Engvyr looked their new charges over again. They were plainly exhausted. “We're not clear of this yet. If we dump the packs we can mount the kids two-by-two on the spare ponies and the pack animal. The women-folk can take turns riding on my pony.”

“You could also stop talking about us like we aren't here!” snapped the woman binding Taarven's leg in the Dwarven tongue. Engvyr and Taarven stared at her in surprise. The woman finished tying off the bandage and sat back on her heels as she regarded them sourly.

“My family has been neighbors with your folk for twelve years. Just because you can't be bothered learning the speech of other folk doesn't mean we can't learn yours!”

The rangers blinked at each other, then Engvyr gave her a smile and said, “My apologies, ma'am. That will make things easier. Do you think your folk can stand another trek? We really do need to put some distance between us and that pass before dark.”

She frowned as she looked at the other woman and the children thoughtfully.

“I think they can stand it if we can get some food and water into them first. It will be awful but rather that than winding up in some Goblin's larder.”

Engvyr really looked at the woman for the first time, noting that under the grime and dried blood she was actually quite pretty, even if she was dreadfully thin by dwarven standards. She was a foot taller than he was, obviously fit but not displaying the stout musculature of a dwarf.

Another matter occurred to him, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out a delicate way to broach the subject. Steeling himself he forged ahead.

“Uh Ma'am… speaking of which we might want to be doing something about the Goblin's packs?”

The woman looked at him blankly for a moment then blanched as she took his meaning. Her face started to crumple but then she took hold of herself and hardened her features. Drawing a deep, steadying breath she said, “I'm not sure what we can do for… them, but… yes. I know we're pressed for time, but anything we can manage would be welcome.”

Engvyr looked at Taarven, who shrugged. Turning back to the woman he said. “Alright then- we'll see what we can do. First thing is to get the ponies.”

Taarven got to his feet, gingerly testing to see how well it held his weight and grimaced. “Looks like that'll be your job, I can hobble a bit but hiking is out.”

Engvyr glanced up, noting the position of the sun.

“It's mid-morning now. If'n we don't lolly-gag we can be inside of walls by nightfall. You all should see about getting a fire going while I fetch the ponies. You Afmaeltinn aren't dressed for the weather. It would be a pure shame to rescue you from the Goblins only to have you take a chill and die on us.”

Turning back to the woman he said, “I'm Engvyr, Eng to my friends. This yobbo is Taarven Redbeard.”

The woman nodded to them. “And I am Deandra Agustdottir,” she said, then gave him a faint grin as she continued, “Under the circumstances I'd have to allow as I'm pleased to meet you both.”

Engvyr found himself liking the woman. She had some iron in her and a good head on her shoulders. He grinned back at her.

“Very well, Deandra Agustdottir. You and Taarven take care of things on this end. I'll fetch the ponies and we'll get some food into your lot. Seeing as we need to dump our supplies there's no point in not having our fill of them first,” he said, then turned to Taarven, “Keep a weather-eye out, partner. One a' them is still running free and might be inclined to mischief.”

Taarven acknowledged this and checked the load in his carbine. “Got it covered, Eng.” He cast a long look at the lands around them, his brow creased in worry. “Don't you doddle about though- I've a notion we're not clear of this yet.”

Engvyr grunted in response, took up his carbine and went to fetch the ponies.

Chapter Twelve

“A man is shaped by the events of his life. But a man can be more than the sum of his parts and it's not what his life has made of him, but what he makes of his life that matters.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Engvyr kept an eye on the countryside around him as he tightened the girths on the ponies then formed them into a train. He was wary of the goblin that had escaped but there were other hazards in the wilds as well. Though he was a young man as his folk reckoned such things, his life had prepared him well for such circumstances.

After the murder of his father and aunt it was little Berget that had saved him. Engvyr had been shot and left for dead when one of their assailants had returned, the one that had taken his father's gun. He had come back looking for ammunition. Taking him by surprise Engvyr had beaten him to death with a piece of firewood before collapsing.

Berget had hidden when the attack occurred. She came back, started a fire and tended Engvyr's wound. Somehow she kept them alive for several days until a tinker and his family came along. They'd cut out the ball, treated his fever and buried the dead. Then they took Engvyr and Berget in their wagon to the nearest settlement and called in the rangers. Unfortunately a heavy rain had fallen by then and erased all sign of the thieves.

By the time Engvyr was recovered enough to be up and around their Clan had sent some of their folk to collect them. He gave Berget over to their care but did not return to the clanhame with them, opting instead to make his own way.

The thieves had taken The Hammer but he still had the Big 14. That first winter he had run a trap-line, hunted and traded in furs. After that he drifted for a few years, doing odd-jobs at the settlements, placer mining, trapping and hunting. He even did a bit of hard-rock mining, but didn't care for it any more than he ever had. Always he kept an eye out for the dwarves that had murdered his family.

He wrote to Berget from time to time, reassuring himself that she was settled in and doing well. She'd prospered in the Clan's care, gradually coming to terms with the tragedy that she had experienced. He always made a point to stop in and see her when he was at the clanhame for holidays and on other visits. A few years ago he'd attended her wedding to a nice fellow that worked the mines. They'd written less since she wed, but last he'd heard they were expecting their first child.

Years later he had run into Rolph and Roel and they caught up over coffee in the inn of a small market town. Finally Rolph put down his coffee cup and looked him in the eye.

“You're not fooling me boy- you're huntin' them dwarves and I can't say as I blame you. I heard that you caught up with one a' them already. But living for revenge is no kind of life, sure an' certain it's not the life your folks would have wanted for you. At the end of it you'll find yourself cold and empty and the dead will still be dead.”

“It's not just revenge, Rolph. I just can't stand the thought of those dwarves running loose in the world after what they've done, free to hurt more good folk.”

“Leave that for the Rangers, Eng. You need to make a life for yourself, a real life.”

He'd thought about that for some time. Finally he had decided that Rolph was right and signed up for a hitch in his father's old regiment. He was a good trooper but the life of a soldier didn't suit him. Seeing this, and in light of his experience as a hunter, his superiors in the regiment transferred him to a unit of skirmishers.

He'd distinguished himself with them when the fools governing the trade-city of Kaeralenn had enslaved some dwarves to labor in their mines. He'd been part of the raid to free them, covering their retreat with his long-rifle, allowing the slaves to escape. In appreciation for his accomplishments he was allowed to take his weapon with him when he mustered out of the regular army to join the Mountain Guard.

The traveling, the camaraderie, and yes, even the occasional fighting suited him and for the last twelve years he had been content enough. He liked that he was being of use to his folk, helping people as he and his family had been helped. Not surprisingly it was also deeply satisfying for him to catch wrong-doers and bring them to justice.

He snorted quietly to himself as he led the struggling ponies up the last slope to the road. He still hadn't made much of a life for himself. His 'social life' was pretty constrained, consisting of his partner and a few of the other Rangers that he saw at best once a month.

True, he'd kept company with a widow for a couple of years when he wasn't on his rounds, but eventually she'd found a dwarf of a more settled nature and took him as her husband. Last he'd heard they had settled onto a farm to start a family. He honestly wished them well, but he still missed her from time to time.

When he got back to the others they took the packs off of the pack-pony and tucked them away in the brush where hopefully they could be recovered later. While Taarven and Deandra put together a meal Engvyr gathered up the goblin's back-packs with their grisly cargo. He took them away from the road and covered them with a make-shift cairn. It wasn't much but it was the best that he could do. He hoped that they could be recovered later so that they could be given a proper burial.

By the time that he was finished the children still looked pretty rough but had perked up some after a good hot meal. He'd chafed over the time they were taking but it was plain that everyone needed the food and rest before they could hope to travel. While they ate Deandra and the other woman, Saewynn Bengyrsdottir, filled them in on the events that had brought them to this moment.

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.

Her long auburn hair, wet from bathing, was in a single thick braid. Her face was delicate and pretty, but there was strength in it too. Green eyes looked into his, not challengingly but the direct look of an equal. The overall effect, not harmed a bit by the elegant length of exposed leg, was such as to turn his thoughts in an unexpected direction.

She extended a hand and he took it in his own. It was not a soft or delicate hand, but one strong from years of work.

“I wanted to thank you for saving us,” she said simply.

“It's no more than our job, ma'am, but you are most welcome. We couldn't hardly let them steal folk off our land without taking exception.”

“Still, we are grateful to you both. Please extend my thanks to your partner as well.”

He realized abruptly he was still holding her hand between his and released it, feeling his cheeks grow warm.

“I know it's soon to say,” He continued quickly to cover his embarrassment, “But do you know what you folk will do now? Will you be returning to Afmaeltinn lands?”

A strange look passed over her face for an instant before she replied.

“I don't know for certain. I imagine Saewynn and her children will return to her family. For myself I need to think about it when I am not falling-over exhausted,” she said, then grinned, “For tonight it's enough to make it through our meal without falling asleep in my stew.”

“Well, should you decide to stay,” he heard himself saying, and could scarce believe it even as the words left his lips, “I'd admire to have the privilege of calling on you.”

She blinked, processing that for a moment and then smiled.

“I think that I would like that. We shall have to see what the morrow brings,” she said, glancing back at the table, “But for now I must beg your leave… it seems the very disaster I spoke of has occurred.”

Following her gaze he saw that her daughter had indeed fallen asleep at the table; face down in her stew-bowl, which fortunately was mostly empty by that point. They shared a grin and she rolled her eyes and went to the girl's rescue.

He returned to his own place, lost in thought. It was quite unusual for dwarves to take up with Afmaeltinn, but not unheard of. It was rare in no small part because human lives were so much shorter than a dwarf's. Still, it happened from time to time, but he had never suspected it might happen to him.

He considered the matter while he ate. Well, why not? He thought. The fact that she could find humor in life even after all that she had been through simply confirmed his impression of her strength of mind and character that he had formed in their brief acquaintance. She was certainly comely enough in her own way.

Humph, he thought, let it be a thing for future days. He'd asked to call on her, after all, not to marry! Best just to see what the future brought and worry about such things then.

Later that evening Ynghilda sat with them by the fire puffing on a long-stemmed meerschaum pipe. Taarven sat in an overstuffed chair with his injured leg propped on a stool and smoked his old clay pipe while Engvyr contented himself with a mug of hot cider.

“It's a puzzle alright. This last year goblin raids have been stepping up all along the north. Last night's raid was the closest,” she said with a troubled expression, “And they're getting bolder all the time. This keeps up, they'll be attacking the Steadings and Clanhames next.”

Engvyr exchanged worried glances with Taarven. He'd told him earlier about the markings that he'd observed on the dead goblins. Now this. Something was in the wind and they didn't like it one bit.

“I think,” Engvyr said slowly, “I might just take me a ride up towards the Eyrie while you're laid-up. See what's what.”

Ynghilda looked at them sharply.

“You boys know something that I don't?”

“I can't say as we do,” Engvyr responded, “But I mean to find out. These goblins don't seem to be your normal renegades. I'll get that report written out tonight- you just see that it gets to the Station a quick as you can.”

He looked back at his partner.

“And you get healed up quick. I reckon this could shape up to be a right interesting summer.”

Chapter Thirteen

“We've had our wars, we dwarves. Mostly small affairs; a tussle with one of the trade-cities now and again, some fairly sizable raids by renegade goblins. But 'War to the Knife' is not a thing that we've had to face, not since the revolt against The Maker. We've always known that it could happen and spent centuries readying ourselves for such an event, never really believing we'd need those preparations. Lord and Lady forbid that I should live to see such a thing in my own lifetime.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

By mid-morning the next day Engvyr was back at the Eyrie. He rode with a wary eye on the countryside, his carbine across the saddle-bow at the ready.

The first thing he noted was that the corpses were missing and the tracks of goblin boots were everywhere. He started at the ambush site and rode slowly outward in a spiral studying the signs, then headed up toward the pass. As he looked up from under the brim of his hat he caught a flash of light from high up the slope above the tree line. It might be sunlight off a bit of quartz or mica, or it might not.

The story that the tracks told was disturbing. Sometime the previous night, a large force of goblins at least as large as the mounted party from the Makepeace Steading had come down from the Eyrie and collected the dead goblins. They had searched the area then returned over the pass.

He dismounted to inspect the boot prints more closely. Then he moved off and examined the prints in another place, then another. Two troubling things made themselves apparent.

The first was that he saw the flash up on the hillside again. The angle was different so it could not be a simple reflection. Someone up there was watching him with a spyglass.

The second had to do with the tracks. In the North Country folk made their own footwear, and its style and the details of its construction could vary significantly. Because of this, it was often possible to tell where a person was from or who their family was from their tracks. The same was true for goblins. But these tracks were too uniform; every pair of boots was exactly the same style and pattern. There was only one place he had seen tracks all alike before, during his time in the 3rd Rifles. He was looking at the tracks of an army. He'd planned on riding over the pass and poking around a little more but this was not news that would wait. Turning his horse he headed back to the steading.

If it were me leading these goblins, he thought, I'd have an ambush set for me along the road back. There was a joke among the Rangers that went, 'Sure, I'm paranoid… but am I paranoid enough?'

He cut off the road and retraced their steps from the previous day, going down Goren's Creek for some distance before taking to the hills. He picked his way through the forest below the ridge-line then cut back down to a ravine that paralleled the road, keeping a sharp eye out the whole way. He circled the edge of the valley and approached the steading from the south as the sun was going down.

Rather than caring for his own pony he left it with Ynghilda's groom and went into the Great Hall. Ynghilda and Taarven were talking by the fire and they looked up as he entered.

“Supper's past but there's bread, cheese and some sausage,” Ynghilda told him, gesturing to one of her people who vanished into the kitchen. Then she looked at him sharply, “Engvyr?”

He told them about what he had found and concluded, “You're going to want to put your people on alert, Ma'am.”

Taarven shook his head, “Hell of a time for me to be laid-up.”

Ynghilda looked thoughtful and said, “I can put people on their guard and set up some patrols, but we can't afford to pull folks into the palisade, not with the crops in and folks starting to move their livestock up into the hills to graze.”

Someone put a plate in front of him and he looked up to thank them. It was Deandra, and she looked worried. He must have looked surprised because she gave him a crooked smile.

“Figured since we're here I might as well lend a hand,” she said.

He returned her smile with a half-smile of his own and a nod of thanks. Deandra poured him some coffee as he tucked into the food.

Ynghilda moved around the hall speaking to several of her folk, and each one she spoke to departed in a hurry. He was almost done when she returned.

“Well, word's going out,” She told him, then asked, “What's next?”

Taarven snorted and said, “Knowing Eng as I do, I'd say the next thing is he finishes eating, grabs our remounts and rides like hell for the Station.”

“Sounds about right,” Engvyr said as he finished the last bite and scrubbed his hands with a rough cloth napkin. Ynghilda laid a hand on his shoulder as he started to rise.

“You should rest, Eng. I can send a rider in the morning with your report.”

He patted her hand and got up anyway.

“I appreciate that, Ma'am, and meaning no offense to your riders but this news can't wait. With a fresh pony and two remounts I'll get there far faster than they could manage.”

“I can send someone with you…?”

He shook his head, already heading for the door to the stables.

“Thank you ma'am, but they'd just slow me down.”

She watched him go and shook her head.

“Stubborn, that one.”

Taarven shook his head and said, “No ma'am, he isn't. He just knows what needs to be done and is damn sure going see to it.”

Ynghilda's was not the only set of worried eyes that followed him out of the room.

– **-

Engvyr entered the stable and walked straight to his remount. The groom hurried over as he saddled the pony.

“Sir? Is there something I can do?”

Engvyr pulled the cinch tight and looked at the groom. “You want to put a saddle on my partner's mount and spare?” he asked, pointing to Taarven's ponies. The groom nodded and hurried away to do as he was bid.

Finished with his own pony's tack he turned to grab his partner's saddle to help. Ten minutes later he was leading the three saddled ponies out into the yard of the palisade. Deandra met him outside the stable and handed him a bundle.

“Some biscuits, cheese, bacon and a water-skin,” she told him.

“Much obliged,” he said as he turned to stow the bundle in his saddle-bag.

“You ride safe,” She told him, her brow creased in a worried frown as he swung into the saddle. He touched the brim of his hat in reply and rode out.

Engvyr kicked his pony into a trot as he headed for the Ghost Creek Station of the Mountain Guard. By the most direct route it was normally a two-day ride, but he was planning to do it a mite faster. He looked and listened as he rode but more importantly he watched the pony. If something was amiss the animal was apt to notice it before he did.

He didn't consider it likely that there was trouble on the trail ahead, and if any was coming along behind, his best defense was to outdistance it. That didn't mean that he planned to let his guard down, though.

He alternated walking, trotting and cantering all night long, stopping just long enough to change ponies. He ate and drank as he traveled, stopping occasionally to cut a certain mark into the trunk of a tree, just at eye level, with a few quick strokes of his Wood-Knife, a broad, single-edged shortsword that most rangers carried strapped to their saddle as both a tool and weapon.

By dawn he was dozing fitfully in the saddle despite his best efforts to stay awake. Fortunately this was one route his mounts knew by heart. They were unlikely to stray off-course because they also knew that a rubdown and a warm stall were waiting for them at the end of it.

He woke up and stopped long enough to brew some coffee, water the horses and give them a ration of grain before he continued. An hour after noon he was dismounting and handing off the reins of the ponies to a stable hand at the Station. His abrupt arrival started a mild commotion. The Rangers all knew that a rider arriving on a string of worn-out ponies meant trouble. He walked straight across the station and into the Captain's office.

The rider from Ynghilda's stead was actually still standing to one side of the room drinking a cup of coffee while he chatted with a couple of Rangers. He looked up as Engvyr entered and his eyes bugged half out of his head.

“Lord and Lady, Engvyr! What the hell are you doing here?” he exclaimed, “And how did you get here so fast?”

Captain Gauer looked up from the report he was reading- Engvyr's report- without so much as a flutter of surprise. He set the report aside.

“This can't be good news. Sit down,” Turning to the other two he said, “Horrek, Gerryl, get this man some food and coffee. Bring the pot.”

Looking back at Engvyr he said, “Alright, Ranger. Tell me about it.”

It was after dark when Engvyr woke and rolled out of his bunk. The station was alight with torches and people were bustling around despite the hour. I guess I really kicked a hornet's nest this time, he thought.

The meeting with the Captain had gone on for some time before he was able to get away and sack out. As it turned out similar reports had been coming in from all across the northern frontier. Even before he left the Captain's office, riders were heading out to call in the patrols.

He guessed that under the circumstances there might be some hot food available in the Great Hall and he wasn't wrong. He sat down with a bowl of stew and a thick chunk of black bread and set to it. He wasn't half finished before someone plunked their own bowl down across the table from him and sat heavily on the bench opposite. He looked up to see Captain Gauer shoveling stew into his mouth. He nodded to him and kept eating. Finishing his meal, he sat sipping his mug of cider while his superior ate.

The Captain finished his food, pushed back from the table as he loaded his pipe, and lit it. When it was drawing well he looked at Engvyr through a wreath of smoke.

“Best rest up tonight, Ranger. You're heading out in the morning, back to the Makepeace Steading. You'll be advising them on reinforcing their defenses and doing some scouting of the country beyond the Eyrie.”

“Sir, I had hoped that we'd be sending them some reinforcements as well,” Engvyr said.

The Captain shook his head and gestured with his pipe.

“You know the saying, 'you can't stiffen a bucket of spit with a handful of shot.' Don't get me wrong,” he said, “Her folk are game and in a fixed defense they'll do as well as anyone, but right now we simply can't spare enough Rangers to make a difference in the kind of 'hit and run' raiding that has been occurring. We're calling in the patrols and consolidating our strength but we need to concentrate our people, not dole them out in penny-packets that won't have any real effect.”

Engvyr understood but he didn't like it. Something must have shown on his face because the Captain continued.

“I know folk are dying and maybe worse, Engvyr, but a few Rangers won't make any more difference than you and Taarven can make on your own. In the event of an attack on the steading a few carbines will make no real difference at all.”

Engvyr frowned. He could see the logic of the Captain's words but it still didn't sit well.

“Speaking of that can we at least send some of our stock of extra carbines?”

“Think about it. If a few Rangers won't help how could putting carbines in the hands of locals that aren't even trained with them do any good? At best we dilute our own resources and at worst we put guns in the hands of our enemies.”

The Captain went on, “The Mountain Guard are primarily a law-enforcement and rescue agency. At need we are scouts and even skirmishers, but a defense of this type is a job for soldiers, and you can bet they'll be on their way soon if they aren't already.”

Engvyr nodded reluctantly. Understanding the Captain's point still didn't make him like it.

“You've done good work these last few days, Ranger, “said the Captain, clapping him on the shoulder as he rose from his seat, “Now get your butt back in your bunk. You've got an early day tomorrow.”

At midnight that night a shuttered lantern flashed a message over and over from the station’s southern guard tower. After a time a distant light flashed the message back from a saddle between two peaks. Throughout the long night the message was repeated again and again, from saddle to peak to pass, half the length of Dvargatil Baeg and all the way to Ironhame.

On the return trip he continued to place the mark on random trees as he went. It was actually a Goblin rune but to any random goblin that encountered it, it would mean nothing. There was a specific Goblin trapper that would know who it was for and what it asked. Engvyr remembered when they had set up that signal and smiled to himself as he rode.

He'd been a Ranger for about four years at the time and he and Taarven had been assigned a route further south than their current one. They were on patrol and had camped for the night when a familiar voice called out of the darkness.

“Son of Good Stew!”

“What the hell?” said Taarven, grabbing his carbine and starting to rise.

Engvyr held up a hand to restrain him with a chuckle and said, “It's alright- put your gun down and just sit.”

Pitching his voice louder he called back, “Come ahead!”

He was pouring a cup of coffee even as the goblin entered their camp. Taarven watched with wide eyes as their visitor settled himself comfortably by the fire and accepted the cup. Engvyr indicated Taarven with a nod.

“This is my partner.”

The goblin turned his huge pink eyes on the ranger and inspected him carefully then nodded to him. Taarven returned the nod with an air of bemusement and turned to Engvyr.

“You know this Goblin?” he demanded quietly.

Engvyr nodded and replied, “He was friends with my father, and helped our family to survive a disaster in the mountains.”

“Well, if that don't beat all!” Taarven muttered and turned back to the goblin and looked him over in turn. The goblin sipped his coffee for several minutes then abruptly looked up and spoke in broken Common.

“Five Dvaerg came to a Goblin-place. They took twenny goats, went into te' hills wit' them. Ye get te' goats, bring 'em back an' I'll take them back to Goblin-place. Ye do this.”

“Your Common is getting better, friend. Yes, we can do that.”

The goblin nodded in satisfaction and said, “I will come an' help. Three agin' five is better odds than two agin' five.”

“Engvyr, what are you saying?” exclaimed Taarven, “Why should we help him?”

Before Engvyr could say anything the goblin turned his eyes on the ranger and spoke slowly, as if to a not-very-bright child.

“Ye are Rangers. Rangers are the Law in Dvaerg place, so I report these thieves to Rangers. Is what Law says to do, yes? There is one law for all people in Dvaerg place, yes?”

Taarven blinked as he worked that out and Engvyr grinned at him.

“He's just obeying the law like anyone else and reporting a theft.”

“How do we know they're his? He could just be conning us for some free goats,” Taarven said with a stubborn look on his face.

The goblin looked at him a moment as if disappointed in him. Then he quickly sketched a Goblin rune in the dirt.

“Te' goats have this sign tattooed in te' left ear.”

The next morning the goblin showed them the trail left by the herd and they tracked down the thieves. As he'd said the goats had the rune tattooed in their ears.

Before they parted ways the Goblin told Engvyr, “Remember te' sign I showed you. If ye need te' see me or need help make that sign on trees and I will see it, or others will see and tell me. Then I will come te' find ye.”

They turned the goats over to the goblin and marched the thieves back to the station. It made for one of their odder reports.

“By the way,” Taarven asked as they were leaving the Captains office after making that report, “What was that he called to you when he first showed up?”

“'Son of Good Stew,'” he said, and laughed at his partners puzzled expression, “It's a long story.”

When Engvyr arrived at the Makepeace Steading the place was a beehive of activity. Dwarves armed with crossbows now patrolled on the parapet of the wall. Outside a crew was apparently digging a moat with an excavator drawn by a team of eight of the small mountain oxen.

Inside the cooper and the blacksmith were hard at work. A long shed of some sort was being erected against the wall in another place. Supplies were stacked here and there against the palisade. As he entered the enclosure there was a wagon loaded with heavy bags of grain coming in the opposite gate. There were several piles of long, sharpened stakes that would presumably be placed in the moat when it was finished.

He went straight to the stables and handed the leads for his spare mounts off to the groom. Unsaddling his pony he gave him a good rubdown and a scoop of grain before heading into the great hall.

Taarven was the only one present when he entered. As Engvyr stowed his gear under the broad bench along the wall the other Ranger limped over and clasped forearms with him in greeting.

“Can't say as I'm not glad to see you,” Taarven said, “But meaning no offense I'd have been happier to see a company of infantry come strolling through those gates.”

Engvyr glanced at him as he laid out his bedroll.

“That bad, is it?”

Taarven shrugged and said, “One of the outlying hames got hit the night after you left. There are four dead and eleven missing. They slaughtered or drove off the livestock and burned the place down. Ynghilda sent some riders out and they reported sign of maybe thirty to forty goblins.”

“That's bad.”

“What's worse is that they didn't butcher the dead. Sure, they took the easy bits but that was all, then they marched the captives right out of there.”

Engvyr pondered that. A force that large could easily have packed out the meat from that many folk. Why go to the trouble of marching them out unless…

“They want the captives for something else.”

Taarven favored him with a slight grin, “You're not as dumb as everyone says you are. But what the hell do they want them for?”

“That's what you boys are going to find out,” said a voice from behind them, “As soon as that leg is healed up a little more.”

They looked up to see Ynghilda approaching them. She was wearing her mail and sword again and as she greeted Engvyr she noticed his questioning look at her attire.

“The way things are going I figured I'd best get used to it,” she said.

“I'm fit to sit a horse already if'n I need to, Ma'am, and it seems to me there's need enough to go around just now.” Taarven said.

“Yes, yes, Taarven,” Ynghilda said in mock-irritation, “We all know that you are the manliest of dwarves and eat raw heroism for breakfast. Now let's all sit down before you fall over.”

Taarven gave her an outrageously exaggerated pout but as they all took a seat Engvyr noticed a flash of relief on his partners face.

“Seriously Taarven,“ he asked, “When will you be fit for duty?”

“I can ride out tomorrow,” his partner responded immediately.

“Taarven Redbeard, if you sit a horse before mid-week next I'll beat you even more senseless!” Ynghilda said with a scowl, “you are a guest under my roof and I will not see you harm yourself out of manly pride!”

Taarven scowled at her then subsided with a sigh. Casting an aggrieved look at Engvyr he said,

“You see what I have suffered in your absence?”

It occurred to Engvyr for the first time that Ynghilda and Taarven were more or less of an age and had been in a position to spend a lot of time together recently… He kept his smile at the thought to himself.

They talked for some time about local conditions and events, improvements to the Steading's defense, patrol schedules and other matters. As the afternoon wore on the aromas of dinner began to drift in from the kitchens. Saewynn and Deandra herded their children into the hall. Deandra caught his eye and smiled shyly before going about her business.

After dinner he spoke to the two women to see how they were settling in and what their plans were. They were staying temporarily in the great hall, sleeping on the wide benches that lined the sides.

“The children are bouncing back,” Deandra told him, “They're resilient that way. They're good for Saewynn, too. I think that taking care of them has helped her keep it together. I don't know that she could bear it without them.”

“Will you be going west with her?” he asked, not sure whether he wanted her to stay or go away to safety. He liked her and wanted to get to know her better. But that could be problematic, not the least because he would outlive her by centuries.

“I'd not be welcome there,” she said, looking away, “Saewynn's family did not approve of her brother marrying me. It's not something that can be helped now.”

“I cannot imagine you being unwelcome anywhere,” he said and left it at that. He was curious but it was her business and she would tell him or not in her own time. “So what will you do now, you and the children?”

She looked away again and Engvyr noted the tension in her posture.

“They will be going with Saewynn to live with her folks,” she said with an effort, “Their son's children are welcome, just not their mother.”

She turned back to him, her eyes bright with tears, “You are not the only one who sees what's coming. I have to do what's right for my children. I have to know that they are safe.”

“What of you?” he asked.

“Ynghilda has offered me a position. I will be helping in the great hall and around the Steading.”

Engvyr felt a bit guilty at his relief that she would be staying. They talked on into the evening, about trivial things mostly, laying the foundations of a bridge between man and woman, dvaerg and afmaeltinn. They parted with an unspoken understanding between them when it was time for the children to bed down.

Taarven and Ynghilda shared a concerned look as he joined them in the group sitting around the hearth smoking and talking quietly among themselves, but said nothing of it as the evening wore on.

Chapter Fourteen

“Dwarves are long-lived and take the long view. When one expects to be married for centuries it's best to know full well what you are getting into. As a result courtship tends to be a process that stretches to years, even decades before the parties involved commit themselves.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Deandra Agustdottir rose with the sun and dressed quickly. Since it was early summer the fire in the great hearth was allowed to burn out at night so it was sometimes chilly in the morning. She laid a new fire and when it took satisfactorily she roused her children, Brael and Gerta. They were nine and seven years of age respectively. Saewynn roused her own children and after they were all dressed she herded them to the water closet to attend to their morning ablutions while Deandra went into the kitchens to begin her working day.

She had no fixed duties so she helped as she might with breakfast, stirring the fruit-and oat porridge, slicing side-meat, carrying stacks of clean bowls and spoons and setting them out at the ready. As she worked she thought warmly about her conversation with Engvyr the night before. She had to admit she had been taken by surprise by her attraction to the dvaerg, and his apparent interest in her. It was not so much a physical thing, not yet, though he was not un-handsome for one of his folk. Nor was it girlish worship of the man that rescued her from what was almost certainly what the old tales called a 'fate worse than death.' There was something in her that responded to him, a sense that they complemented each other.

Respect, she thought, it's that he respected me. She knew that dwarves viewed a 'woman's role' differently than her own folk but it was more than that. In the wake of the fight in the pass he never questioned that she was capable and would do her part. One of the men of her own folk would have expected her to be helpless, weak in the wake of her ordeal. But Engvyr had seen her strength and accepted it, assuming that she could pull her own weight.

Breakfast in the Steading was a catch-as-can affair with people coming and going, serving themselves as they had time. She filled a tray with bowls of porridge for her family along with two mugs of coffee. Coffee was something that she and her sister-in-law had little of before their rescue. Her folk tended to drink hard cider, beer or ale at all hours of the day but the dwarves seemed to live on the dark, bitter brew. They drank alcoholic beverages too, but tended to do so only in the evenings after the day's work was done. She had to admit she was developing a taste for the beverage herself.

They got the children settled around one of the tables that ran in a line down the center of the Great Hall and watched over them as they broke their fast. She felt a stab of grief as she watched the children eat, knowing that within days they would be parted for she knew not how long.

As they ate dwarves stopped by their table to greet them and inquire after the children's welfare. She had been startled by this at first but Engvyr had explained that a married couple among their folk might expect to have children only every twenty years or so, a function of their long lives she suspected. As a result they doted on them and each dwarven child in their community was viewed as the responsibility of all. Now that they were living among them the dwarves unthinkingly extended that attitude to the human children as well.

Engvyr and Taarven entered the hall together, deep in conversation. They too were staying in the Great Hall but they had already been up and about their business before she woke. Engvyr was in uniform and from his condition she suspected that he had been riding, perhaps a quick patrol around the area. Taarven simply wore a shirt and tunic over his uniform trousers and boots, not yet fit for duty.

Strangely, she knew Taarven better than his partner at this point. She had sat with the dwarves when they gathered at the hearth in the evening while Engvyr was away. Taarven wasn't garrulous, but he possessed a ready wit and wasn't reticent about speaking when he had something to say. She thought that maybe he and Ynghilda were sweet on each other.

She studied Engvyr from across the room as she rode herd on the children and ate her own breakfast. He was like most dwarves in height, a foot shorter than she, and she was by no means tall for one of her folk. But dwarves were broad-shouldered and thick-chested, and their height made their short arms and legs look thick. Their heads, hands and feet were human-sized or nearly so. The overall effect was as if a human had been compressed.

When she was binding Taarven's leg after the fight at the Eyrie she had been impressed by the muscular solidity of him. She had helped him to his feet and had been surprised to discover that he weighed as much as a human man half-again his height. From the restrained power of his grip she knew that he was immensely strong as well.

Engvyr was slighter of build than his partner but still compactly powerful. He had a large nose almost like a beak, craggy brows and prominent cheekbones. His jaw was broad and angular and a neatly trimmed line of blonde beard ran along his jawline to join with his full mustache. His features looked almost as if they had been hewn from stone. There was a stern strength about his countenance, tempered by the glint of humor in his blue eyes. Though he was not handsome in the way of her own folk she found that she liked his face very much.

Over the following days she worked and helped Saewynn care for the children. It was odd working for Ynghilda. She had no set duties but simply did as she was asked, or just pitched in when she saw a need and that seemed to be all that was expected of her. In the evenings she sat near the fire, or sometimes to one side in quiet conversation with Engvyr. She was occasionally asked to serve drinks and sometimes did so of her own accord but she was never treated as being less than anyone else present.

At the end of her first week Ynghilda had called her into her office. She had thought she was to be assigned some new task but was surprised when instead she was invited to sit and offered coffee. Ynghilda had told her that she was doing very well and then went over the terms of her employment. They discussed her rights, obligations and how much she was to be paid. Ynghilda had written all of this down as Deandra agreed to it. She had thought that she was working for her family's keep but apparently not. At the end, Ynghilda signed the document that she had drawn up and Deandra countersigned it. When that was accomplished she was handed a small bag of coins, hardly a princely sum after a modest fee for her keep had been deducted but more than she had expected.

In a human household of this size they would have had servants to perform menial tasks, each with their own assigned duties. These people were nearly invisible in such a place, beneath the notice of their betters. These servants worked in exchange for a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. If they received any coin it was as a gift on the holidays. But in this household none of the dwarves treated those that served them as anything less than an equal.

She might almost have been happy but for the dread of the impending separation from her children. She knew that it was the best thing for them, but her heart fell at she thought of it.

Engvyr had been riding out regularly since his return and once Taarven was able to join him they were sometimes gone for days at a time. There were more raids as well, but the Rangers and Militia were seldom in the right place at the right time to intervene.

Finally the delegation from her husband's family arrived and it was as awful as she'd feared it would be. They treated her with a cold wariness that bordered on hostility, but they did not extend that attitude to her children. She thanked the Lord and Lady for that much at least.

When they departed they took no leave of Deandra, and even Saewynn's good-byes were subdued under their disapproving eyes. She went through the rest of the day in a daze, as she felt a great, aching gulf within her. The dwarves were quietly sympathetic but asked no questions and offered no comment for which she was grateful.

Engvyr and Taarven returned from patrol that night. After dinner Engvyr pulled her aside and held her for hours while she sobbed broken-heartedly. He offered no empty reassurances or platitudes, simply listened and held her until at last she fell into the deep sleep of emotional exhaustion.

When she woke in the morning still in his arms on the bench, she found that someone had tucked a blanket around them and propped a pillow behind Engvyr's back. No one spoke of this later and she was again grateful for the dwarves' sympathy and discretion.

She took some solace in her work but inside she felt wounded and incomplete. She resisted the urge to drown her sorrow in drink, or the greater temptation to take Engvyr to her bed and drown herself in him. Whatever was building between them, she would not cheapen it by using it as a drug to try to fill the emptiness inside her. In the days and weeks that followed she found her balance and life returned to a semblance of normality.

The Midsummer festival arrived on the longest day of the year. The great hall was decorated with garlands of wildflowers, bright ribbons and banners. Deandra was kept busy with preparations for the feast. Chickens, ducks and geese had to be plucked and stuffed for roasting. Great piles of turnips and potatoes must be peeled, pies baked and sauces simmered. A great roasting-pit was prepared for the centerpiece of the feast.

This was normally an ox but this year on their rounds Taarven and Engvyr had encountered what was surely the grandfather of all boars. They had been returning on the day before the feast when the great beast had walked onto the trail ahead of them, almost as if presenting itself. Engvyr had felled it with a single shot from his long-rifle. They had to send a wagon to fetch the carcass and it took a half-dozen dwarves to get it loaded.

Those inclined to put credence in such things took this as a good omen. The huge boar was mounted on the spit on Midsummer's Eve and slowly roasted throughout the night. Deandra and Engvyr watched as everyone in the Steading and the visitors that had come in from the outlying farmhames stopped by to raise a toast to the great beast and praise it for its sacrifice.

Of course they must also praise the ranger that had downed the creature. Engvyr could have gotten drunk many times over from the mugs and flasks that were thrust into his hands had he been so inclined. Deandra actually began to be concerned before she realized that he was only feigning to drink, and he tipped her a wink and a grin when he saw that she had caught him at it. They spent most of the evening by the fire pit, she with her arm draped around his shoulders and his around her waist, and if any thought it odd to see them together they kept it to themselves.

The dwarves greeted the dawn with Ynghilda leading a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord and Lady. The morning meal was the usual fare supplemented with great ropes of summer sausage and strips of crispy bacon. A second and third row of tables now stretched the length of the great hall and they were crowded throughout the meal.

After breakfast the games began. Competitions at archery using crossbows and bows were held, foot-races and pony-races, spear, axe and knife throwing. Deandra divided her time between watching these and helping to keep the tables of snack-foods well stocked.

Dwarves are not as a rule given to drunkenness but what are the holidays for if not to break the rules of everyday life? Any that dove too deeply into their cups were taken aside to lie down, and woke with throbbing heads to the merciless teasing of friends and family. A few drunken scuffles occurred but these were quickly quelled, often by the by-standers flinging their drinks on the combatants en masse.

As feast-time approached benches and tables were set up in the yard of the palisade to catch the overflow from the great hall or for those that simply wanted to dine out of doors. Engvyr and Deandra were among the latter, and she found that she was full long before she could even sample all of the dishes available.

As sundown approached the tables were cleared away both inside and out. As dwarves broke out musical instruments the dancing began. Engvyr swept her onto the floor, ignoring her protests that she did not know how. Fortunately the steps were near enough to the country dances that she was familiar with that she caught on quickly under Engvyr's tutelage.

She had not laughed so much in many months and went to bed happy in the wee hours of the morning. She had been seriously tempted to drag the dwarf off to some secluded spot, but sensed it was not yet the time for that. She settled for planting a kiss squarely on his lips, eliciting a cheer from the onlookers before she retired.

Morning arrived late and gradually. The remains of the feast were laid out on the tables in the great hall presided over by Ynghilda's elderly head-cook, Gerdrune, known to one and all as 'Aunt Gerdy.' Many came in before taking to the road to return to their farmhames and Aunt Gerdy was quick to press bundles and packets of leftovers upon them.

“It'll only go to waste else-wise,” was her response to any that protested this generosity.

Deandra joined in clearing up after the feast, breaking down and storing the extra tables and cutting up leftovers into a huge stew that would doubtless provide them with meals for many days to come.

That afternoon there was a great commotion and everyone rushed outside to see ranks of armored dwarves marching past the Steading. They wore blue-grey breastplates over quilted linen jackets, steel kettle-helmets, bulky rucksacks on their backs and short swords at their hips. There were units of pike men followed by dwarves armed with some sort of shoulder-gun.

The Army had arrived.

The sound of their marching feet did not seem loud until it stopped as the formation came to a halt. Their officers rode up on their ponies to the open gate of the palisade where Ynghilda waited with Engvyr and Taarven. The leading officer touched the brim of his kettle-helm in greeting.

“I'm Major Eggil Thorvaldson, commander of the 2nd Battalion of the 4th Heavy Infantry Regiment at your service, ma'am. You would be Ynghilda Makepeace?”

“The very same. And these rangers are Taarven Redbeard and Engvyr Gunnarson.”

He nodded to each in turn and Ynghilda asked, “Would you and your officers care to dismount and join us inside for some refreshment?”

“I'd like nothing better, Ma'am, but I am afraid that we must see to the disposition of our units. Perhaps we could join you for dinner instead?”

“That would be an honor, Major. If I might suggest, sir, there are several fallow fields beginning a quarter-mile north. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to set your camps there as it would cause less disruption to the crops.”

“Thank you ma'am. We'll be pleased to accommodate you if we can. Until this evening, then.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his helmet and they cantered off to issue directions to their sergeants.

Dinner that evening was stew and black bread supplemented with wedges of cheese and a keg of wine imported from the south. Ynghilda and the two rangers were engaged in serious conversation about the defense of the valley with the army officers. Even at a distance as Deandra worked she could tell that Ynghilda was not pleased by what she was hearing.

Though it was hard to be parted from Brael and Gerta she was more convinced than ever that she had been right to send them away.

Chapter Fifteen

“We dwarves do not know the nature of our creator. Whether The Maker was a man with the powers of a god, a god in truth or some other thing no living person can say. For all the long centuries of his dominion over our people we can say only one thing for sure: He was not bullet-proof.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

“Well, this is fun,” said Taarven as two crossbow bolts stuck in the log he was lying behind and a third ricocheted off.

Engvyr was lying flat on his back next to him looking up through the forest canopy with his long-rifle across his chest.

“I've had fun before,” he said mildly, “And I don't recall it feeling just exactly like this.”

Spotting movement from the corner of his eye he looked to his left and saw a goblin moving down the hill to flank them. He estimated the range and adjusted the big rifle's vernier sight. He took a deep breath, letting it half out as he rolled onto his side. He quickly drew a bead and stroked the trigger. Whack! A split second later he heard a dull metallic 'ponk' as the heavy slug hammered through the target's breastplate. The goblin threw up his hands with a cry and fell out of sight.

Engvyr rolled flat again as another crossbow bolt slammed into a tree next to the toe of his boot. He looked at it sourly.

“I'll allow as I have had better times my own self,” Taarven admitted, “But at least the company is good.”

“That's three, by the way,” Engvyr told him.

“Oh are we keeping score now?” Taarven rose up and snapped off a quick shot with his carbine. As he fired a bolt skipped off his breastplate and tore the sleeve of his shirt. He rolled aside and flattened behind the log again. Glancing at the tear he said, “Damn, I liked this shirt.”

Engvyr had reloaded the rifle- a singularly awkward process while lying on his back. He took another deep breath and rolled to one knee and fired. Taarven heard a scream from up the hill and swore as Engvyr dropped flat on his belly.

“Don't you ever miss with that damned thing?”

Engvyr looked at him and grinned. “That's four.”

“Oh shut up.”

– **-

Engvyr and Taarven had spotted smoke from the farmhame and ridden up to investigate. They'd gone in on the wooded side, hoping to approach unobserved. Leaving their ponies at the tree line they had continued on foot only to be ambushed among the trees. The rangers had killed six of their attackers in the hours that followed. The remaining ambushers had withdrawn, following the main party of raiders.

They had investigated the grounds and come together at the ruined hame. It had burned poorly, being built of stone, but the contents had been gutted and the roof had collapsed.

“They're getting better at this,” Engvyr said sourly, “Lord and Lady but I hate a smart enemy!”

“From the signs there were about thirty goblins. They took sixteen people, the livestock, killed two and left the bodies alone, burned the place and then set an ambush to delay us. Which worked, by the way. At this point there's no way we can catch up with them before full dark.”

Engvyr studied the land carefully.

“We're agreed that there's no real chance of a rescue?”

Taarven nodded bitterly.

“It's a gamble but we could maybe make this raid a bit more expensive for them and get some payback into the bargain. I'm guessing they had no thought that we'd kill so many of their skirmishers,” Engvyr said, “They lose a few more and they're going to have to re-think the way they do business. I've a notion from the way that those ridges lie I might be able to cut across on foot and get above them. If I can get into range I'll give them cause to regret it.”

“I don't like it,” Taarven said definitely, “This leg of mine still isn't up to that kind of country. You'll get caught by dark up there with a whole passel of pissed-off goblins. That's not a recipe for survival, Eng.”

“Likely I'll manage alright. They've already shown they'd rather get those prisoners than kill a couple rangers. They won't be wanting to leave them to come after me in numbers.”

“Eng, they probably expected these fellas to kill us! 'Sides, Deandra will skin me alive if'n I come back without you.”

“Oh come on, she'd just bruise you some. I can do this, Taarven. Bring the ponies up and wait for me here but keep an eye out, there might still be one or two of these fellas creepin' around. I'll try to be back before midnight.”

Trails are never the shortest distance between two points. They are made for easy travel and as a consequence follow the path of least resistance so they tend to wind around a lot. Sometimes a lone man on foot can cut across in a straighter line and cover a lot less distance than the people following the trail. It was a gamble- he might find himself cut off by a cliff or box-canyon but Engvyr had spent more than a few years in these mountains and had a pretty good sense of the lay of the land.

He needed to travel light so he left the carbine with Taarven. This was going to be long-distance work. He jogged, walked and scrambled along the succession of ridges through the long afternoon, keeping below the crests to avoid sky-lining himself. It was getting late by the time he finally spotted his quarry on the trail by the river far below. They had the captives roped together in the midst of their group and were herding the goats from the farmhame ahead of them. Many of the captives carried bags or bundles of loot and supplies. Several oxen were strung together and bringing up the rear.

Shortly before sunset Engvyr had found his firing position and settled in. It was a place where the trail below narrowed and ran alongside a section of whitewater. It wasn't ideal but it was the best he was likely to get.

In the Regiment the maximum effective range of an Infantry Long Rifle was said to be three-hundred paces and the goblins were strung out along the trail at a bit more distance than that. But a good trooper could push that out to four-hundred or even more in the right conditions. After thirty-two years with this particular rifle Engvyr was very, very good.

He braced his left hand on a tree and rested the fore-stock on his extended thumb. He had cut into the bark to mark the position for consistency. He'd even risked a ranging-shot at a rock next to the trail, hoping that the smear of lead where the bullet impacted would go unnoticed. His sights were set and he was ready.

He waited until most of the captives were past. When one of the goblins stopped to look back along the length of the train he put the sights on him and squeezed the trigger. He saw dust puff off of the target's jacket and the goblin fell into the river with a shout.

The sound of the tumbling rapids covered the distant report of the big gun so several goblins rushed forward to help, not realizing that he'd had been shot. Engvyr put his second shot into the group and was rewarded with a scream of pain. They scattered, not knowing where the shots were coming from. One of them ducked behind a rock, his back full on towards Engvyr, who promptly put a slug into it.

The remaining goblins quickly herded their captives away, crowding too close to the prisoners for him to risk a shot at that range. They were quickly gone around the edge of the hill but before they got out of sight Engvyr shot the first ox in the string. The goblin holding the lead rope scrambled away as the ox sank to its knees and died.

Engvyr would have loved to slip down to the trail to cut the other oxen loose, but he didn't dare. If the goblins didn't come back for them, eventually the oxen would get hungry enough to break the lead and move off on their own. They might even go home to the burned-out farmhame.

The sun was going down and he might be hunted himself within the hour, so he reloaded and set out. Darkness eventually forced him off the ridge and onto the trail. The going was easier then, but the distance longer and it was well after midnight when he got back to the ruined farm.

An infantry squad had arrived to investigate the fire and their sentry challenged Engvyr as he approached. Fortunately good soldiers weren't inclined to be trigger-happy and he was admitted to the camp without incident.

Taarven crawled out of his bedroll and they sat by the fire as Engvyr described the events of the afternoon to him and the squad-leader, Sergeant Heryl.

“Might be we could recover those oxen, 'stead of leaving it to chance,” the Sergeant said, “Lord and Lady know folk around here could use them.”

“Whatever we do is going to have to wait for morning,” Engvyr told him, “I am plumb beat.”

“I think that we should all hit the sack,” agreed Taarven, “We could use the rest and I don't fancy trekkin' into Goblin country in the middle of the night. Besides, there's those skirmisher's to think of. Likely they come across those oxen and made off with them already.”

Engvyr was chagrined. “I forgot all about them! Just blind luck I didn't run into them on the way back. Either way we can see what's what in the morning. Me, I'm hitting the sack.”

Morning brought news that changed all of their plans. Engvyr woke to the sound of a rider coming into camp and pulled the blanket over his head. After the fight in the trees and the attack on the trail followed by too little sleep on hard ground he felt like he'd been pulled through a knothole.

He heard the rider dismount, a quick discussion that he couldn't make out, and then someone prodded his foot.

“Engvyr? It's Taarven- there's a rider from the steading and I think that you need to talk to him.”

Engvyr groaned and rolled over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he peered blearily at the pair of dwarves standing over him. He'd seen the rider around but didn't know him personally.

“Well, go on then,” he said grumpily, “I'm awake.”

The rider looked nervous and said, “You're needed back at the steading sir.”

Engvyr looked at him a moment waiting for him to elaborate. After a few seconds the rider seemed to realize what he wanted and said, “Something's happened, sir, I mean, back at the steading.”

Engvyr waited, calmly looking at the nervous rider.

“Uh, right. Well, it seems last night Ynghilda walked into the great hall a bit after midnight, and there was, uh, a goblin in there.”

The Ranger sat up abruptly throwing back his blankets and grabbing his boots.

“Was she hurt? Is she OK?” he asked as he shook his boots out before putting them on and rising. To his surprise Taarven looked more amused than alarmed.

“Oh no, it's nothing like that, he didn't attack her or anything sir…”

“Lord's teeth boy!” Engvyr exclaimed, “A fella could starve to death waiting for you to tell a story! What did he do?”

“Well sir, it seems he was a'settin' by the fire. Drinking coffee. Asked after you, he did.”

“Asked after me? By name?”

“N-no sir. He said 'the blonde ranger.' And he called you something else… “’Son of Good Stew?'”

It was mid-morning when Engvyr rode into the palisade. He handed his pony off to the groom and headed for the great hall. A number of Dwarves were gathered around peeking through the open door, whispering among themselves.

He pushed his way through them and stepped inside. Ynghilda was sitting by the hearth with the Goblin drinking coffee. She was laughing over something he'd just said and they both turned to look at him.

“You have the most interesting friends, Engvyr,” she said as he joined them.

“Don't I just?” he replied, shaking his head. He noted Ynghilda's 12-bore standing nearby. He turned to the goblin and said, “What were you thinking, sneakin' in here like that? She could have blown a tunnel through you!”

“But she did'n,'” the goblin replied with an unrepentant grin.

“How did you get past the palisade and guards?” Engvyr asked.

“I've asked him that myself,” said Ynghilda and turned to the goblin, “Tell him what you told me.”

The goblin gave Engvyr a grin full of pointy teeth and said nothing.

After a moment Engvyr said, “Well?”

The goblin remained silent and Ynghilda said dryly, “That's exactly what he told me. Nothing.”

Engvyr couldn't help grinning himself as he clasped forearms with the goblin. After they were all seated he said, “You're looking well, old friend. How in the world did you find me?”

“Troll saw te' mark and pass word. So I asked te' trolls where you were an' they tol' me.”

“You talk to trolls?” Ynghilda asked disbelievingly.

“Of course. Trolls see ever'thing. You don' talk te' trolls?”

“Uh, no,” Engvyr said with a glance at Ynghilda, “Did the trolls tell you anything else?”

The goblin nodded.

“They say you have trouble with,” he made a circular gesture in front of his face, “Tattoo-face people. I do not know what this means.”

Engvyr described the facial tattoos and braiding of the goblins that were raiding from the north and while it was not possible for a goblin to become any paler he was visibly agitated by the description.

“This is not right,” the goblin said, shaking his head, “These people you say, they are long dead. No more!”

“I have seen them myself,” Engvyr said, “both here and on the edge of the Daenteg Idengeord, when I was a boy. What do you know about these Goblins?”

“In te' time of te' Maker Dvaerg and Duergar, goblins as ye call us, were all slaves. But some duergar t'ink the Maker was a god an' worshiped him. They became ver' special guards of other Goblins. But they are all dead, long time ago. Very, very bad were the Baasgarta.”

“Apparently they didn't so much die out after all,” said Ynghilda.

“I can assure you of that, my old friend. These goblins are very much alive and are raiding all along our northern frontier.”

The goblin frowned, looking at them dubiously. Engvyr thought for a moment, then looked the Goblin straight in the eye and said, “I am Engvyr Gunnarson of the Falkevell Clan, and I swear to you on my name, the name of my father and the honor of my clan that this is true.”

The goblin's eyes grew wider as he spoke. He stared at Engvyr for a few moments and then nodded decisively.

“I see you, Engvyr Gunnarson Falkevellklan,” the goblin said, bowing, “and I am honored to accept your name and oath. I will take your words to my elders.”

The goblin rose, bowed to him and donned his hat, scarf and gloves. Turning to Ynghilda he said, “Thank you for te' coffee, great woman. Engvyr, maybe ye can walk me out? We would not want any misunderstandin's wit' yer friends.”

Engvyr rose and escorted him to the gates of the palisade.

“Safe journeys, old friend,” he told the goblin as they clasped forearms, then continued, “There's a war brewing with these Baasgarta of yours. I know the rangers and army know that not all your folk are the same. But word of the war will reach Ironhame, and the folk there may not make a distinction between your folk and these other goblins. It might be best if your traders withdrew from Ironhame for now, maybe out of Dvargatil Baeg altogether. To avoid… misunderstandings.”

“I will say this to the elders as well. Be careful, my friend. Dvaerg and Duergar, some are good, some bad. But all the Baasgarta are evil.”

Engvyr assured him that he would indeed be careful, and watched the goblin lope away until he was out of sight.

“What just happened here?” Ynghilda asked when he returned to the hall.

Engvyr shrugged. “Goblins only give their names as a sign of great trust. I not only gave him my name but swore by it. I've trusted him with my most precious possession. He must believe me until proven otherwise.”

“I know that it's not the case here, but what if it were proven otherwise?”

Engvyr said, “I wouldn't dare lie under the circumstances, because if I were caught I would be dead to him and to all goblins.”

“And that would be so bad you couldn't possibly lie?” she asked.

“Um… you should remember that goblins eat their dead.”

Ynghilda blinked, then blanched as understanding hit her. “Oh. Right. Good to know. I notice that he didn't give you his name in return. Was that because I was here?”

Engvyr shook his head and said, “That wouldn't matter to him. If he gave his name to me while you were present it would not be the same as giving it to you, and you'd be obliged to pretend not to have heard. No, he was just saving it, because you only get to give someone your name once.”

“I suppose that makes some sort of sense,” Ynghilda said, “I'm glad that something about this mess does…”

Chapter Sixteen

“There are worse things a man can be saddled with than a load of common-sense. Add to this the burden of knowledge and skill, then any other weight he needs to bear will be the lighter for it.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

A squad of infantry had been sent to check on the column of smoke from the burning farmhame.

Taarven had a hard time convincing them not to take off after Engvyr and the raiding party.

“Engvyr is as skilled a Ranger as I've ever seen,” he told them, “ You'll come to grief for sure if you try to take a squad along those ridges at night. You'll never catch them goblins on foot else wise.”

“Might be we'd surprise you,” the Sergeant said.

“Fair to say, but even if you caught up to them you'd be a squad against a platoon-strength enemy,” Taarven said, “Even as good as I'm sure your people are that's going to be some mighty bad odds.”

The Sergeant reluctantly agreed and ordered his men set up camp. They gathered the bodies of the goblins and examined their appearance and gear. They would be fighting these people, after all and every bit of information that they could glean would help.

“This is damn well-made,” one of the soldiers commented as he examined the raider's repeating crossbow. It was gravity fed from a box magazine mounted above the firing-groove. A long vertical lever mounted just under the prod was pulled toward the shooter to cock the string and another bolt would drop into place from the magazine.

“Can't fire it prone,” another pointed out, “Have to be kneeling or standing to work that lever. Not sure how accurate it would be, either.”

“If'n they're taking their time it's accurate enough,” Taarven said, “Not so accurate when they are in a hurry, but they can fire three shots every two seconds.”

Someone whistled and the soldiers looked at the weapon with new respect. They could only manage a shot every six or seven seconds with their slug-guns. These used the same stock and firing mechanism as Engvyr's long-rifle but had shorter smooth-bore barrels. They fired a 16-bore/225 slug and they were accurate to about a hundred paces.

The previous afternoon Taarven checked the signs and discovered that three of the skirmishers that had attacked them in the trees had escaped to follow their comrades. He thought it likely that they would have taken the remaining oxen, but the Sergeant had insisted that they go to check.

“I think it's a fool's errand. If you find anything at all, like as not it'll be the sharp end of a goblin's crossbow bolt,” he'd told the young Sergeant, “But I suppose that I can't very well let you all go traipsing off by yourselves. I'll scout the way, but at the first sign of real trouble we're turning back. Understand?”

Taarven dismounted when he thought that they were approaching the scene of Engvyr's attack on the goblins. The Ranger muttered to himself under his breath as he crept slowly around the bend in the trail, his carbine at the ready. His hackles were up and he was approaching low to the ground with extreme caution. After all Engvyr had hit the goblins here specifically because it was a good site for an ambush, and the goblins had this pointed out to them in a way that they were likely to remember.

When he got his first glimpse of the scene he was certain that this must be an ambush because the five oxen were still there, the lead-rope neatly tied off to a low-growing pine. He noticed other details, like the fact the ox that Engvyr had shot was missing and that there was a dead goblin lying near the rock face. Well he looked dead…

Whack! A ball from Taarven's gun through the body confirmed that he really was. He signaled the others to stay put as he cautiously rose to his feet. He moved into the open, senses straining to detect any sign of an attack. Taarven examined the dead goblin and was surprised to discover that its chest had been crushed by a head-sized rock that was lying nearby. He could also see that a great deal of blood had run down into the creek from further ahead. He moved carefully through the ambush-zone, checking prints and other sign.

“I'll be damned,” he muttered to himself when he was finished. A faint sound caught his attention and he strained to make it out over the noise of the rushing water. Looking up along the cliff he spotted a goblin caught in the arms of a tree that grew out a crevice in the rock about fifteen feet above the trail. The sound was the goblin swearing in a weak, low voice. Taarven couldn't make out much of it but the word 'trolls' seemed to be used an awful lot. He moved closer to hear better and discovered that the goblin had a pretty impressive vocabulary and a good imagination.

The sun had yet to reach into the narrow ravine but the reflected light had already burned the goblin's exposed head and Taarven could see that the he was pretty busted up. The goblin opened his eyes at that moment, spotted him and the swearing broke off abruptly.

“Well, now, that's a hell of a spot to find yourself in, ain't it?” Taarven asked mildly. The swearing restarted immediately but was now directed at the Ranger, accompanied by a hate-filled glare. He listened appreciatively for several moments. The parts that didn't involve his ancestry or sexual preferences frequently mentioned someone called 'The Dreamer,' describing what that person would do to Taarven and his whole miserable race. After the swearing got repetitive he broke in.

“You want to tell me a bit about this Dreamer of yours or should I just leave you for the vultures? They usually wait until a man is dead before they start feasting. Usually.”

The goblin started in again but he was getting weaker.

“Actually,” Taarven said, interrupting him again, “I'm fairly certain you've never met my mother, and I'm not sure that last bit is even possible. Seriously, if you want quick death you'll have to do better than that.”

“I don' need your help, dvaerg,” the goblin spat, “And you will meet The Dreamer soon enough! He comes for you all! Walls of stone will not save you from his righteous fury. The Baasgarta will sweep across your lands like a plague, and those we do not kill will beg for the privilege of cleaning our feet with their tongues! We will dine upon the flesh of your children…”

“Oh shut up already,” Taarven said and put a ball through his skull. He called the soldiers to come up and explained what he had found.

“Seems like a group, maybe a family, of trolls came along shortly after Engvyr shot up the goblins. They butchered the dead ox and tied up the others yonder,” he said, gesturing to the animals. “The skirmishers came up the trail and interrupted them, worse luck for the goblins. The trolls threw a rock at that fella' and busted thisn' up and tossed him into that tree. The third goblin went into the river, maybe of his own accord, which wasn't his worst option at that point.”

“Why'd they leave the oxen?” the Sergeant asked.

Taarven shrugged and said, “What would they do with them up here? Besides, trolls ain't known for thievin'. I reckon we better grab that string of beasts and high-tail it while we still can. I don't fancy being caught on this trail by trolls or goblins.”

It was well after suppertime when Taarven entered the great hall. Engvyr and Deandra were sitting by the hearth, heads together and talking quietly. Ynghilda sat puffing her pipe and talking with several of her people. They all looked up as he entered. Deandra detached herself from Engvyr and disappeared into the kitchens while one of the dwarves vacated his seat for the newcomer.

They caught each other up on the events of the day and Deandra returned with a bowl of soup and a half-loaf of black bread for the Ranger. There was always soup or stew on the fire these days, with people coming and going at all hours.

“We took a pretty good chunk out of them yesterday,” Taarven said, “And we learned a few things. The Baasgarta follow a leader named 'The Dreamer' who is planning on invading. Fella I talked to seemed mighty confident, too.”

Ynghilda said, “I think it's time to pull in the folk along the northern border. We can send parties out with guards to work the fields in rotation. Might save some lives.”

“I don't know, Yng. The numbers that they have been hitting us with it might take more guards than we can spare to dissuade them,” Taarven observed.

“Well, we have to do something,” she replied tartly, “looks as if we might need a good stock of food with what's coming.”

Taarven nodded agreement but he was keenly aware that moat or not, the palisade would never stand up to a serious siege, and in truth it had never been meant to. Against a real military force it was more likely to be a death-trap than a refuge.

“Then we need to get what crops we can brought in here for safe-keeping,” Taarven said, “We can set up a tent camp south of the palisade for when the great hall fills up. If they hit us in too large of numbers we will need to evacuate, not try to make a stand here.”

Ynghilda nodded reluctantly and said, “We'll need to coordinate with the army. I'll get together with the Major and we can work out plans for different contingencies.”

Over the next few days Taarven and Engvyr continued to patrol, alerting people to the threat. Several times they came across signs of trolls moving south. Despite his natural optimism there was no way for him to see that as a good thing.

“Gotta say, these Army boys do know how to camp out,” Taarven said as they trotted past on their ponies, occasionally returning waves from the soldiers. They weren't patrolling this time, and Engvyr and Taarven hadn't brought any remounts or a pack-beast. They were going to head into Baasgarta territory and needed to keep a low profile.

The heavy infantry were nothing if not efficient. By the end of the first day that the soldiers had arrived after the Midsummer Feast, they had set up a camp for each of the five companies in the battalion. The encampments were placed in a shallow arc to the north of Makepeace Stead, spaced to provide supporting fire for each other. The earthen berms that the soldiers had thrown up around each area were more of an obstacle than a barrier, but when covered with sharpened stakes and backed by soldiers with slug-guns and pikes, they were more formidable than the fifteen-foot palisade. Neat rows of tents filled the center of each earthwork, with latrines and other utilities arranged along their southern sides. The center camp was enlarged to accommodate the command staff.

Taarven smiled to himself as he remembered telling Ynghilda what they intended this morning. She'd looked at him worriedly then poked him gently in the nose.

“You watch out for yourself, Taarven Redbeard. Truth be told I've kinda' gotten used to having you around.”

“Fact of the matter is I kinda' like being around. After all this is sorted out I was thinkin' I might take some leave and hang around a bit more.”

She smiled at him and said, “I'd like that.”

He'd taken her hand briefly; eye's locked on hers for a moment before joining Engvyr in the stables to saddle-up.

They rode west until they reached the tree line and then began to work their way north. It was possible that the goblins had some of their people watching the valley so they stayed off the trails and under cover as much as they could. Finally the rangers moved into the mountains north of the valley.

“Into the belly of the beast,” Engvyr commented quietly.

“Sorta' hoping not to get swallowed, my own self,” Taarven replied. “Let's do this.”

They urged their ponies deeper into the mountains and the unknown.

Chapter Seventeen

“When scouting enemy territory you have only two defenses- stealth and speed. Speed is used when stealth has failed. Lose the capacity for either one and you are in trouble. Lose both and you are dead meat… an uncomfortably apt expression in Goblin territory.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

They kept to the high country, their sure-footed mountain ponies carrying them along hillsides and ridges, wading down rushing streams. They had no goal initially but to go north and see what they found.

They were careful to leave as little sign of their passage as possible. They stuck to stony ground whenever it was practical to do so. When crossing rivers they swapped their boots for soft-soled shoes and scouted on foot to insure that no one was present to observe them. They made a cold camp the first night, eating dry sausages, cheese, bread and an apple pie that Deandra had sent with them. Several times they cut across trails left by groups of goblins but saw no other living souls.

Late in the morning of the second day they came across the trail of a raiding party with dwarven captives and turned to follow. Where they could they rode parallel to the trail. When they couldn't they wrapped their ponies hooves in leather, both to muffle the sound and soften their prints. The need for caution forced them to move slowly but they found the tracks were getting fresher.

“I think they've actually holed up for the day,” Engvyr said, “we'd best be careful lest we come on them suddenly.”

As they got closer they concealed their ponies and moved forward of foot. They soon had to drop to their bellies as they heard movement ahead of them. When they spotted the sentry they edged slowly backwards, watching carefully so that they moved only when the sentry was facing away. They circled around up the slope, skirting another sentry until they could look down on the camp.

They could actually see a third sentry from their vantage point. There was a goblin awake watching the captives and three more sleeping in their bedrolls. There were a dozen captives, mostly women and children, who had their hands bound behind them and their legs hobbled by another cord.

“This,” Engvyr said quietly in Taarven's ear, “presents a problem.”

“Those sentries aren't any too alert but I don't think that I could come up on any one of them without being spotted.” Taarven said.

“They aren't going to stay sleepy once the party starts either. None of which addresses the fact that rescuing these folk isn't part of our mission.”

Taarven nodded and said, “So let's get that part straightened out first. What do you think?”

“Sod the mission. I haven't got it in me to leave these folks to their fate when we could do otherwise.”

“Yeah, me too. If there was nothing we could do…” Taarven shrugged.

If there were thirty of the bastards this would be a lot easier. We'd have to leave them but Lord and Lady I'd hate living with having done so, Engvyr thought.

“You know how this has to go, right?” Taarven asked. “If we get the captives loose I'll have to shepherd them while you play at rear-guard. You up for that?”

They made their plans and were about to separate when Engvyr caught a quick motion from one of the prisoners. She shot a quick glance at their position and he could have sworn that she locked eyes with him before looking back down.

“Hold up,” he told Taarven, “Might be we have us an ally in camp.”

He told his partner what he had seen and Taarven shook his head.

“She'd have to have the eye of an eagle to have spotted us up here,” he said.

“Could be she does at that… look.”

The woman now had her eyes locked on the guard, freezing whenever he started to turn her way. She edged closer to the young man tied up next to her and nudged him. When he looked up she either whispered to him or just mouthed words. His own eyes skimmed across the slope as he nodded slightly, the movement barely visible from their distant vantage.

“Damned if I don't think that you're right, Taarven said, “Looks like we got us some help, though I don't know as they are good for much after what they've been through. Can't see as it hurts our plan regardless.”

Engvyr agreed and Taarven moved off quietly. After he'd counted off an hour Engvyr slowly moved the long-rifle into position and lay the loaded carbine next to it. Sighting carefully, he shot the prisoner's guard through the head. The report echoed off of the hillside and things began to happen very quickly.

As he took up the carbine the sleeping goblins woke. The captive young man leapt onto the nearest goblin, his hands suddenly free and took him from behind in a chokehold. The woman threw her body into another, who staggered from the impact. The last of the sleeping goblins was raising his falchion to cut her down when the ball from Engvyr's carbine smashed his shoulder and he fell with a cry.

The sentry that had been furthest from his position was raising a horn to his lips when he suddenly dropped it and staggered forward to fall on his face as Taarven shot him from behind.

The goblin that was staggering dove for the brush before Engvyr could recharge the carbine. But he was unarmed except for his belt-knife so Engvyr disregarded him for the moment, looking for the other two sentries. They had vanished.

A scraping sound on the rock above warned him and he rolled over as one of the missing sentries dove on him. He tucked his knees up and planted his feet in the goblin's stomach as his attacker grabbed the carbine. Engvyr yanked savagely on the weapon, straightened his legs and sent the goblin flying headlong down the slope. Rising to his knees he waited until the goblin tumbled to a stop at the bottom before shooting him through the body.

He scanned the scene below as he reloaded both weapons. The woman had struggled to a sitting position and said something to the young man, who sheepishly released the limp goblin from what Engvyr recognized as a surprisingly professional choke-hold. Taking the goblin's knife he cut the woman's bonds as Taarven entered the camp, scanning along the barrel of his weapon as he moved.

A horn sounded in the near distance and Engvyr swore as he moved down the slope to the camp, half sliding, half bounding down the hill.

The man he had shot in the shoulder was gone, as was the one the woman had tackled. She had appropriated one of the goblins' crossbows, and was slinging on a belt with pouches full of bolts as he approached.

“Ageyra Flint, Stonewright,” she said, as she took a long knife and thrust the sheath through her belt, “formerly a Battlemage of the 3rd Mounted Infantry, and very much at your service!”

“Engvyr and Taarven, at yours.” he replied, already moving to help cut the remaining captives loose as Taarven swept the woods and hillside with his carbine.

She was already going through the goblins packs. Not one to waste any time, and a veteran. Better and better, Engvyr thought. She gestured to the young man.

“My nephew Ben, who apparently pays more attention to his old aunt's stories than I thought.”

Ben flashed a distracted grin as he freed the last of the captives. They instinctively bunched up as they blinked away sleep and shock. Just then a distant horn answered the nearer. Engvyr and Taarven exchanged a glance, as Engvyr shrugged out of his pack and began pulling out boxes of slugs and tucking them in his cote-pockets.

“OK people- save the introductions for later, we are flat out of time. Grab a crossbow if you can use one, as well as any weapon or food, blankets and tarps that you can find. You,” Taarven said, pointing at Ben, “You're carrying Engvyr's pack. We're moving out in two minutes”

Taarven came over and said, “I'm leaving both ponies. If'n you can get back to them they'll be more use to you than me, what with me being tied to these folks.”

Engvyr clasped forearms with him and looked him in the eye for a long moment.

“See you back at the stead, I reckon,” he said.

“Don't you be too long, partner… you wouldn't want us to drink all the beer before you get back.”

Engvyr snorted, “Lord and Lady, Taarven- you been with me long enough to know I favor cider!”

Taarven grinned, shook his head and turned away, shouting instructions.

Engvyr walked over to Ageyra, handed her his carbine and said, “Reckon you remember the use a' one of these well enough.”

“I reckon that I do, but I expect you'll need it worse than I do,” she replied.

“If I need it too,” he said, gesturing with the long-rifle, “I think it's likely it'll be too late for it to be of help.”

She inclined her head in thanks and he handed her a bag of shot for the gun. She stowed it in a pocket of her great-cote, then she clasped forearms with him and joined the others. As they hit the trail she was transferring the goblin crossbow to her nephew and he watched until they had moved out of sight.

Goodbye, Taarven, he thought, you were a man to ride the river with. Deandra… dammit, I'd hoped to make a life with you. Lord and Lady bless and keep you through what is to come. He felt peace settle over him as, bit by bit, he let go of his life until there was nothing left but his purpose. As he emptied himself of everything but the mission the world around him came into sharp focus. Every sound took on a bell-like clarity, every leaf and shadow stood out in high relief. When he was ready he drew his bayonet, slipped it over the muzzle and twisted to lock it in place, then loped off up the slope, eyes scanning for enemies, his rifle at the ready.

– **-

The Baasgarta entered the camp slowly and cautiously, examining the ground for sign and checking the corpses. One of them had a bandaged shoulder and was pointing things out to the others. As he was gesturing at the slope that Engvyr had used to fire down on the camp a heavy slug slammed into his ribs just below his outstretched arm. At five hundred paces it didn't have the energy to pass clear through him but it had enough to do the trick.

Hate to leave a job half-done, Engvyr thought as he reloaded. It was the longest shot he'd ever taken and he settled the big gun back into its rest in the crook of a sapling, ready to try again. By the time he had done so there were no goblins in sight so he waited. Five minutes, ten…

A subtle movement caught his eye and he watched as a goblin rose slowly to his hands and knees, scanning the hillside below the ranger. WHACK. Dust spurted by the target's hand and the goblin dropped and rolled under cover again. Dammit. Missed, Engvyr thought as he reloaded. Or maybe not, he amended as a distant shriek of pain reached his ear. Guess he won't be playing the fiddle any time soon.

Scanning the area he saw no further movement. Like as not they won't any of them move for a good fifteen minutes, he decided, Time to move along. He backed off, eying the woods around him warily, then slid into the hollow where the ponies were tied up.

“Damn near fell asleep waitin' for you to finish playin.'”

Ageyra blocked his instinctive slash with the bayonet with the carbine’s fore-stock. She grinned at him and said, “Jumpy feller, aren't ya?”

Engvyr took a deep breath and said, “Dammit woman, you're supposed to be long gone by now! What the hell are you playing at?”

She swung easily into the saddle, laid the carbine across the saddle-bow and looked at him coldly. “I ain't 'playing at' anything, boy. It occurred to me that you could use a hand, and could maybe do worse than having a veteran Battlemage at your side.”

Engvyr noted fresh blood on the iron-shod butt of the carbine and looked at it pointedly before raising an eyebrow at the old woman. She shrugged.

“I got bored waiting around. What's a girl to do?”

Engvyr grinned at her suddenly and said, “Alright then. Let’s see what kind of mischief we can get up to, you and I.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Rear-guard actions are tricky. If you haven't got the force to stop your enemy cold it becomes a balancing act. You have to go fast enough to stay ahead of them but not so fast that you catch up with whatever you are trying to guard. Go too slow and they overwhelm you. Make things too difficult and they'll go around you. It's like a duel with swords. Engage and disengage, sting and move. Keep them interested or better yet make them mad as hell- angry people make stupid mistakes. Whatever you do you should never underestimate your enemy's intelligence and resourcefulness.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

They could get up to quite a lot of mischief as it turned out. They rode straight down the trail in the tracks of Taarven and his party, that being the mostly likely avenue for the pursuers to follow. The ponies were some advantage for the two of them but less than one might think. Goblins don't ride but they are past-masters at covering distance on foot. A man with a string of ponies could outdistance them with little trouble. But with only one pony each, the Goblins would catch them eventually… unless they slowed them down a bit.

The trail passed through a narrow gorge and Ageyra suddenly said, “Stop.”

Engvyr pulled up and watched as she laid palm on the rock face, closed her eyes and did… nothing. She just sat there on her pony touching the rock. He was on the verge of impatience when she opened her eyes.

“OK,” she said, then rode forward about fifty paces and turned her pony. “Come over here.”

He did as she asked, curious as to what she intended. She pointed at a spot on the cliff.

“See that shadow by the moss just there?”

He nodded.

“Shoot the point of the shadow. There, at the bottom.”

He looked at her curiously but turned his pony broadside to the spot and raised the rifle. WHACK. The bullet struck chips off of the rock at precisely the point that she had indicated.

“Perfect. Thank you,” she said with a satisfied smile. Then she sat and waited. So did Engvyr. He opened his mouth to speak and she held up a hand.

“Wait for it…”

Suddenly there was a bass creaking from the rock, several sharp reports and a cloud of dust rose from the mountainside. Then with a rumble and a groan, more felt than heard, a massive slab of granite slid slowly down the face of the mountain and slammed into the trail. It moved a total of about ten feet but when it hit the ground it felt like the impact bounced his ponies hooves clear off the ground.

After they got their frightened mounts back under control Engvyr looked back up the trail, peering through the dust. A house-cat might have gotten past the slab but surely nothing bigger could. The rock, a hundred tons or more of solid granite, completely blocked the trail.

“That should give us a bit of time,” she said and turned her pony and rode on. Engvyr felt he could forgive that her smile was a little smug, but unfortunately he had to wipe it off her face.

“Yep,” he said, “They'll never get through that. So they'll leave this trail… the one place where we knew that they'd be.”

She stopped and looked at him a moment while she worked through the implications. He knew that she got it when she started to swear.

He continued, “We needed to slow them down, not stop them cold. There are dozens of paths through these mountains. The only way that we can know which trail they are on…”

“Is if they're chasing us.” she finished for him.

He nodded and said, “And we're on the wrong side of that rock.”

“Sorry Engvyr. I guess that I might have been… showing off a little. Proving to myself that I've still got the touch.”

He took a few deep breaths and said, “Well, done is done I guess. Is there something that we can do to fix it?”

“Let's see.” She rode back and dismounted. She placed her hands on the rock and closed her eyes. After several minutes she stood back and took a swig from her water bottle and said, “OK, I think that we've got this.”

She returned to her pony and rummaged in the rucksack tied behind the saddle and produced a short sledge-hammer and a two foot long drill rod. She handed these to Engvyr.

“Good thing those gobbos grabbed my pack,” she said, “Ever worked a Single-Jack and Drill?”

He groaned and said, “Sadly, yes I have.”

“Oh come on, it's good for you! Builds character.”

He moved the ponies some distance away, tied their leads off on a low-growing tree and returned. By then the stonewright had marked two positions in chalk with the depths written next to them. One was dead on a crack in the rock and the other at knee-height in the middle of a solid section.

They didn't know how far behind the Baasgarta were but they knew that they needed to hurry. He took the drill and placed it on the lower mark, which was the most difficult because it was awkwardly placed. On the first strike the drill dug far deeper into the hard rock than it should have and he stared in surprise.

“Don't stop. This isn't easy you know!” Ageyra told him. He saw that she had both hands pressed to the rock. Of course, he thought, she’s a stonewright. She's making the stone easier to drill.

He set to work, striking and turning the drill over and over. Dwarves were literally made for hard-rock mining and with any practice at all were very efficient. Twenty minutes later they were both soaked in sweat but had two one-inch diameter holes of the desired depth. Had it not been for the stonewright's power it would have taken hours with those tools and the goblins would surely have arrived before they were finished. They caught their breath for a moment then she began removing items from the ruck sack. Three metal containers, a mortar and pestle, some scoops, a one-inch wooden dowel and some other odds and ends.

“Engvyr,” she said casually, “Why don't you go back over by the horses. This requires some concentration.”

He nodded and did as he was told while she mixed the blasting powder. This was the tricky part and was always done by one of her kind when possible. Mixing the stuff wasn't difficult, just three ingredients in the right proportions, but it was several times more powerful when mixed by a stonewright. The explosive always had to be mixed right before use as it wasn't safe to have it just lying around. The stuff wanted to explode, in a magical sense at least, and any Battlemage worth their salt could detonate it at a great distance.

After a few minutes work Ageyra picked up her gear and hurried back to where Engvyr stood with the ponies. They moved far enough to have solid rock between themselves and the explosives. When they were ready the Battlemage closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths and then snapped her fingers. Instantly a double-boom rolled across the hills.

They went back to check the result of their work. They had to wait a few minutes for the smoke and dust to clear before they could see the results of their handiwork. Engvyr gave a low whistle. The massive slab had shattered into boulders and rubble- far greater effect than the two small charges should have had.

“You've spoiled me for mining forever,” he told his companion, “If'n I ever had to do it again without a stonewright it'd just seem like too much work.”

She grinned at the compliment as she wiped sweat from her brow.

“The gobbos ought to be able to work their way past that in an hour or less,” she said, “Good?”

“Great,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “Next time let’s go for this first time out though, OK?”

“You got it boss.” she said, “They had to have heard that and they must be pretty close now. Might be we should get clear of this place.”

Engvyr agreed and checked the position of the sun.

“Sunset in about an hour. This is going to get real interesting.”

They rode on, keeping to a modest pace to spare their ponies. The beasts were bred for endurance but there were limits. As it grew dark they had to be more careful. Goblins see somewhat better in the dark than dwarves, but not by much as both races were created to work underground with poor lighting.

They paused occasionally to prepare little surprises for their pursuers. They strung thin, strong lines across the trail at ankle, knee or neck height. These were not likely to produce real injury but they would frighten and more importantly annoy the Baasgarta as it forced them to slow down to look for them. In a couple of places Ageyra found slopes that were 'agreeable' to creating small rock falls across the trail. They would only slow the goblins by minutes but every little bit helped.

When the moon was high enough to illuminate the area Engvyr stopped and set up a shooting position that covered a particularly well-lit section of trail several hundred paces back. Ageyra took the ponies a few hundred paces the opposite direction to wait for him.

About a half-hour later the goblins came into sight. They had a man out on point a good fifty paces from their main group carrying a crossbow. Engvyr wasn't worried as goblin crossbows were short-ranged affairs. He waited until the main body appeared and looked for a likely target. The point-man signaled a stop- he'd found one of their trip lines. The main body of their pursuers, about a platoon strong stopped and waited while the lead goblin made sure that the trap wasn't anything nastier than a trip line.

Engvyr noticed one goblin with a bandaged hand and grinned. Well why not? He sighted carefully and shot him. He reloaded and looked for another target. The goblins had scattered of course and he rose up to get a better look…

Crack! A crossbow bolt shattered on the rock next to him and he dropped behind the boulder that was sheltering him. Peering cautiously around the boulder he could see the point-man cranking frantically at the mechanism of his weapon. The Baasgarta apparently also used heavy crossbows in addition to repeaters. That was game-changer, and as the goblin was placing a bolt in the weapon's groove the Ranger shot him.

He searched the area around the trail for more targets and heard the distant thwack of a crossbow. A second later he heard the bolt buzz past. Time to go.

Dawn found them riding along a ridge line looking for a good spot to fire down on the goblins from above. Engvyr heard a thunk and Ageyra grunted. Turning quickly he felt an impact on his left shoulder and saw a goblin stroking the lever of his repeating crossbow. He felt a blaze of pain as he shouldered the rifle but ignored it as he shot the goblin through the heart. Looking around he saw no other targets.

“What the hell was he doing up here?' He asked.

Ageyra was just getting her pony under control and Engvyr saw the fletching of a crossbow bolt sticking out of her thigh.

“Best you get down so that we can take care of that,” he said. Something tickled at his beard and he looked down to see a bolt sticking out of his own shoulder just inside the joint.

Ageyra said, “Getting down would be problematic. I'm pinned to the saddle. Hang on…”

She drew the knife that she had taken and carefully worked it between her leg and the heavy stirrup leather. Sweat stood out on her brow as she sawed through the bolt just below the head.

Engvyr tried to reload the rifle and found that he couldn't do it one-handed while mounted. He felt other stabs of pain and noted disinterestedly that there was a bolt sticking out of the calf of his leg as well. And another in the saddle bow next to… Another two inches to the left and Deandra and I would have to adopt, he thought. He shoved the irrelevant thought aside.

“Got it,” Ageyra said as she finished cutting through the bolt. He looked up at her just as a nightmare latched onto the throat of her pony and the goblin riding it tackled her right out of the saddle. He heard hoofs on stone and turned to see another of the riders bearing down on him. He had an impression of an elongated mountain goat with thick, curled horns and a long snout full of hooked teeth being ridden by a falchion-wielding Baasgarta. His pony took one look and screamed in fear, threw him and bolted.

He slammed into the ground on his back with a burst of pain that forced a short scream from him and then the goblin's mount was rearing over him, preparing to smash the life out of him with its cloven hooves.

He heard Ageyra scream in rage and a spike of rock slammed up out of the ground, scattering dirt and chips of stone, impaling the beast and its rider both. He blinked in surprise. Turning his head he saw the woman propped up on one hand, the other extended towards the impaled goblin with fury burning in her eyes. The other goblin was sprawled on his back with her knife-hilt standing out of his ribs. Just past the corpse of her pony the other goat-creature was also impaled by a spike. Note to self, he thought with semi-hysterical humor, don't piss off a Stonewright-Battlemage.

Her eyes met his and the fury faded from her gaze. She slumped, gasping for breath.

“Show-off,” he croaked. He tried to move but felt a burst of pain before he fell back against the rock and passed out.

Chapter Nineteen

“Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good, but it's better still to be lucky and good.”

From the dairies of Engvyr Gunnarson

Engvyr woke in a room that he had never seen before. The bed sheets were soaked in sweat and his memory was a confused whirlwind of nightmares and fever-dreams. He felt a warm pressure on his right hand and realized that someone was holding it. Turning his head he saw Deandra seated next to him, smiling.

“About time that you woke up!” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

He tried to speak but it came out as a croak.

Disengaging her hand, she patted his good shoulder.

“My frog prince,” she said with a grin, poured him some water and held the cup to his lips while he drank. When he was done she smiled and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Looks like the fever has broken. You had us worried for a while. You were out of your head for three days.”

He tried to sit up. It hurt like hell but he managed it and Deandra hastily pushed some pillows behind his back to prop him up. He tried again to speak and it worked better this time.

“Marry me,” he said.

“Of course,” she replied as she continued to fuss with things to make him more comfortable.

“Just like that?”

She laughed gaily and kissed him, “Yes, you silly dwarf, just like that.”

He settled back with a sigh and closed his eyes, content. Then a thought occurred to him and his eyes flew open, “Taarven, Ageyra, did they make it?”

“Everyone's fine. Now rest, love, they can tell you all about it later.”

She took his hand again and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

When next he woke Ynghilda was sitting by his bed. She was not holding his hand.

Noticing that he was awake she said, “Finally! I swear, between you and Taarven I've never seen two lazier Rangers.”

He cleared his throat and said, “Nice to see you too, Ma'am.”

“Well,” she said, “I'll allow as you were kind of a mess when they brought you in.” She went on to cheerfully catalogue his various ills. He'd had two crossbow wounds, a concussion, a sprained back, some cracked ribs and a fever. “Honestly Engvyr, you really have to start being more careful. A little thing like a rear-guard action through unknown territory against a platoon of Baasgarta shouldn't be so traumatic.”

“You're getting quite good at the sarcasm thing, ma'am. You really should make more use of it,” he said. She gave him a gimlet stare then broke into a grin.

“Seriously, how are you feeling?” she asked.

He thought about it for a moment and said, “Like I've been put through a wringer and shaken to get the wrinkles out.”

In truth he was possessed of a post-fever restlessness and energy. He wanted to be up and about, even though he knew that he would tire quickly. Looking around the room he noticed the stone walls, the massive, elaborately carved beams and thick carpets on the floor. The furniture wasn't ornate but was heavily made and of obvious quality.

He said, “Um, where are we exactly?”

“We’re in a guest room in my private apartments.”

He digested that for a minute. “Why?”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Lord and Lady, Engvyr, we couldn't very well have you passed out on a bench in the great hall, could we?”

He pressed her for more details of how Taarven and the others had fared but she would only reassure him that they were all well and to say that they would tell him themselves later.

“Changing the subject, I understand congratulations are in order?”

“Oh, Deandra told you?” he asked

She looked at him askance and said, “No she didn't Engvyr, I was sitting right over there!”

She gestured to a chair not inconspicuously located nearby. She laughed and said, “I guess you only had eyes for her at that moment.”

When Deandra brought in some meat broth he was able to feed himself. He also drank a substantial quantity of water. Afterwards he was dressed in thick wool socks, loose linen pants and a thick robe, then was helped into an overstuffed chair by the fire in the great hall.

Ageyra was there already, a crutch propped next to her, speaking to Master Ranger Berryc, who was Captain Gauer's second in command at Ghost Creek. He greeted them both as Deandra got him settled into his chair. Once she was satisfied as to his comfort she left them to talk among themselves.

“So Berryc, how do you come to be here?” he asked.

“I just arrived, actually,” the Master Ranger said, “We're going to be basing more of our people out of Makepeace Stead. Things are picking up all along the northern frontier. I came to set up the forward station here and coordinate operations with the army.”

“Picking up? How do you mean?”

“There have been several attacks on steadings and clanhames by companies of Baasgarta. So far they've all been turned back,” Berryc said, “But it looks as if they are gearing up for bigger things.”

“Have we seen anything more of these riding-beasts of theirs?” Engvyr asked.

“Nope. Interesting thing is that some of the local trappers have a tale about such a creature called an Ulvgaed, a 'wolf-goat,' but we always thought that was just a myth,” Berryc said, “Our Rangers scouting Baasgarta lands will be taking a close look at any mountain goat tracks they encounter. It should be pretty easy to tell if such a beast is being ridden.”

Engvyr nodded. The extra weight of a rider would make for deeper tracks and the elongated body would cause the tracks to be spaced differently. Nothing you would really notice if you weren't looking carefully, but from now on they would be.

“I've been thinking about them, these ulvgaeds,” Ageyra said, “I got a pretty good look at the two that we encountered and I don't think that they could be any sort of natural creature.”

“You suppose that they are change-beasts?” asked Engvyr.

“That would go along with the idea that the Baasgarta have been isolated since the time of The Maker,” Berryc said thoughtfully, “Engvyr, if you see that goblin friend of yours again you might ask if they know anything about these beasts.”

“I surely will,” said Engvyr, “But now Ageyra, I'm mighty curious about what happened after our fight with the ulvgaed, and how I came to be back here.”

“I've read the report of course but I wouldn't mind a bit to hear it first-hand,” Berryc agreed.

“Well alright then,” said Ageyra and launched into the tale. The first thing that she had done was to patch up their wounds. Thankfully Engvyr's pony hadn't gone far. She was able to get ahold of it and had gotten Engvyr slung over the saddle and tied in place. Then she'd found a sapling that she could cut for a walking stick and headed south.

“Mind you I was in pretty rocky shape at that point, having been as you might recall shot my own self. Also creating those spikes had taken a lot out of me and given me a terrible headache. Anyway between hanging on to the saddle and a walking stick I was able to hobble along. I got us down to the trail and that was easier going, but I knew those goblins were coming up behind and there was no hope of outpacing them.”

Wounded, exhausted, her magic spent she had done what she could. She put one foot in front of the other and trudged onward, hoping rather than believing that a miracle might save them. When the Baasgarta came into sight behind her she had slapped the pony on the rump and sent it trotting off down the trail. She had taken a position behind a boulder and prepared to sell her life as dearly as possible.

“It was actually a pretty good spot for an ambush,” she said, “And fortunately I wasn't the only one that thought so. When the Baasgarta got to a hundred and fifty paces I lined up the carbine and fired.

“As if that were a signal all of a sudden a whole platoon of gunners stood up out of hiding and let them have it in one massed volley. I'd walked right through the middle of their ambush and never saw a thing, what with the shape that I was in by then. Well, those goblins were so shocked most of them just stopped right where they were and stared. A few kept running at me so I shot another one and then the boys and girls hit 'em with another volley, and then it was 'fire at will.' Of the thirty-five or forty goblins that were on our trail I don't think but three or four of them got away.”

It turned out that Taarven's group had got to the edge of the valley and ran into a heavy infantry platoon on patrol. They'd explained their plight and the sergeant in charge moved his troops into the mountains and set up an ambush. Their intent was to relieve or avenge the rear-guard if they made it that far. Of course they also didn't want a platoon of Baasgarta infantry running around in the Makepeace Valley either.

After that it was just a matter of bringing them back to the stead.

Engvyr looked at Ageyra and said, “You are a hell of a woman, Ageyra Flint.”

“An' don't you forget it!” she said with a grin, “And you're no slouch yourself, Engvyr Gunnarson. A couple of those shots you made… hell, I saw it myself and I still don't believe it!”

Berryc looked at him and asked, “Did you really shoot a man through the chest at five-hundred paces and shoot another one's hand off?”

“Well, the hand was an accident, truth be told,” Engvyr admitted, “I was aiming for his body. But he was powerful-far away.”

The sergeant shook his head in wonder.

“I don't know why I'm surprised,” he said, “but you really shouldn't make a habit of this sort of thing, Engvyr.”

“Twice is not a habit, Berryc” Engvyr protested.

Ageyra looked at him and said, “You've done this sort of thing… Lord and Lady, you're that Engvyr Gunnarson? The one that held off a whole regiment of dragoons during the Kaeralenn Retreat?”

“It was only a battalion, and besides,” he said, “It wasn't like I didn't have help! There were three of us.”

Ageyra shook her head in wonder, then looked at him as something else occurred to her.

“Wait- you were given a Royal Award of Arms and a Land Grant of five-hundred acres for that action, and from the Prince's own hand no less,” she said, “What is a Lord of the Realm doing chasing goblins and fighting rear-guard actions at the end of nowhere?”

Engvyr looked around quickly to make sure that no one had overheard her and leaned forward, looking her straight in the eye.

“Ageyra Flint, I'll thank you to keep all that 'lord' business to yourself!” he said intensely, “I haven't taken up my title or lands and until I do I'm just Eng Gunnarson, a miner's son and a Ranger of the Mountain Guard. Folks knowing anything else will just muddy things up and get in the way.”

“As you like.” she said, “It's all the same to me… M'Lord.”

“Ageyra…” he growled warningly.

She held up her hands in surrender and Engvyr could see that Berryc was choking back laughter. The Master-Ranger changed the subject at that point and Engvyr mostly tuned out their discussion. I'd probably better mention that whole Lord business to Deandra, and sooner rather than later… he thought.

In fact he told her that night when she helped him to bed. She had blinked in surprise but had otherwise simply accepted it. Her expression took on a whimsical cast and she smiled, then looked at him.

“I suppose that while we are sharing secrets I should tell you why my husband's family disliked me so and objected to the marriage.”

He started to protest that she need not if she did not care to but she placed a finger on his lips to stop him.

“No, it's something that you should know. Here I am called Agustdottir, but Agust was actually my stepfather. I do not know my real father's name but as a child I was known as Deandra Half-Elfin. My father was of the Fey.”

Engvyr was not sure what he was expecting but it hadn't been that!

“How did, I mean…” he stammered.

“In her sixteenth year a Fey came to my mother at the Festival of Spring's Dawning in the guise of a boy that she fancied, and they went into the forest together,” she said, “Naturally there was quite a fuss when she returned to the feast to discover that the real boy had gone off with someone else! I was born the following winter.”

Engvyr knew that at Spring's Dawning couples often lay together in the woods or fields. Children born of those unions were considered blessed, with no stigma attached to them. They simply took their mother's name and that was that.

“As I was growing up people said that I was 'witchy' and fey and began to blame me for their misfortunes, which is ironic for if I have so much as a shred of magical talent about me I've seen no sign of it. Eventually my mother married a potter named Agust and they moved to Ternial, west of Dvargatil Baeg along the coast.”

“And when you became betrothed your in-laws somehow found out about your birth?” he asked.

“That and… Engvyr, how old do you think I am?”

He looked at her, surprised by the question, and thought of what he knew of Afmaeltinn.

“Well, I know that humans marry young. But for having met Brael I'd have thought you perhaps twenty, but I suppose that you must be at least twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age.”

“Sweet man!” she said with a smile, “In two years I will have seen fifty summers.”

He stared at her, mind awhirl again.

“How long do half-elfin live?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“I'm not sure that anyone knows… but in the end I might outlive you, love,” she said. Her face fell and she looked uncertain. “If you… I will understand…”

“Lord and Lady, love!” he exclaimed as he gathered her in his arms, “I wasn't put off when I thought that we might have only five or six decades. That we might live out out our days together makes me want to dance with joy!”

She beamed at him as he kissed her and they held each other for a long while. She was not offended when she realized that he had fallen asleep; he was not yet well after all. She lay him back on the bed and tip-toed out, easing the door shut behind her.

– **-

The week of Engvyr's recovery that followed was a busy one. Ynghilda called in the folk of the outlying farmhames and the great hall of the stead filled up. There were three rows of tables set up and they were full each at night, as were the sleeping benches that lined the room. The area around the hearth grew crowded in the evenings as people gathered to talk, tell stories and play or listen to music.

That being the case the 'Privy Council,' as Ynghilda had jokingly begun to refer to it, began to meet around the much smaller hearth in Ynghilda's sitting room. This consisted of the Master-Ranger, Major Eggil from the infantry, Taarven, Engvyr and Grael Makepeace, head of the militia and Ynghilda's cousin. Deandra was often in attendance as well as was Ageyra, who had taken service in the militia as their very own Battlemage.

They were not crowded as the sitting room had been designed with just such an eventuality in mind. Among other things they discussed the reports that now came in almost daily. The news was not comforting. There had been two lightning raids by Baasgarta cavalry in valleys to the east that had caught the farmers out in their fields and took dozens of captives.

Nearly every steading and clanhame on the northern border was hit with company sized attacks… except theirs. Most of these attacks were repulsed and the Baasgarta retreated with few casualties. They were part of a reconnaissance-in-force, probing for weaknesses and goading the dwarves into revealing their own forces.

One of the Baasgarta's attacks did not fare so well. They had attacked the Smilnedrad Clanhame, an old and well-fortified neighbor to the east. Once the Baasgarta were engaged the local commander had moved units of mounted infantry up behind them. The soldiers became a hammer to smash the goblins against anvil of the clanhame. By the time the enemy was able to break away they had taken fifty-percent casualties, and lost still more as they were harried from the clan's lands.

As soon as Engvyr could walk with a cane he and Deandra had better tidings for their friends than the news brought. They made their declaration of marriage, exchanging rings before the hearth in the dwarven tradition, and accepted the applause and congratulations of their friends.

Ynghilda quickly drew up a document of the marriage, which they all signed as witnesses. After they had done so, nothing would do but that she should drag them both into the great hall and announce it to all assembled. An impromptu wedding reception broke out immediately, with drink, music and dance. The folk of the valley had endured a terrible year that might well get worse yet and a marriage was all the excuse they needed. The release of their accumulated stress, at least for this moment, made for one of the most enthusiastic celebrations seen in those parts in some time. It was hours before the couple could slip away to celebrate their marriage privately.

They met with Ynghilda the next day to settle legal matters, a necessity because of Engvyr's as-yet unused title.

“I don't know if your title can pass to Deandra, she being Afmaeltinn,” Ynghilda said thoughtfully, “I guess that will be a matter for the Royal Court to decide. But I do know that she can inherit your property and land. That will make for some legal gymnastics if she doesn't retain your title but frankly that's someone else's problem. The law is very clear on inheritance between spouses.”

“I really don't…” Deandra began but Engvyr stopped her.

“War is coming love, and people will die. If I am one of them it will be a comfort to me to know that you are provided for.”

“Hmmm,” Ynghilda said, “If you don't file your claim there will be no lands for Deandra to inherit. I have a suggestion, if you are willing to do me the honor of becoming my neighbor?”

Engvyr looked to Deandra, who nodded.

“We'd be honored. What do you have in mind?”

She brought out a map of the valley and showed them.

“There's a section here, in the southwest of the valley. It's partly wooded and backs up to the mountains. We can cut out this section here- that looks to be about the size we need. There's good drainage and a stream…”

– **-

Engvyr returned to duty and he and Taarven probed the northern fringe of the Makepeace Valley, trying to penetrate into the goblin-held lands. They were never able to make it more than a day's ride in before being chased out and the Master-Ranger called off these efforts the second time that the rangers were nearly trapped.

It was the consensus of the 'privy council' that either the Baasgarta were planning a major attack on the Makepeace Valley or wanted them to think that they were. Unfortunately there was no practical way to find out.

They discussed going down to the coast and then moving north before cutting back into Baasgarta lands but at this point there was probably not enough time. Even if they did find anything how would they get word out quickly enough? All they could do was lay their plans, make their arrangements and then wait and see.

They did not have long to wait. Just after midnight of the second-to-last day of summer Engvyr and Deandra were disturbed by a commotion in Ynghilda's sitting room, adjacent to the guest quarters that they now shared. Engvyr threw on a shirt and breeches as Deandra shrugged into a kirtle and they went to see what was happening.

Ynghilda was speaking with an army officer he didn't recognize. Grael and Berryc were there, having obviously been recently roused. Taarven was also there, dressed in the same fashion as Engvyr, his hair mussed from sleep. Oh ho! I suppose that's no great surprise, Engvyr thought. He cocked an eyebrow at Taarven, who shrugged and refocused on the officer's grim report.

Ynghilda looked up as they entered and said, “Deandra, good. Porridge and coffee, as much as we've got. We're evacuating the Stead.”

Deandra didn't even stop to dress, just headed straight out the door to the great hall.

The Steadholder had already turned away and was rolling out a map of the valley. Engvyr grabbed Taarven.

“What’s happening” he asked him as the others gathered around the map.

“The sentries from the north have come in. The Baasgarta are in the valley. They're assembling at the Eyrie and two other places in regimental strength or more.”

The long awaited storm had broken. War had come to the Makepeace Valley.

PART THREE: THE ANVIL

Chapter Twenty

“We dwarves set great store by our army, for we have long memories. We spend great sums of money to train and equip them. We pay them well, feed them well and treat them with respect, for we know that they stand between us and those that would harm or enslave us given the chance. But we never lose sight of the fact that in the end it is the people, each and every one of us that is responsible for the freedom and safety of us all.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Deandra shifted the Big 14 to her left hand and adjusted her pack. Engvyr had taught her to shoot while he was laid up, and heavy as it was she was glad to have it now. The gun would be of little use if the main body of the Baasgarta caught them short of the pass but it was a comfort nonetheless.

At the best of times it was nearly a half-days march to Cougar Creek Pass on the main road south from the Makepeace Valley. The refugees, over thirty-five hundred men, women and children, were strung out in clumps over nearly a half-league. She looked back and could see the glitter of pikes at the end of the column over a mile away. The main body of the 2nd battalion was bringing up the rear, as mixed platoons of pikemen and gunners patrolled up and down the line. Engvyr and the other rangers were scouting ahead.

The patrols seemed too little to protect the column, as the infantry platoons couldn't be everywhere at once. Engvyr had explained that the soldiers needed to fight as a unit to be effective, but she still would have felt better with an armed trooper walking beside her.

She was tired, having risen in the middle of the night. The kitchen staff had already been stirring when she was sent to rouse them. She had helped them make great pots of porridge and coffee. Gathering and packing their things, the dwarves sleeping in the great hall had been able to grab a hot breakfast before departing. Militia came in and took food and coffee to the others camping in the palisade. There was a tent kitchen in the camps south of the hold doing the same things for folks there. Everyone would have a chance for a last hot meal before they evacuated.

Engvyr had stopped in to drop off traveling clothes, a rucksack of extras and the Big 14. When she had a moment she dressed quickly, keeping the pack and gun near to hand.

Finally word had come that it was their time to move out. The dwarves in the kitchen simply left things as they were, though it took an effort of will to leave dishes and pots dirty. Deandra added an ammunition pouch to her belt, then slung on her ruck, grabbed the gun and joined the column of refugees.

She had looked about the great hall as she passed through, possibly for the last time. The massive beams covered in carving, the overstuffed chairs by the hearth, the benches and tables, it was all dear to her. It had been her home for months, and more than that it was the place that she and Engvyr's love had grown. As she passed over the threshold she had kissed her fingertips and brushed them against the doorframe in farewell.

They had passed out of the palisade and down through the tent camp. Wagons of supplies and drovers herding their livestock had left almost as soon as Ynghilda had decided to evacuate the valley. Hopefully they would make it through the pass long before the refugees arrived.

The column had assembled in the predawn light. Farmers carried axes or bill-hooks and many of the others had walking staffs. Some carried light hunting bows or crossbows, and many had wood-knives or other long blades at their hips. Of course they all had their sax-knives as well.

Deandra had grinned to herself. These Dwarves! She had thought, Common folk fleeing for their lives, and they were better armed than the peasant levies of some human armies.

She turned and started up the slope again. For all their friendly ways and kindness Dwarves were at heart a fierce people. She had been given to understand that long ago their race had been slaves, and each and every one of them took that personally. They were fiercely determined to remain free and to survive as a people. Most took training with weapons, or at least learning to fight with what they had, as a personal responsibility. They felt obliged to be able to defend themselves and their neighbors. She hefted the Big 14 and realized that she was one of them now, not of their race but of their people. Among humans a woman such as she would never bear arms, might even be afraid of them.

The straps of the rucksack cut into her shoulders and she shifted its weight for what seemed like the thousandth time since they began this march. The relief didn't last long as the cursed thing always seemed to settle right back into place. They were about two thirds of the way to the pass and her legs ached, her back was stiff and sore. All of that was forgotten in an instant as horns sounded along the length of the column.

Baasgarta cavalry poured out of the forest a few hundred paces east of the column of refugees, falchions raised high. She just had time to shrug out of the ruck and level the Big 14 before the nightmare was upon them. Goblin riders on what looked like jet-black rams. Then she saw the wicked teeth grinning from their elongated jaws. Ulvgaed.

There was no time for fear or panic. She simply did as Engvyr had taught her, focusing on the front sight, letting her breath half out and stroking the trigger. WHACK. The heavy slug punched through the beast's chest and it went down. The rider landed hard, rolling along the ground, and dwarves pounced from several directions, sax-knives flashing.

The main body of the cavalry tore into the column. But these were dwarves, and the column tore right back. What followed was a pandemonium that Deandra survived more by luck than skill. She heard a volley from the nearest infantry platoon and her ears were pummeled by the high-pitched shrieks of mortally wounded ulvgaed.

A kaleidoscope of images remained with her. A dwarf neatly side-stepped and cut upward with a broad-axe, shearing through the neck of an ulvgaed and into its rider's belly before their momentum tore the axe from his hands. He was struck down from behind a second later. A rider slowed and a woman threw her rucksack in the face of his mount. As the creature savaged the pack dwarves closed in pulling the rider and beast down. A farmer plunged his pitchfork into the chest of another ulvgaed. It latched onto his shoulder and shook him like a terrier with a rat. Without thinking Deandra leapt forward, slamming her gun’s butt-stock into the creature’s skull. Another woman swept its rider from the saddle with a bill-hook before the goblin could cut her down. Then the Baasgarta had passed, leaving a full third of their number broken upon the ground.

She looked up and down the shattered column in shock. For two hundred paces the ground was littered with the dead and dying. People were shouting for their loved ones, kneeling beside the victims and hacking at downed Baasgarta and ulvgaeds. She couldn't process it, it was too big. It was as if her mind was a moth bumping against an invisible wall of reality and recoiling, over and over. She reloaded the Big 14, hardly knowing what she was doing. When a wounded Baasgarta tried to raise himself to his knees she shot him in the back without even a passing thought.

Suddenly the wall between her and the world vanished and her mind snapped back into function. She began to move among the wounded, tending to them as she could. After a time the platoon of medics from the battalion were there as well. Weeping dwarves were gently separated from their dead. Walking staves became the poles of litters. The mortally wounded were given fatal injections of extract of poppy, except the Baasgarta. The medics simply slit their throats and moved on.

“Deandra!” she heard a voice call. She had just finished tending one of the last of the wounded. She felt soul-sick and exhausted. She waved tiredly to Engvyr and Taarven as they rode up. She and Engvyr embraced, then separated again more quickly than either would have liked. She wanted to cry, to babble, to tell him what she had seen and done but she had no words. She looked deep into his eyes and knew that they were not needed.

“Well,” Taarven said, “I don't think they'll try that again anytime soon. There must be nigh a hundred of them dead.”

She looked up and saw Ynghilda had ridden up next to Taarven. For all that the dwarves had made a good account of themselves they had lost several times that number. The Steadholder's face might have been hewn from ice as she stood over the remains of so many of her folk, staring after the goblins. Deandra’s heart went out to the older woman. Hundreds of Ynghilda's people, people that she had known, had loved all dead in minutes. She couldn't imagine what the older woman was feeling.

Following the direction of her gaze Deandra saw that the Baasgarta cavalry had pulled up about four hundred paces away, beyond the reach of the soldiers' smooth-bore weapons. Two companies of infantry had formed up between the cavalry and the column of refugees.

Ynghilda said, “Just out of range, they figure. Engvyr, shall we teach them different?”

“With pleasure,” he said as he stepped to his pony and unsheathed his long-rifle. He loaded the weapon and peered at the enemy, then carefully adjusted his sights and shouldered the gun.

“Ready,” he told Ynghilda, “See the banner-man? You take him; I'll take the fella on the left.”

Ynghilda raised the big 12-bore to her shoulder and aimed.

“Got him.”

“Shoot,” Engvyr said and their rifles spoke almost as one. The targeted pair were hammered from their saddles. There was confusion among the Baasgarta and they quickly moved off another few hundred paces.

“Well, that was pointless,” said Ynghilda, “But ever so satisfying.”

“It bought us a bit more breathing room at least,” Taarven said.

Horns sounded again up and down the line as the sergeants shouted, “Ten minutes, people! Moving out in ten minutes!”

“Well, no rest for the wicked,” Ynghilda said. She touched hands briefly with Taarven and moved off towards the end of the column. Engvyr kissed Deandra and mounted his pony.

“I guess we'd best be about our business as well. Stay safe, love,” he said, meeting and holding her gaze for a long moment.

“You too. Both of you.”

They touched their hat-brims in farewell and rode off. She sighed heavily as she recovered her soiled, bloody ruck-sack and joined the reforming column. Soldiers were piling up their dead to one side of the road and her eyes shied away from the grisly sight.

They marched away from the site of the slaughter in a much tighter order than before, screened by the infantry now marching on their flank. Deandra took her turns carrying the litters or carrying small children for the dwarves.

She looked back and saw a thick cloud of dense black smoke rising into the sky from the piled dead. She should not be able to see the flames from this distance but the smoke near the pile was shot through with yellow-white flames. Work of the battlemages she supposed. At any rate their dead would not fill goblin stomachs tonight.

Not long after that there was a cry that traveled up the long column, and she turned to see. People were pointing into the distance where a dark column of the main body of the Baasgarta army had come into sight across the valley. People stopped to stare as rank after rank emerged from behind a shallow hill. A murmur of alarm rippled up and down the column, then the sergeants started shouting to keep moving.

The ground rose faster now and the hills began to close in from the sides. They would reach the pass itself just ahead of the oncoming army, but what then? The infantry would be able to hold the superior Baasgarta force for some time, but eventually their sheer numbers would allow them to press forward. As the pass narrowed to a mere hundred feet it seemed strangely unfamiliar, the sides steeper and covered in more brush than she remembered. Silly, she chided herself, you've been this way but the once, and that many years ago.

She heard volleys from the massed guns of the infantry battalion behind them now. The hail of bullets must be murderous in the narrow pass but the Baasgarta pressed forward. The volleys degenerated into sporadic shots as the goblins closed in and the Dwarves were forced to engage with pikes and bayonets.

The pass narrowed further as they climbed and the exhausted refugees began to quicken their steps. The sound of battle grew louder, becoming a roar that filled the pass. Suddenly Deandra realized that they were over the top and starting to descend. The walls of the pass opened out rapidly as the ground fell away before her. A line of soldiers stood across the road and were steering the column of refugees to the side. That's odd, she thought, I didn't realize they had sent so many soldiers ahead…

Deandra saw Grael Makepeace engaged in conversation with an army officer. Other members of the militia were gathered a little further down the road. She left the refugee column and walked over to Grael, wondering what was happening.

“It's almost time,” the officer said to Grael as she approached, “If you could form your people up on either side of the pass the infantry can retreat between them if need be.”

Grael nodded, and began yelling instructions down the hill to the militia. Deandra’s heart fell as she realized the infantry were being pushed back though the pass. These soldiers and the militia were preparing a last stand, but once the Baasgarta got out onto open ground they would spread out and crush them with sheer numbers before turning on the refugees. We have lost after all, she thought. But neither the officer nor Grael acted like men preparing a suicidal last stand, and the soldiers seemed relaxed as they unslung their rifles.

Rifles?!

The soldiers were carrying long-rifles like the one Engvyr used. She looked at them sharply and realized these troops weren't part of the heavy infantry company from the valley. Examining them more closely she saw that they all had a stylized number three on their shoulders picked out in blood-red thread. They were from the elite 3rd Rifles- her husband's old regiment!

Grael spotted her and said, “Good, you’re armed, come with me.”

They joined the closest group of militia at the side of the road just as a company of heavy infantry trotted out of the pass and broke into two, setting up next to the militia. She looked for more of the 3rd regiment troopers, but saw only a small group of them on the other side of the road. These soldiers carried carbines slung over their backs and wore no breastplates. They were standing in a circle and didn't seem to be doing anything at all. Battlemages? She wondered.

Suddenly a new noise intruded over the increasingly near roar of battle, echoing through the pass. Wham. Wham. Wham. Every two seconds like a massive, beating heart. She realized it was the sound of rifles, thousands of them, being fired in volleys on the other side of the pass. The 3rd must be dug-in on the slopes above the road! She realized, that was why it had looked different than I remembered.

After a minute she could hear volleys from slug-guns, much nearer, joining in. When the heavy infantry troops that had just left the pass formed up and marched right back in Grael gave out a whoop and clapped her on the shoulder in his excitement.

“They whipped, em', Boys!” he shouted. The militia on both sides of the road took up the cheer and filed after the infantry as she joined them, walking back the way they had come. Within two-hundred paces they came to the last position held by the rear-guard of the refugee column. Scores of wounded and dead infantry littered the sides of the pass. Medics tended to the living as they could while others laid out the dead.

They held them, she thought numbly, they stopped the Baasgarta cold, right here. But Lord and Lady, the cost…

She looked down the pass. It was an abattoir, literally carpeted with the bodies of dead Baasgarta, sometimes two deep. Deandra took a deep breath and with an almost physical effort shoved her shock and horror aside. Slinging the Big 14 she turned back to do what she might for the living.

Chapter Twenty-One

“The battle of Cougar Creek Pass was one of the most stunningly successful ambushes in history. Of the two regiments of Baasgarta that entered the pass barely twelve-hundred of them made it out alive

and then only because of the approach of two intact regiments. Rather than launching the expected assault the Baasgarta dug and seemed content to hold our forces while they consolidated their hold on the Makepeace Valley.

Or so we thought… “

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

It was well after dark when Deandra made it to the refugee camp. The 3rd Rifles had left their tents in place, taking only their individual tarps for shelter in the earthworks they were constructing to guard the mouth of the pass. This camp was much like the ones that the 2nd Battalion had built near the palisade, only on a vastly larger scale. The terrain did not allow for the neat squares but the similarity was obvious. Row after row of five-man tents, communal mess tents and hospital tents covered most of the available space in the high, narrow valley south of the pass. The area had enough room to accommodate the survivors from the refugee column, especially after the cavalry attack.

A family of miners had a largish hame about a league from the summit with three sets of apartments off of the large common room. The residents had crowded into two of the apartments and generously offered up the common room and third apartment for Ynghilda to use as a command center. She had left word for Deandra to join her there.

As Deandra made her way through the encampment she could hear the quiet sounds of grief as the refugees mourned their dead. Occasionally an argument broke out around her as people debated who would occupy which tents. As she passed a mess tent she could see that the regiment had left their cooks as well, for they bustled about inside even at this hour. The smell of food and baking bread wafted out through the open side flaps. A growling stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten since before dawn but she did not stop. She feared that if she did she would not be able to continue after.

At length she arrived at the hame. A stream of people were constantly coming and going through the doorway. She squeezed past them and found a quiet corner to set down her things. Ynghilda was busy speaking to people, issuing orders, settling disputes. She looks as tired as I feel, Deandra thought. The older woman glanced over and caught her eye, nodding in greeting. She waved back weakly.

Someone brought her a bowl of soup from the large cauldron warming at the hearth and she ate greedily. She was polishing the bowl with a piece of bread when Ynghilda approached.

“What news?” Ynghilda asked.

“Well, I can tell what I heard while I was tending the wounded,” Deandra said, “Apparently the 3rd Rifles and the 1st Mounted Infantry caught the Baasgarta between them. It was nearly a massacre.”

“The 1st Mounted Infantry? Where did they come from?” asked Ynghilda.

Deandra shrugged, and said, “They say that they came in from the east and cut the Baasgarta off once they were in the pass. I gather that the Baasgarta would have been wiped out if another two regiments of goblins hadn't come along. They had to let the trapped ones break out so that the 1st and 3rd could join-up to face the new force. They're digging in now with the enemy doing the same opposite them.”

“And 2nd Battalion?” the older woman asked, with concern that Deandra understood too well. Over the months that they had been stationed in the Makepeace Valley the soldiers of the 2nd Battalion of the 4th Heavy Infantry had become 'their' soldiers.

Deandra’s face fell.

“Casualties were very heavy. The rest of the regiment is moving up to reinforce us, they say. The 2nd's remaining troops will probably be dispersed to other units.”

“And the Major?” Ynghilda asked.

“Injured, but they expect that he will live,” Deandra said.

“Well, that's something at least,” Ynghilda said, then looked at her with concern, “You're just about falling over where you sit, child. The bedroom on the right is empty. Get yourself some sleep. If Engvyr shows up I'll send him along.”

It took no persuading for Deandra to do as she was told, though she did remind the older woman that she needed sleep as well. Ynghilda acknowledged this but shooed her away and returned to work.

– **-

In the days that followed the Battle of Cougar Creek Pass Deandra found herself falling into the role of Ynghilda's assistant and second in command. No one ever officially designated her as such; she just took on the role because it needed to be done and everyone, Ynghilda included, accepted it.

Engvyr was running messages to and from Ghost Creek Station so she needed to fill her time and there was plenty to be done. At first she simply ran errands, fetching people to see Ynghilda or conveying instructions to them. But before long people were stopping her and asking her for advice or decisions on small matters and in no time at all her authority was accepted without question. When she returned to the make-shift command center she would report these decisions to Ynghilda, who simply included them in her own policies and planning.

Despite having the camp ready and waiting for them and the army's superb organization there were still a million details to attend to. Schedules needed to set up for the dining tents, keeping the rows between tents clear, getting supplies distributed to those in need. Honestly, she thought, how could it not occur to people to bring their own blankets?

Then there were the disputes to be settled. Dwarves were not naturally contentious but the stress of their circumstances made them querulous, and when they could not settle things among themselves someone had to arbitrate between them. Deandra comforted herself that any such thing she could settle lightened Ynghilda's work load.

As the days went by the residents slowly settled into their temporary life. The more settled and orderly it became the more the dwarfs were inclined to be reasonable and even charitable with one another, which made things easier for everyone.

Five days after the battle and the mountain still smells like death, Deandra thought. They were standing on a ledge high up the mountain, looking down at the pass and the earthworks at the base. Two regiments of Baasgarta were settled in, blocking access to the valley.

Karrumph! The distant blast echoed off of the hills.

“That was blasting powder. Dammit,” said Ynghilda, “what the hell are they up to?”

“Nothing good,” said Engvyr, “They could be improving the trails to bring in more troops, or blasting down rock to make barracks or fortifications, damming a stream… there's just no way to tell.”

“Well, whatever they're doing they've been going at it for days,” Taarven said.

Deandra could see three farmhames from their perch and all appeared to be intact, at least from this distance.

“Odd,” she mused, “I had thought that they would burn the farmhames and the crops. Isn't that what armies do in a war?”

“Apparently not in this case,” said Ynghilda, “They sent a cavalry patrol through the first night, checking for survivors and perhaps looting. Might be they have plans for those structures.”

“Funny thing is, that's the only activity we've seen, aside from these boys,” Engvyr said, gesturing to the Baasgarta earthworks. “I expected they would reinforce them by now, or start building a real fortification. We're missing something here. These guys aren't acting like an invading army.”

Deandra was no expert on military matters, but something Engvyr said tickled at her brain.

“Maybe… maybe they aren't an invading army,” she said, “Not as such, anyway.”

The others turned to look at her. She took a moment to organize her thoughts then continued.

“We've been assuming that the Baasgarta want our lands, but what if they don't? What if they want something else?”

“You know,” said Engvyr, “She might be on to something there. We've been assuming that we just bumped up against a hostile nation bent on conquest. But maybe we're looking at this thing sideways.”

“It makes sense,” Taarven said thoughtfully, “If they're not acting like an invading army, then what are they acting like?”

“Well, run it down,” said Ynghilda, “They move in and drive us out, bottle us up and start digging. They make no attempt to occupy the valley and they don't reinforce their troops even though they have to know that we will be. It's like they don't expect to stay indefinitely, or even for very long.”

“So maybe they don't,” Deandra said, “Perhaps they simply want something here and plan to get it and leave again.”

“But what could possibly be here that is worth going to war over?” asked Ynghilda, “They have to know that we won't simply let them walk away.”

“That's what you boys are going to find out,” Berryc said as he approached the group, “Provided that you can find a way into the valley?”

“Well,” said Taarven, “Engvyr and I have studied on that some and it can be done. Might be better to go afoot than to take ponies, though. It's a lot easier for a man on foot to remain unnoticed.”

“Harder to run away though,” Berryc pointed out. Deandra’s mouth went dry at the thought of Taarven and her husband on foot being pursued by Baasgarta cavalry. Engvyr caught her look of concern and shrugged.

“I'll not downplay the risks,” he said, “In the end it's a balance. In this case I think that stealth trumps speed.”

“Well, I'll be sending out every ranger willing to go,” said Berryc, “and I'll not second-guess their methods. But we need hard information and we need it fast. Whatever the Baasgarta are doing out there they aren't working on our timetable.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“The Baasgarta had kidnapped some of our folk and killed and eaten others. We had no way of knowing that this barely scratched the surface of their depravity and evil.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Squirrel was a Ratter for his mining crew. It took fast hands, a quick mind and he had been on the job for four years. He was valued because having a good ratter meant that you always had a little meat in the pot at the end of your shift.

He had heard the rumors about the new dwarves. Crazy rumors, really. That they dressed like the Masters, wore no brands, spoke gibberish and were taller than his own people. He had tried to do as the elders said and not think about it but Squirrel had never been good at not thinking about things. How could there be such a thing? The Braell were the only dwarves, everyone knew this. They belonged to the Masters and always had. But everyone also knew that The Pit and The Farms were all there was in the world, Squirrel thought, Yet here we are.

Weeks ago many crews had been brought forth from The Pit and set on the road. They had been quietly joyous, for they must be going to The Farms. After all there was nowhere else. But instead they had marched for days. Those that sickened or faltered were killed, food for the Masters.

At length they came to this place where there was neither Pit nor Farm and were ordered to dig. There were no rats for Squirrel to chase so he helped the crew moving dirt. They slept at night huddled together under their blankets in the lee of the pile of dirt. It was boring work and it left Squirrel with much time to reflect.

On the journey he had seen many strange and wondrous things. Some of them he had heard of, like trees. They had seen streams, rivers and mountains. Animals that were not ulvgaed but looked much the same, with coats of white and brown instead of all black. He had seen something else too: The Masters had lied to them. This was the thing he could not make himself not think about.

All of his life Squirrel had been told that Dwarves were born into this world to pay for a great sin they had committed against God in a previous life. Here they must labor to make up for that sin. It was a world of Pit and Farm. Those with the greatest sin were born into The Pit. Others whose sin was less were born to The Farms, where they grew food for all. But if the Pit and the Farm being all the world was a lie what else might be?

After a week of digging the dwarves had long since cleared away the earth. With the Masters using their magic to break up the rock, work was progressing quickly. He decided that it was time to see these new dwarves for himself. He simply walked along the edge of the newly forming pit, past the crews until he was not in a direct line of sight of the dwarves and Masters. Being but twelve years old he had not yet been given the leg-cut that restricted his elders to short steps, so he was able to quickly dart among the trees.

He did not know this sort of environment, but four years as a ratter had taught him plenty about stealth. The thick carpet of needles fallen from the trees was a good surface for sneaking, and he moved quickly from tree to tree, always watching to insure that all heads were turned away from him whenever he moved.

At length he came within sight of the Master's encampment. There, past the tents and cooking-fires he saw them and felt a tide of excitement rising within him. Dwarves like him, yet like no dwarves he had ever seen. They were bound hand and foot but he could see that they bore no brands across their cheeks. If their shoulders were branded it was hidden beneath their clothes. They were indeed dressed like Masters, or similarly at least, for they wore great-cotes, trousers and boots. The hair and beards of the men were long, not cropped short in the way of his own people.

He watched them hungrily, absorbing every detail about them. By their very existence they proved the lie of his life and everything he had been told. There were Dwarven Masters! He did not yet know what this meant, or what he should do. In one stroke his world was changed forever.

“What are you doing here?”

He had been so caught up he had not noticed a Master approaching him from behind. He spun to face him and was knocked to the ground by a backhand blow. His mind spun off into panic- he could not imagine what his punishment would be for this, but it would be severe. The Master reached for him and Squirrel instinctively kicked out, his foot catching him in the groin.

He scrambled away desperately as the goblin folded up gasping in agony. He'd first been caught, then had done the unimaginable. He had struck a master! Panic took over and he fled blindly, away from the digging, the camp and the Masters.

He did not know how long he ran. When he slowed to catch his breath he heard the horns sounding behind him and he panicked again, running until he thought his lungs would burst. Suddenly he was trying to run in mid-air. He barely had time to register the white-water rushing towards him and hold his breath before he hit.

The river swept him along, dashing him against rocks with bruising force, turning him over and over in its current. He snatched a breath when he could, only to have it driven from his lungs by the impact with the next boulder. He heard his left arm crack and pain spiked through him. Finally he was able to struggle to the surface and float along, taking great tearing gasps of breath. The current was still strong but he was able to make his way over to the far bank and lay collapsed against it, gasping. Pain pulsed from his arm. He was sure that it was broken.

Pulling himself up the bank with his good arm, he tucked the other into his shirt to support it and tried to think what to do. Returning to the dig was out of the question, but where should he go? The early autumn air was still warm, in the daytime at least, but he had no food, nor any idea where to get some with his arm hurt. The only thing that he could think to do was to get as far away from the Masters as possible. They had come here from the north, so he would go south.

Perhaps he could find the dwarven Masters? Perhaps they would take pity on him. It was a thin thread of hope but it was all he had. He pulled himself to his feet and began to move through the trees, away from the river. He looked around and established his bearings, then moved off to the south. He moved cautiously at first, darting from tree to tree and looking around carefully before moving on. But as time went by he moved with less caution. He couldn't stop staring at everything. Trees, birds, plants… he'd never seen them so close up, or so many of them.

He was so preoccupied he almost walked straight into a pair of Masters on ulvgaed on the trail ahead of him. He froze instantly when he spotted them and then eased behind a bush, watching them intently. He waited for them to leave but they seemed to be in no hurry, simply sitting patiently and waiting. He knew from years of hunting rats that the eye is drawn to movement, so he held perfectly still as their eyes passed over his hiding spot. He was tempted to back away and try to sneak off but he knew this game too well.

A horn sounded behind him and to his right. The Masters looked, then turned their mounts and rode in that direction. As soon as they were out of sight he darted across the trail and hurried on. When he heard the horn again it was much nearer and he began to run. Down a wooded slope, across a stream and along the edge of another, steeper slope.

He heard an excited shout to his left and drumming hooves. In fresh panic he turned away and slid down the hill on his bottom, bouncing off a tree. Losing control he rolled the rest of the way down. He bit back a scream at the savage jolts of pain from his broken arm. Coming to a stop he realized he was on a trail and staggered to his feet. Hearing a crashing from behind, he looked back to see a rider come down the slope in a shower of displaced rocks and dirt. Squirrel tripped and found himself lying on his back, unable to catch his breath.

The ulvgaed leaped towards him as the Master riding the creature sawed at the reins to hold it back. The goblin grinned cruelly as he raised his horn to signal the other hunters. But before the rider could sound the alert he was swept from the saddle in a spray of blood by a red-headed dwarf with a two-handed axe. The ulvgaed wheeled and lunged but the dwarf spun the axe to stab the iron-shod butt into its teeth as another dwarf hurtled forward and sank a long, broad-bladed knife into the back of its neck. The ulvgaed fell and the second dwarf turned to look at the boy as he wrenched his knife free.

Bright blue eyes locked on his as the dwarf spoke, but the boy could make no sense of it and shook his head, terrified of the fierce blood-spattered figure before him. Then the dwarf with the axe said something. The other shot a quick glance at him and nodded. He sheathed his bloody blade then snatched Squirrel to his feet by his good arm. As the dwarf threw him over his shoulder pain, shock and exhaustion overcame the boy and he passed out.

He came to himself slowly with dim memories of being carried. He remembered being thrown to the ground and the sounds of fighting, followed by more jolting and pain. There had been conversations that he could not understand as he passed in and out of consciousness.

When he opened his eyes he beheld the tallest woman that he had ever seen. She was pretty though startlingly thin, and her eyes were full of concern. She spoke to him and while he couldn't understand the words he could tell it was a question. He sat up on the pallet he'd been laying on and scrabbled away from her, his back to the wall as his eyes locked on hers. She reached out slowly and gently touched the brand on his cheek, then turned to speak to someone else. He looked around the room and saw the blue-eyed dwarf standing near a doorway, and an older woman wearing a shirt of metal links sitting in a chair nearby. Candles lit the stone room and he realized that he was warm. The pallet was soft beneath him, as was the blanket that he'd displaced when he sat up.

He hurt all over and his arm throbbed with a dull ache. The break had been splinted and was bound tightly against his body under a clean shirt of finely woven fabric that reached to below his knees. The tall, kind-eyed woman patted his good shoulder gently and stepped away to talk to the others.

He had found them, the dwarven Masters! Or rather they had found him. He did not know where he was but he slowly relaxed. Clearly they meant him no harm and it came to him that he was safe. He shook with reaction and tears began to flow, then he was sobbing uncontrollably. He felt strong arms gather him up and hold him while he cried, pouring out the accumulated fear, the stress of his flight and injury. Finally he lapsed into exhausted slumber.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“We like to say that you can't break a dwarf's spirit, and that is even true of some. But the Baasgarta had found that they could twist that spirit, turn it back against us so that we forged and were held by chains of the same spirit that had made us indomitable. In many ways this was the worst of their crimes against Dwarves. “

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

“At first we thought he was someone's child that was missed in the evacuation, but the scars on his cheek and shoulder tell a different story,” Engvyr said, “When the Baasgarta caught him, well, what else could we do?”

Master Ranger Berryc waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh you did right, there's no doubt a ‘that,” he said, “I've a feeling that the lad in yonder room is a key to this whole affair. It'd be nice if we could talk to him.”

“Well, even if we can suss out his speech it's going to be a while,” Deandra said briskly as she emerged from the room where the boy was being kept, “He's traumatized, exhausted and finally sleeping. It's a miracle that he hasn't already taken a fever so I'll thank you not to disturb him until he wakes.”

Engvyr smiled at her tone of command and extended a hand to her, which she took as she moved to stand close to his chair. He felt a thrill at her touch and comfort in her nearness. Besotted, he thought with a grin, that's the word. She squeezed his hand as if sensing his thought. With an effort he returned his attention to the conversation.

“It sounds to me almost like the old tongue,” Engvyr said, “or a dialect of it anyway. I'm just not familiar enough to say.”

Ynghilda nodded agreement and said, “It seemed so to me, too. I've sent to the camp for Harryl Gymlison. He learned the old tongue as a student in Ironhame, so if it is a dialect he's got the best chance to figure it out of anyone local.”

“In the meantime it seems likely to me that the boy is an escapee from the Baasgarta,” Said Colonel Oakes, commander of the 3rd Rifles, “I can't really see where else he might have come from.”

Ynghilda nodded, “They've been taking our folk. We've suspected they might be keeping them for slaves, but this boy isn't one of our own. Might be from somewhere else along the North taken years back but I don’t know anywhere they speak that tongue. That'd mean the Baasgarta have been taking dwarves for a lot longer than we thought. Hell, he might even have been born there.”

“Well,” said the Colonel, rising to depart, “We're not likely to figure it out by jawing over it all night. I need to get back to the camp. If'n you're able to find out anything be so kind as to send a rider to fetch me there.”

He nodded to them all and departed.

“The boy is likely to sleep through the night,” Deandra said, “I'll set with him so he doesn't wake alone.”

She kissed Engvyr good night and he watched her go with regret. They were newlyweds after all, and had gotten to spend precious little time together since the war started. Ynghilda also retired, Taarven in tow. Taarven scowled at Engvyr, daring him to comment but he just grinned. With a sigh he settled himself deeper into his chair by the fire and closed his eyes.

“What's the news?” the Colonel inquired as he entered.

Engvyr rose and poured the officer a cup of coffee and said, “Nothing yet. The boy's eaten and they've been in there an hour or more. They sent for you as soon as that fella’ figured out that he could talk to the boy, after a fashion at least.”

“Might as well pull up a chair,” Berryc told him, “No telling how long they'll be at it.”

Not that much longer, as it turned out. Ynghilda and Taarven emerged. They both appeared shaken by what they had heard. Ynghilda held up a hand to forestall their questions and fetched herself a cup of coffee. Taarven waved off Engvyr's questioning look and went outside.

Ynghilda settled herself into a chair and collected her thoughts before she spoke.

“First thing the boy did when he could make himself understood,” she told them, “was to beg us to be his new masters, and to tell us he was the best rat-catcher on his crew.”

The implications of that simple statement sank in quickly and the colonel began to swear softly. Engvyr felt his own fists clench in reflexive fury.

Ynghilda noted their reactions and continued, “He was a slave of the Baasgarta alright, but it's worse than we guessed. He was born to it as his folk have been from time out of mind. Seems like those goblin bastards have done a better job keeping dwarves as slaves than The Master ever figured out how to do.”

They heard someone chopping wood outside. It sounded like he was trying to kill the logs, not just split firewood. Taarven, at a guess. Nothing in the world would anger any dwarf as much as the idea of his folk being enslaved again.

“Seems they teach 'em from the time they can talk that they are being punished for sins in their past lives. The Baasgarta have made a religion of it, and by the time they're old enough to work they think it's no better than they deserve.”

They all digested that in silence for a moment.

“Anyway, weeks back they brought a bunch of them here, to a gully up north and set them to digging for something. The boy, his name is Squirrel, by the way, didn't know what they were looking for but it seemed almighty important to the Baasgarta.”

“How many are they, could he tell you that?” asked the Colonel.

“From what the boy told us there are several hundred slaves and maybe a couple battalions of Baasgarta,” Ynghilda said. She thought a moment, a disturbed expression on her face, then continued, “I think that for the moment we'd best keep this among ourselves. We don't need folk getting' in a bother and haring off after them on their own, and once this becomes common knowledge you know they'll want to do just that.”

Engvyr understood completely; he was almost overwhelmed by the desire to do something, anything, right now. Wait…

“Uh, brought them here? From where?” Engvyr asked.

Ynghilda scowled and said, “A place called the Pit, deep inside the Baasgarta kingdom. Apparently there are two types of slaves- farmers and miners. There are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of enslaved dwarves in their lands.”

Berryc swore with rage that they all understood and shared.

“We're going to have to keep ahead of this thing, alright. We also need to get word to Ironhame; this is going to mean a general mobilization. More immediately was the boy able to give you any clue as to where this dig-site is?” the Colonel asked.

“Well, bein' as he had no clue as to what a map was he could only describe it. There's a gully up in the northeast edge of the valley that people avoid, think its haunted or some such. I can't be sure but it sounds like the place,” Ynghilda said.

They consulted over her maps of the valley for some time, but finally decided that they must wait at least a few days for more of the rangers to report in before moving. It would not do to give in to their rage, act prematurely and find themselves blindsided by an unexpected force.

“That may also give time for the 4th Heavy Infantry to arrive,” The colonel said, “They have been sent up to reinforce us and to help force a breakout when the time comes. Looks like that time may have come sooner than any of us expected…”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“We had expected the usual sort of war. Basically we would fight the Baasgarta and eventually achieve some sort of balance and a negotiated peace. But after news of the slaves got out that was all dust in the wind. This would be a war of eradication, if not of the Baasgarta as a people then certainly of their culture. The dwarves of Dvargatil Baeg would not rest while a single one of their brothers or sisters labored under the lash of slave-masters.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

As the first blush of light touched the sky the dwarves of the 1st Mounted Infantry regiment fixed bayonets and prepared for the assault on the Baasgarta. They were outnumbered two to one and their enemies were in prepared positions. Worse yet even the light repeating crossbows favored by the Baasgarta had a longer effective range than the infantry's slug-guns. The dwarves didn't care. They were mad as hell and by the Lord and Lady they were going to crush the goblins. They were not so mad that discipline failed; their commanders had told them enough in advance so that the first flush of rage had passed. Now they were coldly angry and determined.

The soldier's slug-guns had an effective range against an individual target of about a hundred paces, but firing en mass against a target as large as the goblin's defensive works two hundred paces was not excessive. They opened the attack with a volley while the pike men rose from the trenches and moved forward. Their pikes were useless for this sort of work so they advanced behind pavises, large rectangular shields simply made of planks. These were designed to provide cover for the advancing gunners. They were proof against the lighter weapons of the Baasgarta and would at least provide some protection against their heavy crossbows.

The pavise-bearers took four paces forward and grounded their shields. The first rank of gunners moved up behind them and fired another volley. Then the next rank of shields leap-frogged them while the gunners reloaded and their own gunners volleyed. This process was repeated by the following ranks over and over, allowing the advancing ranks to maintain almost continuous fire as they moved quickly across the field between the opposing earthworks. It also spread the damage among the ranks so no single group absorbed more punishment than the others.

Crossbow bolts hammered into them, occasionally piercing the shields. The closer they got to the goblin lines the more accurate the soldier’s fire became, but the same was true of their enemies and more dwarves began to fall. Reaching the rows of spikes on the berms that sheltered the enemy they cleared them by the simple expedient of chopping at them with the lower edge of their shields. This and the rising slope of the berm exposed them to enemy fire and the first ranks of infantry were decimated. Despite this the others pushed forward until they crested the berms and the gunners went to work with their bayonets. The pike-men abandoned their pavises as they drew their shortswords and bucklers.

Once the two armies came to grips the goblins surged forward. Shooting with slug-guns or crossbows became a chancy thing. The dwarven soldiers fought in good order with iron discipline as the Baasgarta washed against them, fighting savagely but with little coordination. The dwarves had taken casualties advancing on the goblins despite their skill. Now the superior numbers of the Baasgarta and the obstacles of their defensive works began to tell on the attackers.

Far behind the lines an officer lowered the spyglass and said, “It's time.”

The dwarf next to him raised a horn and blew a short musical phrase. Other horns picked up the call and passed it along. At the top of the pass a soldier heard the call and directed his shuttered lantern into the mouth of a great tunnel that had recently been opened by the engineers. Far below in the depths of the mountain another light flashed in response. Within minutes of the command from the officer on the mountain, the word was received.

Battlemages can usually detect blasting powder and detonate it before it can be of any use in a fight, but they have to be looking for it. If the Baasgarta had battlemages, they were not looking for the explosives beneath the solid rock of the hillside eight-hundred paces away from their defensive positions. As a result they were as shocked as anyone when the side of the hill erupted in a burst of shattered stone and debris. The Baasgarta stared as the cloud of smoke and dust began to dissipate, replaced by a cavernous hole in the slope. Within moments figures began to emerge. Row after row of dwarves marched out and formed ranks, advancing even as their formations came together. The 3rd Rifles had joined the fight.

As Engvyr had surmised so many years before, the mountains were laced with tunnels. Called the Secret Ways, these tunnels were mostly sealed and cunningly hidden, there to be used at need. The time had arrived, and the blind end of the tunnel was blown out to provide access to the valley.

At four hundred paces the advancing force opened fire on the enemy formations. Volleying by ranks they maintained continuous fire on the goblins. They did not rely on pavises, advancing instead behind a wall of flying lead. Return fire was sparse, most of the Baasgarta having abandoned their crossbows to join the melee. As the dwarves approached, those that did fire on them found themselves cut to pieces as dozens of rifles targeted them. The 3rd Rifles extended their lines as they advanced, curling behind the Baasgarta positions. At the same time the rear ranks of the 1st Mounted Infantry shifted west, opening fire as they cleared their own formations.

The Baasgarta had oriented their defensive works facing the pass so they were largely exposed to the fire of the riflemen. Each volley that crashed into their ranks killed scores, and the added fire from the Heavy Infantry killed still more. The goblins tried to turn to face the new threats on their flanks but it was hopeless. The heavy slugs tore through shields, armor and soldiers. It was too much. The Baasgarta broke and tried to flee between the flanking forces. The main body of the 1st Regiment followed after, savaging them with bayonets and point-blank fire. The fleeing goblins leading the rout ran straight into the withering crossfire of the flankers. Less than an hour after the detonation on the hillside the battle was over, the Baasgarta forces annihilated. The few hundred of them that escaped into the woods and low hills of the valley would be no threat for some time to come.

The horns sounded again and the pursuit of the fleeing goblins broke off. Wagons of ammunition and supplies rolled down from the pass as the 1st and 3rd reformed their ranks. The Militia emerged from the pass and dispersed in pursuit of the fleeing Baasgarta. A large body of the refugees from the valley began tending the wounded and separating the bodies of the dead.

The 1st had taken heavy casualties. Nearly a third of their strength was dead or out of action but they reformed and rearmed over the course of the morning. The 3rd Rifles had fared much better as they had never closed with the Baasgarta.

By noon the troops had rested and reformed, even had a hot meal. They were ready to march on the reported location of the pit mine.

As soon as the last ranks of the 3rd Rifles were clear of the tunnel exit a dozen rangers mounted up and spurred their ponies into the open air, followed by four companies of mounted skirmishers. Where the infantry had turned left on leaving the tunnel the mounted unit turned right. Engvyr and the others spurred their ponies into a canter to clear the way more quickly. Looking back he saw some confusion in the ranks of the skirmishers. It's only to be expected, he thought, seeing as they are used to working by platoons, not in near-battalion strength.

In fact they got themselves sorted out in a commendably short time, all things considered. If the formation lacked the precision of the Mounted Infantry that could be excused. Engvyr had been a skirmisher himself during his second hitch in the 3rd rifles. In addition to sniping and small-unit raiding they were as close to cavalry as the dwarven army got; like the Mountain Guard's rangers they mostly carried repeating carbines. While these were not nearly as powerful or as long-ranged as the big rifles they could easily be cocked while mounted. About a third of the skirmishers did carry long-rifles, but like Engvyr they mostly kept them scabbarded on their saddles.

The location had been confirmed by Ranger Harryl and his partner just days before. The force of skirmishers was on it's way to rescue the slaves before word of the break-out reached the Baasgarta troops guarding the dig. There was some thought that the goblins might kill the slaves if they felt that they had to withdraw in a hurry.

Berryc signaled them to slow to a trot to allow the formation to close up. The Master Ranger was in charge of the expedition until they reached the dig-site, after which the commander of the skirmishers would take over. Engvyr knew that things would not go as smoothly as any of them would like; it was a scratch force of small units that were not trained to work as a larger group. They simply had to trust that it would work well enough.

There had been considerable argument as to whether to send the skirmishers. Some had argued that the Mounted Infantry should be tasked with the mission, and there was much to recommend the idea. But that would have meant pulling them out of the defensive works, and then there was the matter of the Baasgarta Cavalry still at large in the valley. In the end that had been the deciding factor, that if it came to it the skirmishers could fight a cavalry engagement and the Mounted Infantry could not.

When the riders had closed up enough Berryc signaled them to canter again. They would try to alternately canter, trot and walk their mounts to make the best time that they could. The problem was it took time for the signal to travel the length of the formation so the group would first become strung out, then the rear ranks would hurry to catch up. When the signal to trot was given the rear ranks would be slower to respond and almost run over the leading ranks. They tried, they really did, but it soon became apparent that it was hopeless. They just weren't trained for this sort of mass maneuvering. Berryc gave up and settled them into a trot.

They stopped briefly at midday to water the horses before continuing. The dwarves ate in the saddle, biscuits with cheese and bacon baked into them washed down with sips from their canteens. Practice was improving their formations as well, but Engvyr thought it was wise of Berryc not to trust that and keep them to a single gait.

The Baasgarta cavalry found them about an hour after their watering stop. They spilled from behind a grove of trees in a mass and slowed to a crawl, spreading out into a rough line facing the dwarves.

Engvyr was close enough to the Master Ranger to hear him mutter, “What the hell are they playing at?” He signaled the dwarves to spread out as well.

Engvyr understood his confusion; while the dwarves did not bother with cavalry they understood the methods and tactics. The goblins had just done perhaps the worst thing possible. Far better to have made the most of their surprise appearance by charging the dwarves in an unruly mob. With the dwarves grouped only a fraction of them would have been able to fire on the charging force for fear of hitting their own riders. The Baasgarta, armed with lances and hand-weapons would have massacred the dwarves once they got among them. Instead by virtually stopping their advance to form lines they allowed the dwarves to form their own lines and meet them with their entire combined fire.

That, thought Engvyr, was a serious mistake.

It had been decided that they would stand and receive the charge rather than trying to maneuver against their foes. Given how poorly they'd done so far today Engvyr thought that was a good idea. They had no lances and their wood-knives weren't a very good weapon for mounted combat. Better that they respond with their strength: accurate, disciplined fire. Once their lines were spread out the skirmishers demonstrated the main difference between their carbines and those of the rangers. On command they hit a release on the fore-stock and a nine-inch spring-loaded spike bayonet snapped into position.

The Baasgarta line began to advance at a walk. Their line wavered and seemed to ripple as they came. They're really not much better at this than we are! Engvyr thought with surprise. Either that or their carnivorous mounts simply did not respond with the precision that horses or ponies would. The thought of their mounts, the ulvgaed, made the ranger shudder slightly. He was not the only one thinking about them.

“Remember,” shouted Berryc, “Aim for the mounts! You don't want to be fighting them hand-to-hand!”

Engvyr was a veteran and had survived many a tough situation. But sitting here on his pony watching the inexorable advance of their foes was hard on the nerves. The Baasgarta were three hundred paces away now and still approaching at a walk. Two hundred and fifty and they were still walking. Engvyr could hear the ulvgaed snarling and issuing short barks. Two-hundred and twenty paces and the dwarves raised their weapons and aimed.

“What the hell are they doing?” asked Berryc, echoing Engvyr's thought, “They should be at a full charge by now!”

When facing an opponent armed with long-range weapons cavalry need to close the distance as quickly as possible to give the enemy less time to fire on them. But the Baasgarta were walking their mounts right into range. Lord and Lady, thought Engvyr, thank you for granting us stupid enemies!

At two-hundred paces the command was given and four hundred carbines spoke just as the Baasgarta finally began their charge. The result was chaos. Ulvgaed and riders fell in front of their comrades just as they lunged their mounts forward. Some fell over their downed troops. Others bounded high over the bodies of struggling, wounded ulvgaed and soldiers just in time for the second rank of skirmishers to volley. Engvyr braced the butt of the carbine against his hip and pulled the long lever that cocked the weapon. As he raised it to his shoulder for the next volley he could see injured ulvgaed snapping at their riders or at the others bounding over them.

The Baasgarta charge had devolved into a ragged mess but they kept coming on as individuals. The rangers slung their carbines and drew hand-axes or wood-knives as the Baasgarta hit the skirmisher’s line. Engvyr would rather have faced them on foot with the bayonetted long-rifle as he was worried that he would accidentally cut down his own pony instead of the enemy.

Then the Baasgarta were among them, stabbing with lances and cutting with falchions. The ulvgaed snapped, bit and struck with their hooves. The dwarves fought back with bayonets, wood knives and hand-axes. The goblins were more effective but were badly outnumbered and completely uncoordinated by the time they hit the skirmisher’s lines. They did a great deal of damage but hardly one in five smashed their way through the dwarven ranks and out the other side. The survivors of the disastrous attack fled and many more were cut down from behind by the dwarven guns.

Only two of the Baasgarta hit the rangers but inflicted only minor injuries before they were killed. The skirmishers had not fared so well. Something like three-hundred of the Baasgarta cavalry had hit their lines, killing over a hundred of the dwarves and wounding many more. Engvyr closed his mind to the blood, the dead and the sounds of pain as they tended the wounded as best they could. He knew many of the skirmishers from his time with the regiment but he deliberately kept his focus on the mission. There would be time enough for grief later.

When they finally moved on they left nearly a third of their strength behind. In the grim reckoning of war they had done well. The Baasgarta cavalry, which had nearly equaled their numbers at the outset, had effectively ceased to exist. But that would be cold comfort for the survivors when they had the leisure to reflect and grieve.

Though the actual fighting had taken only minutes the encounter cost them more than an hour and they pressed on at the best pace that they could manage. Nearing the gully where the dig was taking place they dismounted, slipping forward through the trees. Engvyr realized that he had not heard any blasting since early that morning and could hear no sounds of work in progress now. He felt a growing sense of dread as they drew nearer.

When they entered the gully they came to the edge of a logged area. The stumps provided good cover but they had to move with greater caution. Taarven held up his hand in a signal to stop. Engvyr repeated the signal before creeping forward to see.

There was a line of dwarves along the edge of the pit. All were dressed as the boy had been in a simple shirt that left their right shoulder exposed to show their brand and a pair of trousers. Some of them were weeping quietly, some looked serene or resigned. Others simply looked tired. Bored-looking Baasgarta were spaced out along the line, about one for every twenty to thirty prisoners.

The pair of rangers moved along parallel to the line, keeping out of sight. They could hear the faint sounds of others moving cautiously up behind them. Eventually they got to the line's final destination. A squad of Baasgarta stood at ease, chatting among themselves and keeping an eye on the line. A group of three stood at the very edge of the pit. Two of them grabbed the first dwarf in line and held his arms. The third goblin stepped behind him, slit his throat and the two holding his arms shoved him into the pit as they reached for the next dwarf.

Engvyr's mind shut down and he seemed to be observing rather than directing his own actions. He aimed carefully and gut-shot the goblin with the knife. He reloaded mechanically as he heard Taarven's carbine fire and one of the two grabbing the next dwarf pitched off the edge into the pit. All around him rangers and skirmishers rose and fired. The dwarven slaves did not flee as their masters were cut down. They just cringed in place or simply stood staring at their rescuers in mute incomprehension. It was over in seconds.

But Engvyr knew that for him and probably for all of them, it would never be over.

Chapter Twenty Five

“Naturally the Baasgarta would not return the mine-slaves used in the Makepeace Valley to The Pit. They could not afford to have them reveal that there was a wider world, that the very basis of their beliefs was a lie…”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Engvyr watched as the commanders of the regiments stood at the lip of the pit talking quietly as darkness fell. The soldiers were setting up hasty camps nearby. They weren't digging in for the night as it was uncertain as to whether or not they would be staying, but it was a good opportunity for the troops to rest and have a hot meal. Engvyr and Taarven had little stomach for food after seeing the hundreds of dead in the pit.

The army had enough people schooled in the Old Tongue that they were able to speak with the slaves after a fashion. They told them that a massive sarcophagus had been unearthed that very morning. The Baasgarta had removed the contents and the bulk of them had departed, taking just enough of the slaves to carry the burden. A small contingent had been left to 'deal with' the remaining Braell.

The dwarves had sent the survivors back to their own crude shelters for the night. In a way their response to the rescue sickened him as much as the pile of bodies in the pit. As far as the pit-slaves were concerned Engvyr and the other dwarves were their new masters. They simply obeyed them without question. When the regiments arrived they had delivered food to the Braell and they had to order them to eat it.

The group on the edge of the pit broke up and Berryc walked over to join the two rangers.

“Looks like we're moving out at first light,” he told them, shaking his head. “What a mess…”

“Where are we going?” asked Taarven.

“We're going to be pursuing the Baasgarta that pulled out this morning. Whatever they found in that sarcophagus down there,” Berryc responded with a wave at the pit, “was important enough for them to start a war over so most likely we don't want them to have it. We're going to go take it back.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” said Engvyr, “And the slaves?”

Berryc shrugged.

“The 3rd is going to leave a platoon to tend to 'em. They'll put them to work burying the bodies and make sure that they're safe and fed. For now as far as they're concerned they are our slaves, and the easiest way to take care of them is to let them go right on thinking that until we can introduce them to the fact that they are free gradually.”

“I can hardly imagine what's to become of them,” Engvyr said, shaking his head.

“I suppose folk will take them in,” Berryc replied, “Eventually. What worries me a lot more is that once we kick the Baasgarta's butts we're going to face this problem magnified a thousand-fold. There are probably tens of thousands of dwarves in their lands.”

“That sounds to me like a problem that is above my pay-grade,” said Engvyr.

“What concerns me rather more,” Taarven said wryly, “Is the question of whether or not we can, as Berryc so elegantly put it, 'kick the Baasgarta's butts.'”

“I dunno,” Engvyr said thoughtfully, “but from what we've seen so far I'm guessing that we can. For all that they are ferocious and fanatically determined they aren't actually very good at these large-unit actions. In the end they'd have to have us massively outnumbered to defeat us.”

“That's as may be,” allowed Taarven, “but for all we know they do massively outnumber us, and they could have other tricks up their sleeves.”

“Regardless, we've got it to do sooner or later,” Berryc told them, “And as we're starting early you boys had best get some sleep if you can.”

Engvyr and Taarven were actually up before first light, having a hot breakfast and coffee. They set out on the trail of the goblins and their mysterious cargo. The rangers would scout ahead while the skirmishers followed along behind attempting to delay the Baasgarta until the main body of their forces could move up.

“Hopefully they'll be expecting their own regiments to be coming along behind,” Berryc told them as they made ready to depart, “If'n they got word we're coming they could make things pretty difficult for us.”

“That they could,” Taarven agreed, “There's a thousand places in these mountains where a small force could hold up our regiments for days.”

They swung into their saddles and headed north moving quickly as they had a lot of time to make up. They had no fear of losing the trail as there was nothing tricky about following a few hundred goblins.

By mid-day they found the first dead dwarven slave by the trail. He was an older fellow and at a guess had trouble keeping up. They'd simply slit his throat and pushed him off of the path. As skinny and wasted as his corpse was Engvyr didn't wonder that they had not bothered to butcher him for meat.

The goblins were pressing on hard. They pursued them throughout the long afternoon and well into the night before stopping themselves. They made a cold camp and were on their way again before first light. At dawn they found where the goblins had stopped for several hours. The Baasgarta had apparently been in a celebratory mood and the rangers were sickened by the evidence of the feast that they had left behind.

“I guess they took more slaves than they needed to carry the artifact,” Taarven observed. Engvyr nodded, feeling heartsick and enraged for their distant kin. There will be a reckoning, he promised the pitiful remains silently. They pressed on, now only scant hours behind their quarry. The trail narrowed, passing into a gully, and they paused.

“Looks like a great place for an ambush,” Engvyr commented.

“Or to wait for your friends to catch up,” Taarven said, “Either way I don't think that we want to ride up and just see what happens.”

Signaling the others to wait, they cut off the trail and worked their way along below the crest of the ridge line until they could see down into the gully. Sure enough, the Baasgarta were there in company strength, positioned to ambush anyone that came along.

“I'll keep watch here,” Taarven said quietly in Engvyr's ear, “You let the skirmishers know about these boys.”

Engvyr nodded and backed carefully away from their viewpoint. Making his way to the ponies he mounted and began to ride back down the trail left by the Baasgarta. The simplest way to find the skirmisher's…

“Halt!” came the command from the undergrowth alongside the trail.

…was to let them find him. One of the soldiers came out to speak with him and he quickly described what they had found. Others came out of hiding as well to listen. In the end a full company followed him north to ambush the ambushers.

They quietly rejoined Taarven, then the rangers and half of the skirmishers slowly worked their way past the Baasgarta. When they were certain they were clear of the goblin's sentry-line they moved back to the trail and set an ambush of their own. Soon they heard the troops on the hillside open up, firing down on the Baasgarta from above. The quieter slams of the goblin's crossbows answered and before long they could see the enemy retreating towards them, their full attention focused on the force above. The skirmishers that were lying in ambush on the trail took them from behind in a deadly crossfire. The goblins were unable to shelter from the fire of both forces at once and it was over in minutes.

“Neatly done,” Engvyr complimented the company commander afterwards while they waited for one of the soldiers to bring their ponies up from where they had hidden them.

“Worked a treat,” the commander agreed, “Except for the part where we lost two hours taking care of this bunch. We're that much further behind the Baasgarta and only an hour or so ahead of the regiments.”

“One more delay like this and our chances of catching up with the Baasgarta go from 'slim' to 'none,'” Taarven observed, “Not to mention that as soon as this bunch realizes we're coming up behind 'em we're likely to bite into something a lot tougher to chew up than these boys were.”

“And we're coming on to sunset,” said Engvyr. After thinking about things for a moment he continued, “So we're about to go charging into the night into unknown territory, not knowing our enemy's numbers, disposition or even if they know we're pursuing them. I'm as game as the next dwarf, boys, but does this actually sound like a good idea to anyone?”

The Commander frowned and said, “Not to me it doesn't. It was all well and good to chase after them on the off chance we could catch up and do them a mischief. But I do not believe that we can, and it is no longer prudent to try. We're going to go defensive and wait for the regiments.”

“Makes sense,” Engvyr agreed, then looked at Taarven, “Suppose that you and I just take us a bit of a look around in the meantime?”

Taarven grunted and said, “Might be best. Lord and Lady know what might be lurking hereabouts. We could be a half-mile from an army and not know it in these mountains.”

“Best you be about it then,” the commander told them, “and the Lord and Lady watch over you.”

The rangers traveled cautiously through the darkness. Around midnight they found another company-sized ambush. They left markings along the trail to tip off the regiments and skirted the goblin force and continued, deeper into the unknown.

They holed up in a gully off the main trail and rested for a few hours at dawn, even risking a tiny fire to heat some coffee before moving on. Occasionally they left markers along the trail to indicate that the way was clear. They stayed off of the path where they could and moved with painstaking caution where they couldn't.

Late that afternoon they passed through another narrow valley. The trail skirted a small lake. They examined the area from the edge of the forest and saw the trail enter a crack in the rocks at the far end. Engvyr was about to ride out when Taarven stopped him with a hiss.

“Look at the cliff-face on the left side of the path, a hundred paces up the mountain,” he told him. Engvyr did as he was told and caught a flash of light. They waited and when the flash came again Engvyr pulled his spyglass and scanned the rock face. He caught the flash again and nodded.

“Yep. There's someone up there with a glass,” he said, handing his own instrument to Taarven.

The other ranger examined the face for several minutes, then said, “There he is. Well, that presents a bit of a problem…”

Engvyr examined the lay of the land. The slopes were forested in pine and aspen with a strip of mountain meadow running down the center of the little valley up to the lake. It would be wet, almost marshy in the middle of that grassy area.

“I'm pretty sure,” Engvyr said at length, gesturing to the western edge of the valley, which was already in shadow, “that at twilight we can work our way along that edge on foot and have a look up that canyon.”

Twilight was actually a better time to attempt the approach with the ground dark and the sky bright, the watcher above would be nearly blind to anything going on in the deep shadows.

Taarven agreed, and said, “Can't see as there is a way around it. Can't say as I like it, either.”

“Best we leave a mark along the trail, then get these ponies stashed and maybe get some rest. This is shaping up to be a long night.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“How do you tell someone that they are free when even the concept of ‘freedom’ has never occurred to them?”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

The 4th Heavy Infantry moved through the camp late in the afternoon of the breakout. The refugees cheered them on their way; they had a proprietary feeling for the regiment due to the battalion that had sacrificed itself to allow them to get to safety. The regiment settled into the defenses at the mouth of the pass where they would spend the night before following after the other regiments.

Word of the slave-camp and the pursuit came to the camp late the next morning. Deandra had listened with horror to the account of the mass-execution of the mining slaves. It was all Ynghilda, Deandra and Grael could do to keep the enraged dwarven refugees from following the regiments en masse in pursuit of the fleeing Baasgarta.

Squirrel was picking up the language quickly in the way of children immersed in a new culture. The Dwarven language and the dialect of the slaves were both descendants of a common tongue, which helped. There were still many words he didn't understand but after a few days he could for the most part make himself understood. It's getting him to understand us that's the problem, Deandra reflected, and that's a problem much greater than mere words.

The boy was sitting nearby peeling turnips. When presented with the task and a small knife with which to accomplish it he had been wide-eyed with joy. Apparently among the slaves being a cook was a high-status position. He approached the job with single-minded determination worthy of a much more complex task. Deandra had watched the boy with concern as the story of the executions unfolded but he had kept working diligently, seemingly little affected. While the others discussed these events among themselves Deandra spoke to the boy.

“Squirrel? Are you alright?”

He looked up at her warily and said, “Yes Deandra. I do good job, yes? Finish soon!”

She blinked in surprise at this response.

“Did you understand what the ranger was saying?”

He appeared puzzled, but nodded and said, “He say many dwarves, Braell like me, killed by Masters, yes?”

“Yes, that is what he said,” She confirmed, “Does that upset you?”

The boy thought about that for a moment, “If my ahfnoon, how you say? Crew? If they dead I miss them, be sad for me. But happy thing, yes? They reborn to Gotlaeyef, is better, yes?”

“Gotlaeyef?” she asked, “I don't know this word.”

He frowned, and said, “When God is repaid, Braell die and are born in better life. Is called Gotlaeyef. No branding, no leg-cut. Have nice clothes, be warm, never hungry.”

He looked pensive for a moment and gestured around the room.

“This maybe Gotlaeyef I think.”

Deandra let that sink in for a moment. Lord and Lady! She thought, what must his life have been like that he thinks sitting in a corner peeling vegetables is paradise?

— **-

The 4th pulled out of the defensive works to catch up with the rest of the army the next morning and were replaced by the militia. The area was clear of any serious military threat but there were still Baasgarta scattered throughout the valley. According to the rangers they mostly seemed intent on heading north as quickly as they could.

“We're going to hold off on a full-scale return to the valley for the moment,” Ynghilda said, “But we are going to re-occupy the palisade and steading. It's defensible enough and we need to get the Braell inside before real cold weather sets in or we're going to lose a lot more of them.”

She turned to Deandra and said, “I'll be wanting you to take Squirrel and a party of volunteers to the excavation to collect the folk there. The boy can help translate and explain what's going on. We can settle them in the great hall for the moment. It'll be tight but they'll all be indoors and safe.”

“That's probably best,” Deandra agreed, “They're going to need considerable training. Apparently apart from their specific jobs they don't know how to do anything for themselves.”

“Well, we'll just have to train them along with everything else,” Ynghilda said. “While you're getting them shifted I'll be taking a party of militia and some of the household with me to make things ready for them.”

“Do we have wagons that I can use to fetch them?” Deandra asked, “The adults will move rather slowly else-wise.”

Ynghilda looked at her and asked, “Why would that be?”

“You didn't hear about the 'leg-cut' the adults receive?” Deandra asked. Ynghilda shook her head and Deandra felt her heart sink. She said, “Squirrel says that when a Braell becomes an adult the Baasgarta cut the back of their left leg. To cripple them so that they cannot run. Ever.”

The older woman swore.

“Maker take them all!” she said. Mastering her anger with a visible effort she continued, “Yes, I suppose that we had best round up some wagons. Why don't you attend to that tonight. We'd planned an early start tomorrow, and you'll need it if we're to have the Braell under a roof by nightfall.”

It was noon when Deandra and the train of wagons arrived at the excavation site. The platoon of soldiers left behind to watch over the former slaves greeted them gladly.

“What will you do now that we are taking charge of them?” Deandra asked the Sergeant in charge, “Will you go with the 4th to re-join your own regiments?”

The sergeant shook his head and said, “No ma'am. We were told to look after these folk and that's just what I mean to do. Here or at the Makepeace Steading makes me no never-mind. Matter a‘fact it'll be a sight easier havin' them within walls. Harder for 'em to wander off and out here; they’re as helpless as a bunch a' wooly sheep.”

Deandra looked across the pit to the rough sheds that sheltered the Braell for now. Some of them sat around outside but most were out of site. She turned to Squirrel.

“If you go to them and tell them to come get into the wagons, will they do it?”

He ducked his head and said, “I tell them you say do, they do.”

“Then please go do that now,” she said. He started to scamper off but she halted him and he looked back. “Squirrel- don't waste time with stories or explanations just yet, eh? We'll tell them what they need to know when they are settled in the great hall.”

The boy nodded and ran off. After a time the Braell began filing out of their shelters and coming forward. Deandra was shocked afresh at their condition. They were a good six inches shorter on average than the dwarves that she knew, and more lightly built. At first she thought that they were mostly older, but they were merely wizened by the sun and they all limped to greater or lesser degree, which increased the impression of age. They kept their gazes fixed on the ground before them. Though the soldiers spoke to them gently they cringed and flinched when a guiding hand touched them.

All were branded on the cheek and the men and women all wore threadbare pants with a ragged, filthy shirt that exposed the brand on the back of their right shoulder. Each carried a tattered roll of fabric that she guessed was their bedding.

Deandra made a quick count and found there were roughly a hundred survivors. Squirrel returned and with him translating loading the wagons went much faster. He was very excited, as he had discovered that his crew was still alive. He rode in the wagon with them chattering excitedly, showing them his knife and the new clothes that he wore. This actually seemed to make his crew more nervous, and several times she caught them glancing at her fearfully.

Deandra sighed to herself. I imagine this must be terrifying for them, she thought, being thrust into a life not merely new but unsuspected.

They pulled into the yard inside the palisade as the sun was nearly touching the peaks. Ynghilda was there to meet them with an old red-haired dwarf that she did not recognize. He was dressed much like the soldiers, but wore no armor or weapons, excepting the ubiquitous sax-knife worn by most dwarves.

“Deandra, I'd like you to meet Vaalketyr, a healer loaned to us by the 3rd Rifles. He's to help us get these folks tended to and settled in.”

The healer bowed to her, then looked over the folk in the wagons, wrinkled his nose and said, “I think the first thing will be to run them through your bath-house and get them into clean shirts. Before we take them into the great-hall and examine them.”

“Where did we get clean shirts for so many?” Deandra asked.

Vaalketyr looked grim and said, “There were plenty of spares in the kits of the fallen soldiers from the 1st and 4th.”

“We'd best get them organized, then,” Ynghilda said with grimace. Turning to Deandra, “I believe Squirrel said that they were broken up into 'crews?' That might be the best way to break them up now.”

“Why don't we start with Squirrel's crew, then? These folk are likely to be nervous about the whole process, and this group can help with the ones after.”

In the end of course it was both more and much less simple than that. First off they did not wish to give up their clothes. Filthy rags though they might be, for most of them they were their only possessions. Deandra tried to be patient with them, to explain that they would be given new clothes but they became increasingly agitated and some began to cry. She was tired already from the long day and was at a loss for what to do. Ynghilda came in and sized up the situation immediately.

“Squirrel!” She barked. He looked up at her fearfully and she continued in a firm, no-nonsense voice, “Tell them to take off their clothes and pile them by the door. NOW.”

He repeated her order and the men and women of Squirrel's crew obeyed immediately. Ynghilda turned to Deandra with a sigh.

“Deandra, these people have been slaves their whole lives. Don't cajole, persuade or explain. They don't understand it and it makes them more afraid because of that. Tell them what to do and they'll do it. Orders are what they understand and are comfortable with.”

Deandra tried that and the Braell relaxed somewhat and did what they were told. They might have wept silently or rolled their eyes in fear but they did it. Vaalketyr provided a strong, medicinal-smelling soap and insisted they wash their entire body, hair and beards thoroughly. They had to be shown how but they did so willingly enough.

While they bathed Deandra asked Ynghilda about the state of the steading. Ynghilda shook her head in wonder.

“It's the damndest thing,” she said, “There were signs that the place had been searched, but the worst thing we found was the pots from the last breakfast left dirty. Oh, there's minor damage here and there but we had things ready for you long before you got back. What kind of army doesn't plunder?”

Deandra was as baffled as Ynghilda. She would at least have expected them to take something. Not a mystery we'll solve tonight, she thought, and returned to tending her charges.

After their baths the Braell were each given a linen shirt and a cord to tie at the waist before Deandra led them into the hall. Squirrel stayed behind with the soldiers and Vaalketyr to translate for the next crew. She got them seated at the benches by the table, having to show them even this. Aunt Gerdy and one of her assistants brought out bowls of soup and loaves of black bread. They set these before the Braell. Deandra began to eat and the Braell merely watched her raptly. They had never seen a spoon, of course and seemed entranced by the way that she used it. She weighed the matter in her mind, considering how to teach them to use a spoon and quickly discarded the notion. Setting it down she ripped a chunk of bread from the loaf, dunked it in the soup and ate it. The Braell looked at each other, and one of the largest among them, hesitantly aped her motions. He watched her intently and when she didn't object he dunked the bread, raised it to his mouth and bit into it. His eyes widened as he chewed and swallowed, staring at the bread in wonder. He gestured and the rest of them tried it, with a similar reaction. Lord and Lady, she thought, they've never even had bread?!

They ate quickly but did not wolf the food down as she'd expected. Each took only one chunk from the loaves and when it was gone they drank the broth and swept the remaining bits of meat and vegetables into their mouths and chewed them thoroughly.

More groups arrived and were treated to what was almost certainly the best meal of their lives. At first Squirrel’s crew sat quietly after they finished eating, eyes and hands on the table before them, sometimes shifting uncomfortably on the benches. Deandra realized that they probably were uncomfortable given that they had apparently never used furniture before.

She got up and managed to convey to the crew that they were to follow her and led them over to the great hearth. She squatted by the fire and motioned for them to do the same. This they were comfortable with. After a time all the crews had cycled through the bath-house and Squirrel joined them. He spoke to his crew and they relaxed further, examining her and their surroundings less timidly. They began to talk quietly among themselves, tentatively at first, watching Deandra to see if she raised an objection. Eventually she moved to one of the overstuffed chairs and sat gratefully. Even if they were used to squatting for hours on end, she wasn't, and it had been a very long day.

Squirrel introduced her to his crew. The largest of them, still small by her standards, was called Big Mattock. The others were introduced as Drills Fast, Single Jack and Double Jack, Shovel Toe, One-Hand, Builder, Makes Rope and Cook. Builder, Double Jack and Cook were women. From what Deandra had seen in the bath-house she thought that Double Jack might be with child, and resolved to let Vaalketyr know.

After the last Braell had eaten, blankets were passed out and each crew was shown to a section of the broad benches along the walls to bed down. Deandra returned to her old bed in Ynghilda's apartment and settled in to sleep. Her last thought was a wish that Engvyr was with her…

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“ People talk about how they would love to 'have an adventure.' I think that's largely because they've never had one… Adventures in the doing of them tend to be miserable, dangerous, terrifying and exhausting.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Twilight found Taarven and Engvyr working their way through the brush at the western edge of the valley. They were careful not to make any disturbance as they moved along; 'virtually blind' was not the same thing as 'blind' and movement draws the eye. They neared the mouth of the canyon as the first stars were twinkling in the night sky.

Taarven craned his neck to look upward and then said quietly, “I think we're ok for the moment. I'm pretty sure that we're inside his blind spot.”

The rangers stole into the canyon. A road ran alongside the stream that fed the small lake. The very edge of this road next to the canyon wall had some brush and tumbled rocks but no real cover. It was dark as a pit as they moved slowly pausing frequently to listen, though the sound of the tumbling water interfered with this. Before long they came to a place where the path ended and a bridge arched over the water.

“I am not liking this. Not at all!” Taarven said quietly. Engvyr knew exactly what he meant; between the darkness and the noise of the stream they could have walked within an arms-length of a crouching enemy and not realized it.

They low-crawled across the bridge next to the low railing. Once across they resumed their slow, careful way up the canyon. They had gone only a few hundred paces when they saw light flickering on the walls ahead.

Engvyr cursed silently at his first thought, that some person or group was approaching with a torch. They froze in place but the light did not move towards them. After a time they approached a slight bend in the canyon and crept forward until the source of the light became apparent. There were torches in vertical holders along the road, spaced every twenty-five to thirty paces leading to a stone wall that blocked further progress. The stream ran under the wall through a culvert with a barred cover and the road passed through a gate- currently closed. There were more torches along the top of the wall and they could see the figures of sentries patrolling there.

“Looks like we've reached a dead end,” Taarven said quietly.

“I've never liked that term… dead end,” muttered Engvyr. They watched quietly for a few moments before working their way backwards from the curve until the gates were out of site.

“Best we get ourselves out of this canyon before that term you dislike becomes literal,” Taarven said, “We get caught in this canyon come daylight there's nowhere to hide.”

They made their way back across the bridge but before they got halfway back to the entrance they saw light ahead of them again. This time obviously someone was coming. They scrambled back up the canyon looking desperately for a place to hide but there was nothing. Until they reached the bridge…

Engvyr looked at the bridge and then at Taarven.

“I am so not going to enjoy this,” he said.

“Don't see as to there bein' any choice,” Taarven said with a shrug.

Engvyr gasped as he lowered himself into the icy water. They held tight to the edge of the arch to keep from being swept downstream by the current as they eased themselves under the bridge. The rock was slippery with algae but they clung for dear life to it in the cold wet dark. They quickly grew numb as the light approached but they could see little from their position. Hooves sounded on the stone overhead and they could hear goblins talking as the light moved on.

Just as Engvyr was ready to heave a sigh of relief the light stopped moving and he heard the curious grunting of an excited ulvgaed. Hooves clattered and a goblin cursed his restive mount. How good is an ulvgaed's sense of smell? Engvyr wondered. Finally they moved on and Taarven pulled himself from their hiding place. Engvyr attempted to do the same but his foot slipped and the current took his legs out from under him. He tried to hold on but his numb fingers were not up to the task and he was tumbled out from under the bridge and down the narrow channel.

He bit back his instinctive cry of alarm- if the goblins heard they were both dead. The stream was only a few feet wide but it ran strong and fast. It was two to three feet deep in most places and Engvyr desperately tried to stop himself. He clutched at the rocks the current smashed him into or scrabbled at the edge of the channel when he could reach it.

Finally after an eternity of impacts and tumbling through the icy darkness he was able to claw his way onto the bank. He was shivering violently and his teeth chattered so hard he thought they would break. His body was numb and he was distantly aware that he was hurt. He pulled himself from the water but could manage no more and simply lay there with shivers wracking his body.

He hadn't been there long when rough hands grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He had only made it partway upright when his back spasmed and he had to stand, bent over with his hands on his knees. It was a few moments before he could straighten up enough to stumble forward.

“C'mon Engvyr,” Taarven muttered, “Move or die time!”

The journey back to their ponies was a pain-wracked nightmare for Engvyr. Fever was setting in so he was alternately sweating and shivering so hard his back would spasm again. His head felt like it had been split with an axe and his body ached to the limits that he could bear but somehow they made it. Unfortunately they weren't finished. Taarven boosted him into the saddle and he nearly went straight over the other side. Taarven swore and bound his wrists to the pommel of his saddle and his thighs to the stirrup leathers and led them west, away from the road. Over the next few hours Engvyr learned a new definition of misery. He was in and out of delirium and every time he nearly fell over his back would spasm again. Finally they stopped and Taarven cut him loose. He more than half-fell from his pony into Taarven's arms. Mercifully he passed out at that point.

He woke when Taarven lifted his head to pour hot willow-bark tea into his mouth. His first reflex was to spit the bitter brew out but Taarven was persistent. This was repeated several times before he woke, lucid and soaked in sweat. He was lying so close to their tiny fire that it was a wonder that he hadn't rolled into it in the grip of the fever.

“Easy now,” Taarven said when he tried to sit up. His partner helped him, leaning him back against the boulder that had been reflecting the heat of the fire. His back stabbed a couple of times in the process but didn't spasm. Be grateful for small favors, he told himself. Taarven gave him some coffee and let him sip it enough to clear his throat.

“How are you feeling?”

Engvyr considered it a moment before replying, “Like my pony dragged me across a few leagues of rough country.”

“Well, at least your fever seems to have broken,” Taarven said.

“How long?” Engvyr asked, checking the position of the sun, which was about to drop behind the peaks.

“All day yesterday and today,” Taarven told him, “Let's get some food and coffee into you.”

“Since we seem to have gone as far as we can we should check in with the army,” Engvyr said, “Maybe someone else has had better luck.”

“Engvyr, you need your rest! That fever could come back as quick as it went.”

“Well,” Engvyr said, “In case you hadn't noticed there's a war on. I'll bundle up good, and if need be I'll sleep in the saddle. But we need to report in.”

“We'll argue about it while you eat,” Taarven said as he began heating up a pan of beef and beans. They did argue too, but Engvyr was inflexible and after eating they saddled up and got moving. Engvyr was weak but he could sit in a saddle well enough. After all, he thought, the pony is doing the hard part…

They avoided the trail as much as possible and sometime after midnight Taarven called a halt. By that point Engvyr was done-in and willing to admit that he needed the break. They made a cold camp and he wrapped up in his bedroll and slept like a stone until dawn. They broke their fast with biscuits and some dry sausages before setting out again.

They had no difficulty locating the regiments. By midday it was obvious where they were; ten thousand dwarves cannot camp inconspicuously. They worked their way towards the columns of smoke rising from the camp.

Engvyr was exhausted by the time they were challenged by the army's sentries. They were passed through the lines and directed to the field headquarters of the Mountain Guard contingent. They made their way through the vast camp past row upon row of tents and secondary defensive works. Engvyr was not too beat-up to appreciate the intelligence of the arrangements. It looked to him as if they could probably fend off five times their number of Baasgarta.

Headquarters was set up in a converted mess-tent borrowed from one of the regiments. Engvyr was surprised to find Captain Gauer inside, obviously in charge. He was poring over a hand-drawn map with another pair of rangers and a cartographer when they arrived. They were filling in details based on the report he was receiving. He looked up and greeted them with a nod, exchanged a word with the map-maker and moved to meet them.

“Taarven, Engvyr,” he said, giving Engvyr a sharp, assessing glance, “Sit down, Ranger. Looks like you've had a rough time of it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Engvyr said gratefully, hooking a stool over with one foot and half-collapsing onto it. He set the long-rifle aside and gingerly unslung his satchel, water bottle and other gear with a sigh of relief.

Taarven looked at the captain as he was setting his own gear down and asked, “Not that it isn't good to see you, sir, but where's Berryc?”

“Oh, he's fine- I sent him back to take command at Ghost Creek when I came forward,” He told them, “The King has signed the council's Declaration of War against the Baasgarta. Command sent me to take charge.”

Unasked one of the staff brought them bowls of stew and mugs of coffee while they made their report. After they ate they joined the Captain at the map, filling in more details from memory. This was merely a rough campaign map; detailed maps would be made as the armies advanced, which Engvyr gathered they would be doing shortly.

“We don't want to be fighting a winter campaign if we can avoid it,” Captain Gauer said, “Others have reported fortifications similar to the gate that you found, so I imagine that the first stage of the offensive will be to take those for our own.”

The captain indicated a spot on the map to their northeast and said, “There is a garrison here. Our group, the 3rd Rifles, the 1st Mounted Infantry and the 4th Heavy Infantry, will take and man the gates and lesser forts, then join up with the 2nd Rifles and the 3rd Heavy Infantry to take the garrison. Fortunately it is only lightly fortified; I doubt the Baasgarta ever expected they would face a full-on assault. Worse come to, we can besiege them over the winter, but the Army boys think that we can take them down easily enough given our advantage in numbers. It looks like we will be able to secure our own supply-lines pretty well, as the territory south of the target is completely uninhabited.”

Taarven frowned thoughtfully and asked, “What will our part of this be?”

“Initially you two will guide a company of skirmishers to take the gate that you found. We'll have you coordinate with them on methods,” he said, then frowned at Engvyr, “After you've seen a healer and had a good night's rest. You look like ten leagues of bad road, Ranger.”

“I wish I felt that well, sir!” Engvyr told him with a weak grin.

He felt better after he let the healers fuss over him. He dutifully took his medicine then bathed, changed into a clean clothes and racked out on one of the cots behind a canvas curtain at the back of the headquarters.

It took the army regiments a couple of days to prepare for the offensive and Engvyr needed every moment of them to recover. He was still bruised and stiff but he was at least past the need to worry about the fever coming back.

Taarven and Engvyr set out at the head of a full company of skirmishers. Since the attack on the dig site in the Makepeace Valley these units had focused on training to work in larger groups. The dwarven army was not immune to the dictum that 'leaders always prepare to fight the last war, not the next.' They had been structured to fight in the relatively flat, open terrain of Dvargatil Baeg's southern valleys or adjacent Afmaeltinn lands, so skirmishers were well practiced at small-unit operations like attacks on supply-lines, sniping attacks and lightning raids. But now that the army was forced to fight in the closed and often difficult terrain of the deep mountains their mission had changed; they needed to operate in company-sized or even larger units. In the future the army would doubtless train dedicated mountain troops, but for now the skirmishers were the best that they had for the job.

The pair of rangers led the force up to the narrow valley before the canyon entrance then proceeded on foot. They needed to establish another route that would take them to the ridges above the gate without being seen by the sentry above the entrance to the canyon.

Their route took them far out of their way, through a neighboring valley and across two ridges before they were in position. Several times they had to scale nearly vertical slopes and drop ropes for the skirmishers to follow. It was nearing sunset before they found themselves on the edge of the canyon with the top of the wall perhaps ten paces below them.

Seen from this perspective the 'wall' was actually a building about twenty-five paces across the top and spanned the width of the canyon, about forty paces wide at that point. The center was a roof, slightly peaked for drainage. There was a walkway a couple of paces wide along the edge at either side behind a flat parapet. There was a doorway into the canyon wall directly ahead of them, likely leading to stairs that would lead to the interior of the building. It was probably very effective against fleeing slaves and wild animals, but it was in no way designed to stand up to a military assault.

There were two guards armed with crossbows patrolling the wall. Another two were on the ground on either end of the arch that passed under the building. None of them ever looked up as the skirmishers and the two rangers eased into position.

Taarven designated several soldiers to join himself and Engvyr, gesturing to indicate which would shoot which guards. Each of them aimed at their designated target and fired almost as one at the shouted command. Had they been dwarves or humans Engvyr would have felt sorry for them, but after seeing the slaves and the massacre at the dig-site he was long past spending pity on the Baasgarta. The four guards were killed instantly by the fusillade of shots from above.

The dwarves immediately dropped knotted ropes and half of them quickly climbed down to the top of building while the other half covered them. No alarm was sounded; apparently the reports of the rifles and carbines had not penetrated the buildings thick stone walls. Once on the top of the wall they released spike-bayonets on their carbines and entered the door in the far side of the canyon.

Taarven and Engvyr waited with the other skirmishers. From their perch above they could hear nothing but the wind. After a few minutes a trooper emerged from the doorway and waved them down. They joined him and he made his report.

“There were eight more inside, half of them racked out so it wasn't much of a fight,” he told them, “There's a passage off through the mountain; Second Squad is following to see where it leads. First is closing the gate.”

“Any casualties?” Taarven asked.

“Hrolf in First Squad took a cut on the shoulder from a thrown ax. They're patching him up now, but it looks like he'll be fine.”

Taarven nodded and said, “Very good. Third Squad! Bring up our mounts and tell the regulars it's time for them to move up.”

Gesturing to the cliffs on either side he continued, “When Second gets back I want one squad on either rim of the canyon- prepare hasty fighting positions and keep your eyes peeled.”

The soldier gave him a quick salute and returned inside. Turning to Engvyr he said, “Well, that went well.”

“Yep,” Engvyr agreed, “Let's not get cocky though; likely it'll only get harder from here. I hope the other raids have gone as well.”

“From your mouth to the Lord and Lady's ears.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“There was never any doubt that the Baasgarta were our enemies. They raided our farms, killed our people and we were damned sure going to make them understand the cost of that. Then we met the Braell, enslaved in spirit as well as body. After that nothing would do to pay that price but their blood. Preferably all of it!”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

“The trick is, how do we get them to stop being slaves?” Grael asked, looking out over the crowded great hall. It was early in the morning of the day after the Braell had arrived.

Deandra frowned and thought, how indeed? It was a good question with no simple answer. The Braell had no concept of 'freedom,' and when she tried to come up with one herself she realized just how elusive an explanation was to arrive at.

Ynghilda guffawed suddenly and they looked at her.

“Sorry,” she said, “but it just occurred to me. How do you get down off of an elephant?”

Deandra and Grael shook their heads in bafflement.

“You don't. You get down off a duck; it's easier,” Ynghilda said. Seeing they weren't following her she continued, “Don't teach them to stop being slaves. Don't teach them what 'freedom' is and means. Teach them to eat their soup with a spoon, to wear shoes, to dress, to defend themselves. Teach them our values, our language and the thousand and one things that we all know so well we forget that we know them. Sooner or later they won't be slaves anymore.”

“Well then,” Deandra said, impressed, “I suppose the first thing is to teach them our language.”

“That, and the everyday things; you don't need to be able to speak to teach someone to use a spoon,” Ynghilda reminded her.

“Speaking of everyday things,” said Grail, “I was talking to the 4th's Quartermaster last night. Their supply train is passing through on the way to the front this morning, and he's been authorized to give us some of their stocks of spare clothing as well as some of the clothes from the casualties. We ought to be able to get everyone fully dressed by this afternoon.”

“Also speaking of everyday things,” said Deandra with a sigh, “I'd better find Squirrel. We need to get these people fed. Might as well get them started on 'spoons' while we are at it.”

As it turned out they started with an earthier need. Deandra cursed herself silently as Squirrel explained it to her and she immediately got the Braell lined up to use the latrines. She had to show the first few of them how, and then set them to teaching the others as they came through while she retreated to take a moment for herself. Lord and Lady! She thought, the poor dears were practically dying to relieve themselves but they felt that they needed to wait until they were told to! In that moment of realization she learned to hate. She did not just hate the Baasgarta; she hated the very concept of them. That any person, any group could do this to others, rob them of their will and initiative in even life's most basic needs… she earnestly and passionately wished them dead.

Tears of rage slid down her cheeks, but she was no hero, no warrior to slay them all. What she could do, what she couldn't not do in fact, was everything possible to undo the evil that the Baasgarta had done to these folk. With that in mind she dried her eyes and set to work.

It was work indeed, and bloody hard work at that. She bore Ynghilda's advice from the previous night firmly in mind and was firm with them. She did not ask them to do things, she commanded them. It pained her to withhold her empathy, but as much as she wished to be gentle they were simply not ready to respond to that. They didn't know how to respond to gentleness and civility. She could only trust in the Lord and Lady that would come with time.

She was reminded time and again that while the Braell might be tragically ignorant they were by no means stupid. Simple things like serving themselves their morning porridge, eating it with a spoon and putting away their bowls after was easy. Teaching them that they could use the latrine any time that they needed to, to simply get up in the morning and eat when they were ready all without anyone telling them to, that was the hard thing.

Squirrel was a blessing; not only was he more flexible owing to his youth, he was a ratter, a hunter of sorts. This required considerably more initiative than the others’ jobs so the concept was at least less foreign to him and he did his best to explain it to the others.

After breakfast a wagon pulled up outside and soldiers unloaded a few bales of trousers, quilted great-cotes, knotted woolen socks and boots. There were also belts, pouches and duffels. Deandra, Squirrel and a couple of the household got everyone lined up and equipped. They made sure that everyone got what they needed and knew to stow everything that they weren't using in the duffel.

This led to a new set of problems of course. Adult dwarves were pretty much of a size with one another, and that size was about six inches taller than these people, and more heavily built. This made the Braell look like children playing dress-up in the one-size-sort-of-fits-all uniforms. Thank the Lord and Lady for the belts, she thought.

The other difficulty was the boots, which apparently came in three sizes; too large, too small and too tight. Only about half of the former slaves were able to find a pair that would really work for them. But everyone wanted to wear their new boots even if they were ridiculously loose or painfully tight. Eventually she gave up trying to convince them not to.

“We'll need some hides,” she told Ynghilda, “and we'll add a class on boot-making to the list of things to do.”

“We're pretty much right on top of slaughtering time, so we'll have pigskin and ox-hide aplenty soon enough,” the older woman said. “Might be we can reuse the leather from the boots that don't work, too. We'll manage.”

Ynghilda looked them over and shook her head, “I think we'll need to hold off on tailoring things for the moment. These folk will be putting on weight; no sense in doing the work twice.”

“We can at least work on the length,” Deandra disagreed, “That won't change. Except for Squirrel, of course.”

Deandra looked out over the gathered Braell as they stowed their new possessions away and frowned. Something about the scene bothered her, and it took her a moment to figure out what it was.

Dressed in almost comically oversized, uniform clothing they looked all alike and a bit ridiculous. Add in their brands, the nearly identical limping and the eye lost track of the fact that they were individuals. It makes them seem childlike, she thought; the danger is in the other dwarves seeing them that way. It might be that this generation of Braell would never fully integrate into dwarven society, given their small stature, scars etc. But that did not mean their children couldn't unless they were already viewed as being 'less' than other dwarves. An underclass.

“Problem?” Ynghilda asked.

“Potentially…” Deandra said and explained her thoughts to the older woman.

“So maybe some tailoring sooner rather than later, and some different clothes as soon as we can manage,” Ynghilda said, “And we may need to rethink the idea of distributing them among existing households too; it would be too easy from them to assume the role of 'servant,' especially while they are adjusting.”

By the time everything was sorted it was lunch-time. The former slaves simply couldn't believe that they were required to stop at midday and eat more food. When they realized she was serious they were ecstatic. She was pleased by their fastidiousness as she watched them eat until she realized that it was not out of a desire to be neat. It was to make certain that no scrap, no crumb or drop of broth was wasted.

Ynghilda joined Deandra as she watched the former slaves eat.

“The army boys also dropped off a load of arms and such scavenged from the Baasgarta,” she told the younger woman, “Which included a couple of cases of thwittles and sheaths. I reckon we might hold off on passing those out for a bit.”

Thwittles were small, simple single-edged knives used for everyday chores and as an eating utensil. Everyone carried them from the time they were five or six years old, but among the Braell only the cook in each crew had one.

“I've a plan for that,” Deandra said, and explained it to the older woman.

“You've a talent for this work,” Ynghilda said, “That's going to come in right handy. We need to take note of what we're doing here, what works, what doesn't and what sort of problems we have. Remember, were going to be faced with this problem a thousand times over after the war.”

Deandra was startled by the thought.

“Not us personally!” she protested.

“No, but the folks that do could benefit from our experience,” Ynghilda said, “I'm given to understand that a party has already set out from Ironhame. You can bet they'll want to talk to us and review what we've done.”

After lunch they broke the Braell up into groups with different tasks. The cook and one other person from each crew were sent to the kitchens, where they first helped to wash up from lunch. They also set to washing the knives that the army had brought. Deandra didn't even want to think about what the Baasgarta had used them for. After the washing was done Aunt Gerdy set them all to simple tasks, slicing and peeling ingredients, learning to make bread and the like. Aunt Gerdy of course insisted that they sample things as they went along 'so that they would know how it was supposed to taste.' Naturally each of the 'assistants' was given a thwittle of their very own to help with the work. Deandra smiled to herself and thought, kitchen-duty is going to be very popular for a few days…

In the great hall the remaining Braell were divided into groups. Some of the household showed one group of them how to fit and resew their clothes. Several of the militia were brought in and helped another group with the boots. As yet the supply of hides was limited so they mostly focused on modifying the boots they had. A last group helped with the laundry. They did not yet have any of their own but the household and militia had brought plenty back with them.

Throughout the day Deandra was teaching them the language as they went, identifying each new thing that they encountered and making them repeat the words until they got it right. Squirrel was kept busy running from group to group and translating as best he could when needed. Most of the tasks were simple enough that they required little more than showing the Braell what to do and how to do it.

The Braell started out on these tasks dutifully, but as it dawned on them that they were doing these things for themselves and each other their enthusiasm grew. As alterations were completed on clothes and boots the groups rotated. The laundry was completed early, so that group joined the others as well.

Many of the former slaves already knew things like a simple whip-stitch from mending their clothes in the mining-pit. From what Deandra could gather they had also stitched hides (provided by the Baasgarta) around their feet to protect them in the winter-time.

One of the women, a girl really, approached Deandra shyly and pointed to the embroidered trim on the cuffs of Deandra's dress. She held it up for the girl to examine and she did so eagerly, fingering the stitching and examining how the trim was stitched on. Then the girl pointed to the trim and to herself and mimed stitching.

Deandra indicated the stitching and said, “Embroidery.”

The girl repeated this a few times and Deandra mimed stitching on the trim herself and said, “Embroider.”

In a very few minutes the girl understood the difference between the two words and Deandra pointed to the girl and asked, “You want to embroider?”

After a little more pantomime the girl understood and nodded her head enthusiastically. Deandra spotted Squirrel and waved him over.

“Please tell her that if she will sit with me by the hearth this evening I will teach her to embroider.”

This led the girl, appropriately named Sunlight, to learn the words 'thank you.'

The Braell were in a celebratory mood at dinner, animatedly discussing their day and what they had seen and done. After dinner they lingered at the tables while Ynghilda, Deandra and other folk of the steading gathered around the hearth. Ynghilda beckoned Squirrel over.

“Each crew has a leader, do they not?” she asked him.

“Yes Ma'am, they all have a boss,” he said.

“For now we think the 'bosses' should stay in charge of their crew,” Deandra said, “Do you think this will be a problem?”

Squirrel thought about that for a minute before replying, “Maybe, maybe not. Some good bosses, some bad. Make bad bosses be good, is good. Some…”

He was interrupted by a commotion at the back of the room, raised voices and a scuffle followed by a scream. Ynghilda scooped up her rifle as she and Deandra rushed to the source of the disturbance. She pushed through the crowd and bellowed, “MAKE A HOLE!”

The Braell may or may not have understood the words but they took the meaning well enough and parted to let them pass. A muscular older dwarf was holding a girl by the wrist with one hand and a thwittle menacingly in the other to hold off a group that Deandra thought were the girl's crew.

Ynghilda leveled her rifle at him and in a quiet but penetrating voice said, “Drop the knife or I will end you.”

Again the exact words might have eluded them but her intent was crystal-clear. The dwarf holding the thwittle let it fall and released the girl, dropping into a cringe. The girl scrambled away and her crew closed ranks between her and her assailant.

Deandra realized her teeth were gritted in a savage grimace and her sax-knife was in her hand. She forced herself to relax and slid the blade back into its sheath. Ynghilda advanced on the cringing dwarf and stopped with the big gun's muzzle inches from his face.

“Squirrel! Translate,” she commanded, “Deandra, was this man on kitchen-duty today?”

Deandra stood up to her full height, crossed her arms and favored the dwarf with a cold stare before replying, “No. He was not. He was not given that knife.”

Spotting the empty sheath tied to the girl's belt she continued, “The girl however was. He apparently stole it.”

Deandra turned to the girl and nodded to Squirrel to make sure that he translated, “Tell her that she is not in trouble, but that she must tell Ynghilda what happened.”

An older woman stepped forward and said, “I boss crew. I say?”

“Yes,” Ynghilda told her.

The woman spoke quickly to Squirrel, who nodded. Turning to Deandra and Ynghilda he gestured to the cringing dwarf and explained, “This one, Breaks Rock, is boss. Girl is Rock-flower. Breaks Rock take her knife, she say no. He say he take her for ridta, teach her he is boss. Her crew try to stop. This is all.”

“I see,” said Ynghilda tightly, “and what is this… ridta?”

“Is for making babies,” Squirrel responded matter-of-factly.

“I rather thought so,” Ynghilda said, “Ask Rock-flower if she wanted to have ridta with Breaks Rock.”

The girl shook her head violently as she said, “No no no!”

“Did she tell Breaks Rock that she did not want to have ridta with him?”

Squirrel asked her and she nodded, “She says she told him she did not want to.”

“And he tried to force her?” Ynghilda asked calmly. The girl nodded.

“I see,” said Ynghilda. Suddenly she spun the heavy rifle in her grip and smashed the butt into Breaks Rock's face hard enough to send him rolling across the floor. Stepping forward she jammed the muzzle into his groin.

“Translate this very carefully,” she told Squirrel, then raised her voice to continue, “We have a rule. No person may force another person to ridta. No boss, not anyone may force another to do this.”

She looked around, meeting the eyes of the gathered Braell as Squirrel translated.

“Breaks Rock did not know this, so I will not punish him this time but next time I will cut off his balls,” she said, jamming the rifle into his groin for emphasis, “and leave him outside for the wolves.”

She stepped back and pointed the rifle at the ceiling.

“Now you all know this rule. You have no excuses for breaking it. If you break this rule I will kill you. No more second chances. Do you understand?”

The Braell all nodded and voiced their agreement. Deandra stepped forward and said, “One more thing.”

She looked to Ynghilda, who nodded for her to continue.

“Breaks Rock is not a boss now. If he causes any trouble for you tell Ynghilda or me and we will deal with him,” she said, fingering the handle of her sax-knife. Reaching down she yanked the dwarf to his feet. He wasn't quite able to stand fully upright and he clutched at his bloodied face.

“Come on,” she told him roughly, “Let's go take care of that face.”

She half dragged him over to the kitchen. Aunt Gerdy was standing in the door, arms crossed with a cleaver in one hand. She glared at Breaks Rock but gave way. Thrusting him onto a stool Deandra gathered a bowl of hot water and a clean cloth. When he would not pull his hands away from his face, she cuffed him sharply and pulled them away herself to examine his injury. He had a serious gash on the side of his head, a broken cheek-bone and there was something wrong with his eye on that side.

“Please, Misses,” said Aunt Gerdy, “let us tend to him.”

She yielded her place. Aunt Gerdy and one of her kitchen girls bathed, stitched and bound his wound while she watched. The old woman did not offer him anything for the pain. When she finished she said, “That'll do then. You just tell him, from me- if he tries somethin' like that again he'd best just hope the Mistress gets to him before I do!”

The dwarf was escorted back out to the great hall to his bedroll, and Deandra went to report to Ynghilda.

“You did him up proper,” she told her, “It'll be weeks before he can forget tonight's lesson. He may lose the use of that eye too.”

Deandra found she was shaking slightly from reaction and when Ynghilda poured her a tiny cup of Uis-Ge she accepted it gratefully. She downed it quickly, feeling herself relax as the liquor burned her throat. After taking a moment to catch her breath she said, “This was in some measure our own fault; we should have made the rules plain to them first thing.”

“Well, that's one rule they’re not likely to forget soon,” responded Ynghilda grimly. “Tomorrow we'll lay down the law for them, and now that they have some sense of the consequences it'll more likely stick with 'em.”

Deandra had to agree with that. Sunlight did not put in an appearance to learn embroidery that night and she was just as glad. It had been a long, hard day.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“War is an iffy business. All of a dwarf’s skill and cunning can be rendered moot by a random arrow or catapult stone. It is said that chance favors the prepared mind, but in war she plays no favorites.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

“Well,” Engvyr said as he lowered the spyglass and handed it to Taarven, “I think it's safe to say that we found the main body of their forces.”

Taarven accepted the glass and took a long look through it. He gave a low whistle.

“Lord and Lady, I hope this is the main body of their forces!” he exclaimed.

They were at one of the lower summits in the area looking down into a broad river valley. Where the ground wasn't covered with tents it seethed with Baasgarta. Rather than the neat rows and columns of a dwarven army encampment the goblins favored round tents organized in circles. Not being used to their formations or unit organization Engvyr was having a hard time coming up with a decent count of their numbers. Somewhere between 'lots and lots' and 'oh Lord and Lady we're all gonna die,' he thought.

“It's hard to be sure at this distance,” Taarven said, “But I'm thinking in the neighborhood of fifty to seventy thousand?”

“That's a mighty big neighborhood,” Engvyr said, “And we have four regiments? Call it fifteen thousand effectives? That hardly seems fair…”

“Be reasonable, Engvyr. If we wait around for more of 'em to show up we could be here all winter!”

The Rangers shared an ironic look and eased back from their viewpoint. They were getting ready to work their way back down the mountain to their ponies when Engvyr realized Taarven had frozen, eyes wide and surprised.

“You've gotta be kidding me!” he exclaimed.

Engvyr followed his gaze to the cliff opposite them. There in the middle of an apparently sheer cliff stood an ulvgaed. Its rider was staring at them in shock that near-equaled their own.

“Bloody Maker-taken mountain goat mother…” Engvyr swore. The rider began to raise a horn to his lips as the ranger brought his long rifle to bear. WHACK!

As the heavy bullet slammed into his ribs the rider's horn gave a short 'honk' before dropping from his nerveless fingers. He overbalanced his mount as he toppled from the saddle and the pair plummeted from sight, the ulvgaed howling all the way down.

“Well, that won't attract attention,” Taarven commented mildly and began to slide down the slope towards their own mounts. Engvyr launched himself after him.

“Well, I couldn't very well let him blow that horn, could I?” Engvyr protested, wincing as his backside bounced off a rock protruding from the slope.

When they made it down they stopped briefly. They could feel the ground thrumming under their feet and hear the crackling rush echoed back to them from the direction of the cliff. A cloud of dust rose from the gully.

“Because this is so much better,” Taarven commented dryly, then held up a hand to forestall further protest from his partner, “But we can discuss that later. For now I suggest we should perhaps run like hell?”

It was well after midnight when the two rangers rode their exhausted ponies into the fortified camp. After unsaddling them and giving them a good rub-down they turned them loose into a corral and made their way to Captain Gauer's tent to report what they had found.

“That tallies with the other reports that had been coming in,” the captain told them.

He looked at them sharply, his eyes taking in their condition for the first time. “You boys look like hell. Get cleaned up and get some chow in you. Likely it's gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

They took his advice. As Engvyr drew a basin of water to wash up he pondered about the Baasgarta. Between the reports of the Braell and the statements of some of the captured Baasgarta the goblins had experienced a major religious upheaval a few decades before. A messianic figure called The Dreamer had emerged and claimed that a God, the True God, spoke to him in his dreams. He had rallied the Baasgarta and gotten them all working together. His message, supposedly channeled from their god, was that they would rise up and take the world for their own, eradicating or enslaving all the lesser creatures and establishing a new order in the world. Whatever had been dug up in the Makepeace Valley was apparently crucial to this 'uprising,' but none of their captives were clear as to exactly what that might be.

Despite the disparity in numbers Engvyr was confident that the Baasgarta would be defeated. The goblins fought as a mob, with little organization or discipline. Thus far they had proven to be no match for the well-trained and highly disciplined dwarven regiments, even when they had the dwarves massively outnumbered.

Some held that faith made men powerful, that religious fanaticism made them strong. He had nothing against faith; Engvyr, like many dwarves, was a student of history. He had studied the military history of his people and he had observed fanaticism was more likely to make an army stupid, over-confident and ineffective. If the Lord and Lady favor an army, he thought, they seem to have a marked preference for well-disciplined and organized ones.

He put such thoughts aside as he wrapped himself in his bedroll and fell quickly asleep. He dreamed of the Daenteg Idengeord, that strange un-living plain at the top of the world he passed through as a boy. He hadn't dreamed of that place in years. He woke ill-rested, oppressed by a heavy sense of foreboding.

He was quiet and still out of sorts when he joined Taarven in the mess-tent at breakfast. Taarven was caught up in his own thoughts and did not comment on his partner's moodiness. They had finished their meal and were each nursing a cup of coffee when a Senior Ranger entered.

“Formation in fifteen minutes, people!” he yelled, “Fall in on the stables in fifteen!”

Engvyr and Taarven looked at each other with raised eyebrows. The Mountain Guard almost never held a formal formation where they actually assembled by squads. Too many of them tended to be out on their rounds at any given time to make it worth bothering with such formalities. They finished their drinks and went to join the other rangers gathering by the stables. They managed to get themselves lined up credibly enough and waited to see what would happen.

The Senior Ranger came out and called them to attention, then Captain Gauer addressed them.

“We have a movement order, people. At first light tomorrow morning our assembled forces will be maneuvering to contact with the Baasgarta. Skirmishers from the 1st, 3rd and 4th will be scouting ahead. We have been assigned to guard the baggage train and perform as a rear-guard.”

The Captain ignored the groaning that followed this announcement and continued.

“Command expects that we will be in contact with the enemy by nightfall tomorrow. The plan is to dig in hasty defensive positions and not engage until morning. At that time we will be assigned individually as runners for the Army commanders. When you are dismissed you will see to your weapons and equipment and insure that all is in readiness for the move tomorrow.”

The Captain paused and looked at each of them before continuing.

“Get some rest. Unless I miss my guess we're fighting tomorrow night, whatever the commanders are planning.”

With a final nod the Captain turned the formation over to the Senior Ranger, who split them up into different details to prepare for the advance. Engvyr and Taarven wound up helping to break up the ranger's supplies and get them distributed. Since they would be working as runners each man would have to be self-supporting. They would carry their own food, water and ammunition for the day, in addition to bandages, their bedroll, cleaning kits and a measure of Uis-Ge for pain-relief and disinfecting wounds.

As they finished other chores the rangers accepted their packs from Engvyr and Taarven, then went through them to check every item for themselves. It wasn't that they didn't trust them; it was simply that they were all tired and anyone can make a mistake. Best to catch any errors while they were still easy to fix.

Engvyr and the others sat up for a time after dinner cleaning their carbines, touching up the edge of a sax-knife, reinforcing the stitching of their boots or other mending chores. The Mountain Guard chose it's rangers from among the ranks of the veterans of the regiments, so there wasn't a one of them that didn't know what to expect in the coming days. Most worked in silence, lost in their own thoughts and memories.

If there had been any among them that were going into their first fight they might have been insulted at being relegated to bringing up the rear and guarding the supplies. But these dwarves knew the importance of those supplies, and were grateful for what would probably be a relatively easy day in the saddle. Once the battle started they would be in the thick of it, running orders and information from unit to unit to help coordinate the battle, and to make sure that those supplies got where they were needed.

Engvyr missed Deandra fiercely. Her wit, her quick mind, her iron will and her soft touch. She was a balm to him, and one he needed that night. Given his druthers she would be tucked safely away in Ironhame, but she would never have stood for that. Deandra was not a person to sit and wait while there was work to be done. She was far away from the battle with people he trusted and would be safe even if he didn't survive what was to come. That was the best he could hope for.

One thing Engvyr was keenly aware of: while the battles of the coming days might break the back of the Baasgarta they would not end the war. Somewhere ahead were the plantations, the great pit-mine of the dwarven slaves and the as yet undiscovered city or cities of the Baasgarta. It was going to be a long, hard winter.

PART FOUR: THE SWORD

Chapter Thirty

“To the young, war is glorious, adventurous and romantic. To the veteran it is hard work, drudgery and boredom with brief spikes of terror, with the added spice that one can die.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Even firm ground can become dusty after fifteen thousand men have trod upon it. Engvyr adjusted the scarf tied over his mouth and nose as the last of the supply wagons rolled past, but that did not keep his eyes from burning.

They rode close when the land was narrow, ranging far out to the flanks when the ground opened up. Riding rear-guard and watching the supply train was its own kind of awful. Not only was he eating the dust of the entire army but he was too well aware that the first sign of an ambush was likely to be a crossbow-bolt.

Taarven rode up, his clothing, gear and pony a uniform dirt gray from the dust. He lifted the edge of his scarf with the lip of his water bottle and drank before trying to speak.

“Seems like the road’s still clear behind us,” he said.

“Pretty much as we expected,” Engvyr agreed, “Seems like the Baasgarta are happy to set and wait for us to come join the party.”

Taarven favored him with an ironic look, then checked the sun's position and said, “Less'n I miss my guess they'll not be waiting much longer.”

“Going to be a bloody business. There is a powerful lot of them.”

Taarven shrugged.

“Quantity has a quality of its own, but truth be told these Baasgarta fellows aren't real good at large-scale combat. If'n I had to guess I'd say they've never fought a real war before.”

Engvyr nodded agreement, but said, “Even so, this isn't going to be a cakewalk.”

Taarven said, “That’s as may be. Regardless, we got it to do. Best we catch up.”

It was not long in fact before the column halted and a company of Heavy Infantry came back to take over guarding the supplies. The experienced teamsters quickly unhitched the oxen, laagered the wagons and the soldiers began to dig in around them.

Engvyr and Taarven unsaddled their ponies, rubbed them down and fed them. They got their bedrolls off of the saddles and lashed them across the tops of their packs. Engvyr left his long-rifle scabbarded with his tack and harness; his carbine was better suited to the job ahead. By that time a corral had been set up and the other rangers had gathered as Captain Gauer briefed them.

“The Baasgarta are massed in the next valley,” he told them, “So we're going to dig in for the night. Hopefully we can winkle them out of their hole and get them to come against us here. If not we'll assault them in the morning. They're still working on individual assignments for us, so for now just clean up and try to get a hot meal in you while they get things sorted out. Hopefully we'll all be in place by sundown. The Baasgarta will fight best in darkness but they might not want to leave their positions to come after us. I'd guess it's even odds as to whether they'll hit us tonight. Be ready!”

Engvyr cleaned the carbine meticulously before wiping the dust from the rest of his gear as best he could. By the time he had eaten, the Captain's prediction about orders proved true and he received his assignment.

“You’ll be running for Colonel Hengkvist, 3rd Battalion of the 4th Heavy Infantry. Report to him immediately; you'll find them deployed on the flanks of the 3rd Rifles at the north end of the valley.”

Engvyr grabbed his pack, nodded to his comrades and headed north at a jog. He passed through the hasty fighting positions being dug behind the lines for the 3rd to fall back into. Stopping to ask for directions he was told the colonel was on the right flank.

The 3rd Rifles were deployed in lines four ranks deep covering a half-mile of front. Two companies of Heavy Infantry anchored their flanks on either side where the ground rose at the edges of the valley. Engvyr worked his way up the slope and presented himself.

“Ranger Engvyr Gunnarson, reporting as ordered,” he said, touching the brim of his hat in salute.

The Colonel waved a hand in greeting and said, “Make yourself comfortable, Ranger. I expect you'll know if you’re needed. At any event you'll have a good view of the proceedings should the Baasgarta decide to try their luck tonight.”

He turned back to his conversation with the company commanders and Engvyr looked around for a good seat on the hillside. The battalion's Sergeant Major saw him and came over, checking the position of the sun as he did.

“I expect we've some time before our friends come a'calling. If'n you haven't had a hot meal there's still time before they shut things down.”

“Thanks, Sergeant-Major, but I'm all set,” Engvyr told him. The older soldier looked at him quizzically.

“Are you the Engvyr Gunnarson that served with the 3rd Rifles a couple decades back?”

Engvyr sighed and admitted that he was. He hoped that the Sergeant-Major wasn't going to make a big deal of it. His wish was granted when the Sergeant-Major simply nodded and said, “Thought so. Well, we oughta have a good seat for the show tonight.”

The sergeant wandered off and Engvyr looked out over the troops deployed below their position. The 3rd's lines spread out to either side of the narrow river that ran down the center of the valley. Looking at the lay of the ground and their positions he had to admit they had an excellent view.

He took a quick mental inventory. He'd had a hot meal, reported for duty, was in position and had nothing to do at the moment. That being the case he did what any experienced soldier would do under the circumstances. He sat down on the hillside so that he was comfortably propped up by his pack and went to sleep.

Engvyr woke instantly when a stir went through the nearby troops. Quickly looking around in the dimness he saw two mounted scouts trotting their ponies towards the 3rd Rifles lines from the north. Checking the western sky he guessed that it was an hour or so after sunset.

“They're coming, then,” a nearby soldier commented to his comrades. The infantry on the hillside were in 'hasty' fighting positions, really just a shallow hole with the excavated dirt piled before it to form a short parapet. It was simply a place for them to duck while they reloaded. On the steep slope it also insured that they had secure footing to fire from.

The soldiers checked their slug-guns and other weapons. Down along the lines of riflemen in the valley Engvyr could see them doing the same. Looking north along the enemy's avenue of approach he could see the range markers that the riflemen had placed earlier. They were simple planks driven into the earth with the side facing the enemy stained a medium brown and the side towards the dwarves a glittery, reflective white. The furthest was at three-hundred paces and they were spaced every fifty paces as they approached the dwarven lines to allow the riflemen to easily adjust their aim for the range.

Engvyr saw to his own weapons with practiced hands. He was not particularly nervous or afraid at this point; in fact he was rather bored. Plenty of time for terror later, he reflected. He very much wanted a cup of coffee but he could already hear the mass of approaching Baasgarta.

Soon the goblins hove into sight. They were a solid mass from this distance and they just kept coming and coming, carpeting the valley floor. The moon had risen nearly full and dwarves have pretty good night vision but even so they were within a thousand paces before he could really resolve details of the oncoming horde. They were advancing in ranks and keeping their lines together fairly well, given the ankle-to-knee-high brush that dominated the ground at this altitude. That will limit their pace, he thought. Attempting to charge over that carpet of foliage would be disastrous, at least for the first ranks. At five hundred paces they stopped, and he could see some milling about as they re-ordered their lines.

An Afmaeltinn army would have been shouting insults, clashing weapons against their shields and working themselves into a frenzy. The Baasgarta began a rhythmic chant instead. He could not make out he words or even the language at this distance, but the cadence would help them stay in-step and coordinated as they moved forward.

He could hear a distant shout passed along the goblin ranks and he watched the ripple along their lines as they unslung their shields and held them before them. Horns sounded and the Baasgarta began to advance at a walk.

“Load!” was the shout from their own lines and he watched as over three thousand dwarves, almost in unison, cocked their rifles and thumbed heavy lead slugs into the chambers of their weapons. He knew well the routine from his own days in the regiment, and his impatience and boredom evaporated as the enemy drew closer.

The Baasgarta were advancing in decent order, the column expanding and compressing slightly as they came. The front ranks were having a little trouble keeping station as they waded through the low growth but were quickly brought back into line by the shouts of their sergeants, or whatever the goblins called their equivalent.

As the enemy approached the range markers at three-hundred paces the dwarven sergeants bellowed, “Ready!” and the dwarves of the 3rd Rifles raised their weapons to their shoulders. This was quickly followed by the command to aim. Engvyr knew that in this light and at this distance the riflemen would be aiming at the mass of goblins rather than at individual targets. They would aim at a notional spot several inches below chin-height as well. That way if your shot was low it would still strike the body. If it were high you hit the head, or the person behind.

As the Baasgarta were two steps from the range-marker the command to fire was given. WHAM! Over three thousand rifles fired in unison. The soldiers immediately reloaded with practiced precision.

Advancing in a shield-wall was a standard practice, and against arrows or crossbow bolts it worked moderately well. But even at three-hundred paces, the rifles' long, heavy lead slugs blasted right through the shields and struck the men behind. The effect of the massed volley looked as if the entire thousand-man wide first rank of goblins had tripped and fallen simultaneously. Some fell deeper in the ranks as well and the line faltered for a moment.

The average dwarf in the 3rd Rifles had thirty years in ranks, and it showed now. The regiment looked like a vast machine as the soldiers broke open the actions of their rifles, cocking the pieces as they knelt in near-perfect unison. The first rank stood as they reloaded, closed the rifles actions and aimed. Exactly eight seconds after the first volley the eight-hundred and fifty rifles of the first rank spoke again. WHAM!

Then they repeated the process as the second rank stood, fired and knelt. WHAM! Then the third rank and the fourth. Every two seconds, like clockwork. Wham! Wham! Wham! It was a thing of beauty to Engvyr's soldier's soul.

He had to give the Baasgarta credit, they were game. The combined rate of fire of the regiment sent nearly thirty thousand slugs slamming into their ranks every minute, yet still they came on, marching into the meat-grinder. They were slowed by the need to step over or around their fallen comrades but they advanced, closer and closer. But ripples ran through their ranks now, and their front lines grew ragged. At two hundred paces the signal was given for the heavy infantry around him to load their shorter-ranged slug-guns.

For the first time the goblins brought their repeating crossbows into action. Waves of bolts rose from their ranks, but the range was still long for the light weapons and the goblins were firing blind from behind the shield-wall. Even when their fire reached the dwarven lines they had little effect against the steel breast-plates and wide-brimmed kettle helms of the dwarves.

The closer they came the more effective the dwarves’ shots were and more and more goblins were mown down. Engvyr was amazed at the Baasgarta's sheer bloody-minded refusal to break. He began to feel some apprehension now, for as many of the enemy as they had slaughtered and were still slaughtering, the goblins ranks still covered the valley floor as far as the eye could see. If the enemy didn't break the riflemen would be overwhelmed. Of course the dwarves still had two full regiments in reserve to back them up.

At one-hundred and fifty paces the heavy infantry added the fire of their slug-guns to the carnage. It was too much. The front ranks of the Baasgarta stopped, then tried to retreat and found that they couldn't. The weight of the soldiers behind them still trying to advance, stopped them in their tracks. Wave after wave of bullets slashed into them and in desperation the Baasgarta began to turn their weapons on their comrades. Thousands died before the horns finally sounded retreat and the pressure eased. For what little good it did them they put the shield-wall up and made a controlled withdrawal as waves of slugs continued to wash over them.

When the Baasgarta reached two-hundred and fifty paces distance the dwarves stopped firing. They hadn't enough ammunition to pursue the goblin force. As if the sudden cessation of the gunfire were a signal the mass of goblins broke formation and ran for their lives. The first battle of the war against the Baasgarta was over.

Chapter Thirty-One

“ It may seem a fine thing in song or story to be ankle-deep in the blood of your enemies but in reality it's slippery, smells bad and is nearly impossible to get out of your socks afterwards.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Engvyr had seen battles and their aftermath before, but he stood and looked out over the carnage before him in shock. He had walked down to the edge of the slope and just stared. The battlefield was carpeted in bodies, several deep in places. Dwarves moved among the dead and injured, wading in blood. The air was thick with the coppery stink of it, and it had pooled so deep in places that the wounded had drowned in it. Occasionally a shot broke through the moans and screams as a soldier gave mercy to a downed enemy. Looking out he could see a band of bodies a hundred and fifty paces wide stretching the breadth of the valley.

Looking across the 3rd's lines he could see soldiers bandaging each other’s wounds, and only a few stretchers as seriously wounded or dead dwarves were carried back from the lines. What in the Lord and Lady's name is driving them? he thought, looking back to the field of dead goblins. Normally you expected an enemy to break or disengage by the time that they had lost one man in ten of their force. Sometimes half that if a battle was obviously going against them. But unless he missed his guess the Baasgarta had lost a full third of their forces here.

He looked up to see the Sergeant-Major approaching. He acknowledged him with a nod and the old soldier stopped and surveyed the battlefield with his hands on his hips and shook his head in wonder.

“We'll be all night just clearing a path through this mess,” he said, “But I think that you're done here for tonight. Best you rack out and get some rest; I expect they'll have plenty for you to do tomorrow.”

Engvyr thanked him and returned to the Mountain Guard's bivouac. Naturally the evening's action was the only topic of discussion. He grabbed a cup of coffee as he took a seat and listened in. Several other rangers had been in position to see the battle and he let them tell the tale. If you could even call it a battle, he thought. Reports came in as the evening progressed. The 3rd had suffered only a few hundred casualties, most of them relatively minor. It appeared that they had lost fewer than two-hundred in exchange for upwards of twenty-thousand of the Baasgarta.

“Don't get cock-sure,” Taarven advised the group, “These boys had never experienced massed rifle-fire before, and the ground favored us. They'll find a different way to come at us next time, and you can damn sure bet they won't fight our fight again if'n they can help it. It's only going to get harder from here.”

Several heads bobbed in agreement, Engvyr's among them. There were few quicker ways to get killed than assuming that your enemy was stupid. The Baasgarta would be studying on ways to overcome the dwarven army's strengths, so they'd better stay on their toes.

“Alright heroes,” the Captain's said, “Rack out. Likely they'll be finding something to keep us busy tomorrow, and we'd best be ready.”

The next morning the pursuit began. Engvyr, Taarven and the other Rangers scouted ahead followed by groups of skirmishers in platoon-strength. Work had indeed gone on all night to clear a path through the bodies of the Baasgarta, and the regiments advanced along that line. Less than half a league from last night's lines the small valley spilled out into a broader river valley that wound its way north through the mountains.

The scouts moved ahead warily keeping an eye out for ambushes and traps. They were mounted and had it easy at first as they moved across the open terrain with its low bushes and heather. But as the day wound on the valley's altitude dropped below the tree line and they found themselves working their way through the scrub forest. The groups of skirmishers followed behind, ready to converge on any ambush or disturbance. The regiments had it relatively easy; if there had been no road here before, the tramping of tens of thousands of Baasgarta feet had made one now.

Tensions mounted as the day wore on, but there were no alarms, no ambushes. Just the tracks of the fleeing Baasgarta becoming more and more organized as the day went on, until finally the signs indicated that they had again formed up into a relatively disciplined force. They also found signs that a sizable force of Baasgarta cavalry had joined the column from one of the side-valleys.

On a good road in open country the regiments could march ten leagues a day for weeks on end if they needed to. In this terrain they managed half that, and set up a full camp, protected by spike-covered earthen berms. The valley had widened out to two miles at this point so they set up in four camps in a diamond formation that allowed each to support the others in the event of an attack.

Throughout his time in the army Engvyr had never stopped being amazed by the speed that this could be accomplished by a few thousand disciplined and motivated dwarves. Within two hours of stopping the camp was compete, row after neat row of tents interspersed with larger command and mess tents. Every man would have a hot meal and sleep in their own cot, but at any given time one third of them would be manning the parapets of their camps. No one expected trouble that night, but they were deep in enemy territory following a force that still outnumbered them by three-to-one or more.

The Mountain Guard was not in the watch rotation for the evening, so they sat up in their mess tent, drinking coffee and talking quietly among themselves until Captain Gauer made an appearance.

“Best get some sleep, boys and girls,” He told them, “We're heading out down the valley tonight. We're to scout ahead and try to establish contact with the Baasgarta's main force and report their location and progress. We'll leave at the change of second and third watch.”

They broke up the gathering with some good-natured grumbling and a few jokes and racked out.

They were roused from their slumber near the end of the second watch, and Engvyr sat up on his cot and shook his boots out, purely by habit. At this time of year and altitude they were unlikely to house unwanted guests. Pulling the boots on he dressed quickly in the chill of the small hours of the night. There was just time to stop by the mess tent for a quick cup of coffee before they moved out.

“Be careful out there tonight,” the captain warned them as they made ready, “The Baasgarta were moving in fairly good order by the end of the day. Might be they left a little welcome for us up the valley.”

He'd hardly needed to tell them that, of course. They were each keenly aware of the dangers they were facing.

Engvyr's pony was inclined to be ill-tempered at being roused before dawn, and nipped at him as he saddled the beast. He evaded the half-hearted protests with the ease of long practice as he slipped his long-rifle into its scabbard and mounted. The rangers silently walked their ponies through the sleeping camp. The infantrymen on watch moved the spiked barricade from the sally-port in the earthen berm as they approached, giving them a wave as they passed out.

Taarven and Engvyr forded the river and rode into the trees of the eastern slope of the valley, quietly picking their way through the forest, relaxed and alert. Their eyes tracked back and forth constantly; in the dark their peripheral vision would catch movement better than staring straight at it.

They also watched their pony’s ears and bearing; the beast’s keen senses would provide the best warning.

The moon set and it grew darker under the trees. They slowed further, letting their ponies pick their way forward at a walk. They rode side by side just a few feet apart, their mounts’ hooves nearly silent on the thick carpet of needles beneath the pines. Engvyr saw his pony’s ears prick up and the beast raised its head as it stared into the darkness to their left. Taarven's mount did likewise and both rangers eased their weight back in their saddles to tell the ponies to stop.

Engvyr listened to the night but all that he could hear was the sound of rushing water in one of the ubiquitous creeks that flowed down to join the river in the center of the valley. Then he saw a small, pale spot moving, then another and another, a stream of them moving slowly south. Scanning with his peripheral vision he realized that a column of riders was passing through the woods not fifty feet from them. Baasgarta cavalry, each with a small tag of light colored material on his back to allow the rider behind to follow in the inky blackness of the forest. They were in plain sight of the other riders but had so far gone unnoticed, and they might remain unseen if they did not move. Thank the Lord and Lady we’re downwind, Engvyr thought, if those ulvgaed caught a whiff of our ponies…

They waited while the column slowly drifted by, praying silently for their mounts to stand still. It was a sizable force and took some time to pass; no rider was going to move quickly in the darkness of the forest. Finally the riders were gone, vanished into the darkness.

Engvyr edged his mount closer to Taarven's and very quietly said, “How many do you reckon?”

“At least company-strength,” the other ranger replied.

“Matches my count,” Engvyr said, “What'ye reckon the odds are that those fellows are the only ones headed for our troops?”

“Pretty poor. Let's head up-slope and get back to let 'em know that company's on the way.”

They worked their way up the side of the valley alongside the stream, alert for any other columns of riders that might be slipping by, but they saw no one else. Reaching the tree-line they turned south. After the darkness in the forest it seemed almost well lit to Engvyr, and he realized that the sky had brightened with false-dawn. The contrast between the lightening sky and the dark ground would make it difficult for anyone below to see them, and they pushed the pace as much as they dared; they needed to get ahead of the Baasgarta and warn the camps. Even if they did not attack they could easily be in place to ambush them on the move the following morning.

The camp was already stirring, with dawn breaking just as the rangers arrived. They quickly reported their findings to the Captain, who was able to confirm that others had also seen riders moving south. It seemed likely that at least a battalion of cavalry was going to hit them. The alert was passed along.

Feeding the two rangers was the last thing the cooks did before tearing down the mess tent. Taarven and Engvyr wolfed down their breakfast before saddling fresh mounts for the day's movement. The soldiers had the camp torn down even faster than they had put it up. The column formed quickly and began to move along the path left by the fleeing Baasgarta. Somewhere ahead the cavalry waited, but they were ready…

Chapter Thirty-Two

“There are two kinds of powerful people. Those that see wealth and power as a means of helping others, and those that see it only as a way to help themselves.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

“Riders coming in!” shouted the sentry from the gatehouse. Ynghilda and Deandra were crossing the court, deep in conversation and paused. Whomever it was that was coming, the guard stood and waved them straight through. From that Deandra deduced that they were known to the guard, and thus most likely to her as well, so she was quite surprised when the riders entered the courtyard at a trot. She was more startled still when Ynghilda gave a gasp of shock and knelt, but not so startled that she failed to emulate her.

The first, and most commanding figure among them, rode a large bay pony, thick of neck with a long, flowing mane and heavily feathered lower legs. Its tack, harness and saddle were richly made with accents of silver. The rider's clothes were of utilitarian cut, but excellently made and richly trimmed. He was not elaborately coiffed as one might expect from his clothing; rather his beard was in the short, neat trim that Engvyr and Taarven wore, and his auburn hair was cut in a soldier's bob. Deandra had spent enough time with Engvyr to examine the man's weapons as well. There was a long-rifle scabbarded at his saddle, a stout cut-and-thrust sword at his side and a handgun, the first she had ever seen, slung about his body.

Behind him rode a younger dwarf, only slightly less richly appointed, bearing a standard. They were accompanied by a dozen or so unhappy-looking mounted infantrymen. They bore badges on the shoulders of their great-cotes, the same as the emblem on the banner, a green oak with a circlet around its trunk. Which would make the rider…

“Prince Istvaar,” Ynghilda said, bowing her head in greeting, “We did not expect you so soon!”

The prince vaulted from the saddle and waved them to their feet saying, “Now, now, none of that! Save that nonsense for court, where there's already so much silliness that it doesn't look out of place.”

The two women rose and he regarded them with pleasure. He said, “Ynghilda Makepeace I presume? It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you as well, your Highness,” she replied.

Turning to Deandra he continued, “And you would be Lady Eastgrove?”

It took her a moment to realize that he was speaking to her. 'Eastgrove' was the name that she and Engvyr had chosen for their estate, though at present that 'estate' consisted of some pasture-land, patches of woods and the grove of chestnut trees for which it was named. Blushing she responded, “I am. It is a great honor to meet you.”

“Only because you don't know me,” he responded, grinning like a wicked little boy.

He pulled off his riding gauntlets and gestured with them to the leader of the soldiers.

“May I present Captain Kollyr Skullison of the Prince’s Own, and currently in charge of my bodyguard. Don't scowl so, Kollyr!” He commanded, then turned back to the ladies and said, with an air of confidentiality, “He's a bit put out that he couldn't arrive in proper state.”

The Captain rolled his eyes, and with a look that spoke eloquently of long-suffering patience said, “'He' is a bit put out that you left the bulk of the regiment to ride ahead without adequate precautions or guards.”

The Prince waved away that concern as the soldiers dismounted.

“Please,” Ynghilda said, “Have your men see to their horses and make free of our stables; in the meantime perhaps we can adjourn to the great hall for some refreshment? Captain, I'd be pleased to have you join us as well.”

Then she frowned and added, “I'd be pleased to have your men join us but the hall is near-bursting as it is with our other guests.”

“Ah yes,” the Prince said as the Captain passed the order along to his men, “The Braell, yes? I must confess that I am eager to see them for myself.”

“Well then, your Highness, come on in and we'll introduce you,” Ynghilda said, “If it's all the same I'll let Lady Eastgrove manage that whilst I speak to my own people.”

They entered the great hall, which was fairly teeming with Braell. They were divided into groups, and the last few days had made a world of difference in their appearance and demeanor. The women now mostly dressed like other women of Ynghilda's household in a linen underdress covered by a surcoat composed of the rectangles of fabric, front and back, connected by straps over the shoulder and belted at the waist. The men still wore what were basically army uniforms, but they had gotten past the notion that they must carry everything that they owned at all times. Some wore their great-cotes, closed or open down the front. Others wore just the linen undershirt and trews. They had lost the homogenous appearance that had worried Deandra and Ynghilda at first.

Deandra smiled to herself as she remembered their first cautious steps into individuality. One morning one of the men, looking very nervous, had been wearing his great-cote open with his shirt belted beneath it in a style favored by some of the men of the hold. The others had all watched her surreptitiously to see how she would react. Oh my, she had thought, realizing what was going on, I wonder if they actually drew straws to see who would brave our wrath. When neither she nor anyone else reacted to his initiative others gradually began to change their own appearance, until now each of them simply dressed in the way that they found most comfortable.

Deandra explained much of this to the prince as they moved among the groups learning everyday skills and language.

“I'm no expert,” the Prince said, “but the cut of the women's dresses seems a bit unusual…?”

Deandra nodded and explained, “We'd been worried about getting the women 'properly dressed' as we simply didn't have the fabric. It was actually one of the Braell girls that came up with the solution. We had quite a lot of extra undershirts and the girl, Sunlight is her name, asked if we mightn’t cut them off below the arms and stitch that to the bottom of their shirts to make a skirt. She so wanted to dress 'like a girl!'”

Deandra chuckled at the memory and continued, “Well, it simply hadn't occurred to any of us, but with a little tailoring it worked out quite well. She's learning embroidery also, and making impressive progress.”

They joined Ynghilda by the hearth to continue their conversation over coffee and some finger-foods. The Prince quickly took charge of the conversation.

“So,” he began briskly, “I and my Regiment are not here to reinforce the offensive, or at least not primarily for that purpose.”

“Oh?” said Ynghilda with a raised eyebrow. Deandra straightened in her chair and perked her ears.

“My mission is actually to do with the Braell rather than the Baasgarta,” he told them, “I am sure that it has occurred to you that we will be liberating thousands, or even tens of thousands of them. Liberating those people is in fact the purpose of the entire offensive; all other goals are secondary.”

“That being the case I'd like to spend a few days here to study what you folk are doing. I'll certainly learn a great deal from your experience, and mayhap I can make some useful suggestions of my own?”

He looked at them with an open, inquisitive expression. Deandra shared a look with Ynghilda and then said, “Well, your Highness, I'm sure that you are most welcome, and we will be happy to aid in your efforts any way that we may.”

Ynghilda offered her quarters for his use but he demurred. “I'll stay with my regiment,” he said, then with a somewhat ironic air continued, “I assure you, I will be quite comfortable! I tend to… travel well. King's son and all that; my staff would be horrified to have me travel in less than luxury.”

Several of the Prince's bodyguards entered the room and stationed themselves here and there about the great hall. Deandra noted that their eyes tracked around the space ceaselessly, never settling for more than an instant and never looking at the Prince himself. Exhausting duty, she thought, staying alert for hours at a time like that. But surely the Prince is safe enough here.

They discussed their dealings with the Braell, from the moment that the former slaves had arrived until the present. Throughout the conversation he listened with keen attention, asking intelligent and perceptive questions. Any inclination Deandra might have had to think him frivolous, based on his conduct at their initial meeting, evaporated as his formidable intellect and dedication to his appointed task became apparent.

“Have there been any more problems such as you had with that 'Breaks Rock' fellow?”

Deandra shook her head and replied, “None at all. They do learn quickly and are used to harsh discipline for the slightest offense. Once they are aware of the rules they abide by them scrupulously.”

The Prince raised an eyebrow and said, “And he was unaware that we would consider rape an offense?”

Ynghilda said, with evident distaste, “Not only was such behavior not punished by the Baasgarta, it was sometimes rewarded. Some of them liked to watch. Even so, and very much to the average Braell's credit, only the worst bullies among them participated in such… activities.”

The Prince leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers as he thought a moment before asking, “And this Breaks Rock fellow, how is he doing now?”

Deandra made a moue of distaste.

“Not well. While some allowance has to be made for his injury he has shown no signs that he is inclined to mend his ways. He has been sullen and withdrawn, and while not actually obstructive has made little progress, doing the bare minimum that he can to get by. I'm a bit concerned; some of the others inclined to be bullies are watching carefully to see how we react to his attitude.”

“How have you reacted?” the Prince asked curiously.

“Well for one thing he's been skipped over for kitchen duty,” Ynghilda said, “Which is when we issue them their knives.”

“A point that has not been lost on the other Braell,” Deandra added, “Thus far the combination of his injuries, and possibly the fact that everyone around him now has a knife, has prevented any attempts at violence. Unfortunately I wouldn't bet money that will continue indefinitely.”

“Well, we have pig-headed, stubborn bullies enough among our own folk,” the Prince allowed with a sigh, “As a change of subject, we'd like to take some of these folk with us when we move north; we're going to need translators, a good few of them at least. Ideally we'll want volunteers, and they'll be carried on the regiment's roles as civilian consultants.”

Deandra frowned in thought.

“That will be… problematic. Not only do they not really understand the idea of volunteering, they still don't quite understand pay or even what money is and how it works. We've been gradually introducing them to such ideas but it's pretty foreign to their experience.”

“Not to mention that it would be very easy to take advantage of them, even without meaning to,” Ynghilda added, “We'll have to be very careful establishing rules for any that go with you, and for the soldiers that deal with them.”

The Prince nodded, and said, “Well, we’ll need to work on that, then. I think we need to look for our volunteers among the best-adapted of the Braell, which will likely mean the young. Which could lead to its own set of problems…”

The problem with Breaks Rocks solved itself that very afternoon. The prince was introduced to the Braell as a group. Deandra was not sure that they managed to convey who exactly he was; the Braell still had only the shakiest grasp of the idea that Ynghilda's lands were only a small portion of a much larger area but they did get across that he was important.

The Prince was speaking to the group of them in the language class when there was a commotion. By the time Ynghilda and Deandra arrived they found Breaks Rock face-down on the floor at the bottom of a pile of Braell. They were holding his arms and legs, and several lying across his body as he was struggled and cursed. He still clutched a long kitchen-knife in one hand. Ynghilda stepped on his wrist and plucked the knife from his grasp. The Braell took this as a signal to release him, but even as he rose to his feet two of the Prince’s bodyguards took him firmly by the arms.

“Sir,” one of the bodyguards explained, “This fellow pulled out that knife and made to go for your Highness's back, but before we could fire, the Braell all grabbed him and piled on.”

“Ma'am? If I may?”

Deandra turned to the speaker, the female crew-boss called Drill Fast.

“Yes?”

“Breaks Rock, he hate being here, say we all sinning, betraying God again and he fix. He kill important-man and God love him again, then he die and go to Gotlaeyef.”

Deandra shook her head as she parsed that, and said, “You did well to stop him, but you should have told us.”

Drill Fast hung her head and said, “Some say so, but we not know, maybe he do, maybe is talk, so we watch, wait for him to do.”

“Well you did fine, but next time tell us before something happens,” Ynghilda said. She looked to The Prince, who in his turn deferred to Deandra.

“Lady Eastgrove is, I believe, the local Crown Authority, as well as being in charge of these people?”

Deandra shot him a glance, but his face was bland as he waited for her response. She had never thought much of her position as a Lady of the Realm; it meant less to her than it did even to Engvyr. Certainly she did not think of her position as placing her above Ynghilda, but in fact, in the legal sense, it did convey to her one particular, special obligation that Ynghilda did not possess. The right, the duty, of pronouncing High Justice. The power literally of life and death.

The Prince of course could claim that right, but he had abstained from doing so. It dawned on Deandra that he was testing her, and would be judging her performance of her duty. Her sentence would be reviewed by the Crown of course, but she still must act in accordance with her station.

She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and addressed the Braell, and for that matter all present.

“Breaks Rock stands accused of attempting the murder of a Prince of the Royal House,” She said, “We have account of his actions from this witness. Is there any among you that can dispute her claim?”

She waited a moment and turned to the Braell and said, “That means, do any of you say Breaks Rock was not trying to kill him?” she said, pointing at the Prince. They all remained silent, and a few of them shook their heads. She turned to Breaks Rock.

“Do you say that you were not trying to kill him?” she asked him, indicating the Prince again. He simply glared at her from his one good eye, so she continued asking, “Do you have anything to say in your own defense?”

Now he spoke.

“You are ugly to God! You will all die in pain, and when the Sleeper awakens he will ridta your souls!”

There was more of the same, but eventually he wound down. Deandra had killed men, Baasgarta anyway, in the heat of combat. This was different, but she understood that it was just as necessary. For the first time she felt the weight of responsibility, the reality of the power granted to her by marrying Engvyr. She consulted Ynghilda briefly, being unsure of the proper phrasing and terms. Then steeling herself, she continued.

“Breaks Rock, by the statements of those present and the witness of my own eyes, I find you guilty of attempted murder and Regicide. By the Power vested in me by His Majesty Dvalin Dvalinson, King of Dvargatil Baeg I must now pass sentence.” She took a deep breath and continued.

“Breaks Rock, you are cast outside the law and sentenced to die. Upon review of your sentence by the Crown Court, you will be taken from this place and before the eyes of His loyal subjects you will hang by the neck until dead. May the Lord and Lady have mercy upon your soul.”

“Ynghilda,” Deandra said as she turned to the older woman, “If you would be so kind as to place the condemned in confinement until such time as the appropriate authorities can review his sentence?”

Ynghilda nodded, then turned to the prince and said, “Unless his Highness cares to exercise his rights in this instance?”

Deandra had no idea what the stead-holder was talking about, but the prince, seeing her confusion and guessing at its source, explained.

“One of my many duties is that I am an honorary High Justice of the royal court, and as such I have the power to review your sentence. Given, however, that I am the intended victim of the crime in question I think that I need to recuse myself. Please place Breaks Rock into confinement for the moment.”

Ynghilda nodded and signaled for the prince's men to follow her and departed. Deandra favored the prince with a considering look.

“So,” she said, “It would seem that our procedures for rehabilitating the Braell aren't the only thing that you were sent here to evaluate.”

The prince shrugged, unabashed.

“Lady Eastgrove,” he said without any hint of apology, “A person of, forgive me, foreign birth has fallen into one of the highest positions in our society. Surely you understand the necessity of gauging the mettle of that person as quickly as was practical?”

Deandra nodded reluctantly, but nonetheless folded her arms and gave him a less-than-sweet look.

He did now have the grace to look a little uncomfortable under her regard. “I must confess, I originally had in mind to simply form an impression of your character, not to put you to such an extreme trial. Which you have passed admirably, I must say. Still, I cannot apologize for my actions, merely express regret at having caused you discomfort.”

So saying the Prince bowed gravely to her.

Deandra shook her head slightly and said, “I suppose that I cannot expect you to apologize for doing your duty, so let me say that were apology needed, forgiveness would have been forthcoming, and let us proceed from there.”

“So then,” he said, gesturing to the chairs by the hearth, “Shall we discuss that other matter that brings me here? The situation in Baasgarta lands will be different, having no place such as this to bring the newly liberated Braell into. What would you advise?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“It's not enough to abstain from volunteering for the hard jobs; you need to abstain from competence, too. Too bad I never managed that trick… it would have saved me a world of trouble.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

The cavalry hit them at mid-morning. The column was moving up the river valley after the Baasgarta forces with the 3rd Rifles at its head in a double-column eight ranks wide. They were moving along the open ground by the river when the goblins charged them from the edge of the forest around three hundred paces away. They came on in a mass, in hot pursuit of a hapless ranger that had been scouting that flank and might have triggered their charge early. Engvyr and Taarven were scouting on the opposite flank.

The ponies that dwarves could ride were no match for the Afmaeltinn horses that they might face in the south, so while they had mounted infantry that would ride into battle they fought dismounted. That didn't mean that they didn't train to deal with cavalry charges. As the Baasgarta poured out of the trees the horns blew the signal to receive cavalry on the right flank.

The column stopped and immediately executed a right-face towards the enemy. The first rank knelt and the second rank aimed over their heads. The trick to breaking a cavalry charge was to hit them as hard as possible as fast as possible so the dwarves fired two ranks at once. The 3rd Rifles was an elite formation and it showed. Though no signal was given, eight-hundred rifles spoke as one in a near-perfect volley. The charge faltered as several hundred of the lead riders went down.

The second rank knelt and while they reloaded, the third and fourth ranks fired over their heads with devastating results. But even so the cavalry closed the distance in seconds. There was no time for a third volley before the goblins were on them.

The volleys broke the shock of the charge but did not stop it. Traveling in hostile country as they were, the dwarves had their bayonets mounted and used them to good effect. The kneeling soldiers stabbed into the charging ulvgaeds. The second rank rose to stab at the riders. Once the goblins were among them they laid about them with their falchions, their carnivorous mounts snapping at the dwarves. The riflemen struck back with bayonets and iron-shod rifle-butts, their heavy quilted coats, breastplates and kettle-helmets standing them in good stead now. The furthest ranks that had not been able to fire in the volleys sought targets of opportunity, firing over the heads of their comrades at the mounted goblins.

Engvyr watched with concern as the two forces came together in a swirling melee. This was his old regiment; dwarves that he knew and had served beside were dying in the midst of that chaos. He had to forcibly remind himself to keep an eye on his surroundings as well; there was no guarantee that this was the only cavalry force creeping about.

Behind the 3rd Rifles the heavy infantry was swinging out of the column to advance on the cavalry's flank with pikes and slug-guns, but before they could get into position the Baasgarta's horns sounded the retreat. They disengaged and raced for the wood-line, angled away from the approaching force. Sporadic shots from the 3rd followed them. The heavy infantry managed a single volley but the distance had opened too far and it had little effect.

Engvyr couldn't make out details from his vantage but it was obvious that the column of infantry had been ravaged. With an effort of will he put aside his concerns and they continued their scouting.

“We've already moved irregular troops from the northern militias up to fortify the Baasgarta garrison that we took last week; The wounded will be sent there for the moment,” Captain Gauer told them that night after they had joined the army in camp.

“How many?” Taarven asked.

“Over a hundred dead so far,” the Captain reported grimly, “Three times that number out of action due to injuries, some of whom won't survive. Maybe another two-hundred with minor wounds that will stay with the regiment.”

Engvyr winced, and asked, “And the Baasgarta?”

“We've found around four hundred so far. Can't really guess about their wounded.”

This was the heaviest blow the Baasgarta had dealt them yet, but all things considered it was still not that bad. It had weakened them a bit, and would hurt them still more because they would need to detach at least a battalion to escort the wounded to the garrison.

“Which reminds me,” the Captain said as he turned to the rangers as a group, “We'll be starting a new protocol tomorrow. You'll still patrol in pairs, but you'll keep a hundred paces between you whenever lines of sight allow. Should you encounter the enemy you are to blow a warning immediately, then attempt to evade.”

“We have found the enemy! It's been nice knowing you all,” quipped one of the rangers. The rest chuckled.

The captain smiled faintly and said, “It's a bad time to be us, but the army cannot sustain these sorts of losses indefinitely. Command has decided that they'd rather risk our butts than get caught flat-footed again.”

“In better news, the 4th Heavy Infantry is joining up with us tomorrow, and in two-three days we should be hooking up with the Eastern Force, consisting of the 1st Rifles, the 3rd and 5th Heavy Infantry, the 4th Mounted Infantry and the 1st Engineers. This will give us near parity in numbers with the Baasgarta force that we are pursuing.”

That was good to hear. If we can catch up to them with that kind of force at our back we'll roll them up, Engvyr thought.

“I'm going to meet with Command now. I suggest that you ladies get your beauty sleep. We've got an early start tomorrow.”

“Taarven, Engvyr, Torvaald, Brekke, you're with me,” Captain Gauer said, gesturing for them to accompany him. The four rangers looked at each other and followed. The other rangers stayed to get their scouting assignments for the day.

The captain led them into the command tent and turned to face them.

“You four have, through skill, determination and sheer, blind luck shown yourselves adept at surviving the worst of situations,” he looked them over for a moment before he continued, “As a result you have been selected for a special mission. We need a better picture of the lands of the Baasgarta. You four are going to get it for us.”

Turning to a table with a map showing the area of the river valley that they had explored thus far, he gesturing to the north he said, “Taarven, you and Engvyr will follow this valley. If there's nothing there hop the ridge into the next valley and keep going. Torvaald, Brekke. You'll do the same from this valley. Try to keep proceeding generally north. The valley that we are currently in seems to curve around in that direction so you might find yourselves ahead of the Baasgarta. If that occurs proceed up the valley ahead of them and see where they are going.”

“What are we looking for, sir?” Brekke asked.

The Captain shrugged and said, “Whatever is there. If you come across one of their 'plantations' make note of its position and carry on. If you find The Pit or a Baasgarta city return to report. Other than that you are map-making. Avoid contact with the enemy, and if you encounter any try to evade deeper into their territory. Any questions?”

“If we find neither The Pit nor a city how far do we go before we come back?”

“Five days out, five days back at the most.”

There were no more questions so the rangers went to make their preparations. Engvyr and Taarven were ready to go by the time the column began to form up. They brought with them a remount each and a pack-pony with supplies for two weeks of travel. Riding out of camp they headed north into the small valley that the captain had designated for them.

They rode cautiously at first, keeping to cover and looking for any signs of Baasgarta activity. They kept to the wooded slope of the valley, frequently cutting across to the other side to look for tracks or other signs. They found no evidence of a goblin presence so when the ground began to climb they crested the ridge into the next valley and found activity almost immediately. There was a small lake with a low stone house and several hovels on the shore. From their height they could see dozens of Braell along the shore working at some task that they couldn't make out at this distance, and several of the Baasgarta watching over them.

“Fishing or crawfishing at a guess,” Engvyr said, lowering the spyglass. Taarven nodded. They stayed high on the slope as they bypassed the outpost and continued north. By evening they had reached the point where their valley spilled out into a larger river-valley. Unless it doubled back on itself rather abruptly they guessed that this was not the same one the Baasgarta forces were fleeing along. This larger basin was under cultivation with many of the Braell just coming in from the fields. They watched through their spyglasses as the dwarves were herded into low structures, apparently just a peaked roof set on poles only a couple of feet off the ground. The poles were set too closely for any of them to slip out, and a barred gate closed them in for the night. A thread of smoke issued from under the roof at either end. At a guess there was enough room to stand only at the center of the structure. The Baasgarta posted no guards on the building and retreated into another of the low-roofed stone houses that they appeared to favor.

As it grew dark lights came on in the windows, and a short time later they could hear a thread of music drifting to them on the light breeze. Moving off the rangers found a hollow in the side of the valley where they dared a small fire for their dinner and coffee.

“It's funny,” Taarven said, “But it never occurred to me that they'd play music.”

Engvyr nodded and said, “I know what you mean. We don't think of them as being like us, reading or dancing or courting but when it comes down to it I suppose that a lot of them are just folks.”

“Just folks that have kept our people enslaved since the time of the Maker,” Taarven reminded him. Engvyr shrugged.

“Sure and that's true, but they still have to do the same sort of things as any folk,” Engvyr said, “Likely they're like most people, some good and some bad. They just live in a culture that says it's ok to keep dwarves as slaves. It's the culture that's evil, the individuals mostly just don't know any better.

Doesn't make them any less our enemies. It's a thing to think on after the war.”

Taarven poked at the tiny fire with a stick and said, “Which begs the question of what happens to all of these 'folks' when the war is over?”

Engvyr shrugged again.

“I honestly don't know. Fortunately that will be someone else's problem.”

“You dearly hope,” said Taarven with a wicked grin, “Lord Eastgrove.”

Engvyr reached out and casually shoved the other ranger. Taarven, crouched by the fire, had to flail to keep his balance, duck-walking sideways. He snickered and Engvyr glared at him.

“Don't you start that 'Lord' business with me! I've been your partner too long… I might just start to 'reminisce' with Ynghilda some evening…”

Taarven assumed a look of offended innocence and said, with mock-righteous indignation, “I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about! M'Lady and I have no secrets between us.”

“So she knows about that barmaid over in Sgeggisdale? The fat one?”

“That was one time, and I was drunk!” Taarven said, then looked at him reproachfully and admitted, “So maybe a fella needs to have some secrets…”

At first light they crossed the valley to the opposite slope and picked their way along under the trees. They saw other plantations and many Braell working under the watchful eyes of their masters. A road paralleled the river connecting the farms, and as the day went on the land below the slopes became more and more densely populated. They had to move more carefully now, as they came across evidence of logging and other activity in the forest. They dismounted to skirt these areas, one of them leading the ponies and the other scouting ahead, creeping from cover to cover.

Engvyr was scouting along the edge of a clearing when he literally ran into one of the Baasgarta. He rounded a large old-growth fir and a startled goblin rose and turned to face him, dropping his basket of mushrooms. Unlike the goblin Engvyr was primed for the encounter and struck immediately. He felt the iron-shod butt of his rifle crunch into the Baasgarta's temple with sickening finality. The mushroom-picker dropped like a pole-axed steer.

The ranger crouched and froze, looking for others. After several minutes he was satisfied that the goblin had been alone and signaled Taarven forward. They examined the corpse curiously; this was the first time they had seen a Baasgarta in their normal dress. He wore a light shirt bloused into homespun trousers and a leather jacket, fairly normal-looking boots, a belt with a knife and pouch and a broad-brimmed hat to protect him from the light. In the dimness under the trees he had undone the scarf that covered his face and they could see that he was hardly more than a youth. Engvyr's blow had cracked his skull and killed him instantly.

The dark brown leather jacket looked odd to Engvyr and examining it more closely he made a revolting discovery. The odd appearance came from the lack of seams, explained by the remains of a slave-brand on the back of the right shoulder. It was the complete skin of a Braell's upper torso, tanned, dyed and lined with woolen fabric. It was split up the front with buttons to close it.

“OK… that's just… wrong.” Taarven said. Engvyr was battling his own disgust as the reality of the Braell's true condition and situation became further apparent. They weren't merely slaves to the Baasgarta, they were a resource.

“Yeah… well, we're not at war with these people because we like them,” he said. They tossed the body down a rocky gully, hoping that when the corpse was found it would look like an accident.

They continued as they had been and as darkness approached they moved further up into the hills to find a camping spot. Looking to the northwest they could see a faint glow on the horizon. It was the reflected glow of light on the smoke of many fires.

“Could be their army,” Engvyr said.

“Or a city. I expect we'll find out tomorrow,” Taarven responded.

In the morning things had changed in the valley. The fields were empty and the central road was choked with groups of Baasgarta in 'civilian' clothes and Braell loaded down with bags and boxes. There were some carts and small wagons pulled by some sort of beast, ulvgaed perhaps. It was hard to tell from their vantage point.

“Refugees,” Taarven said, “I think we might be back to the main river valley after all.”

“This many nervous people moving around I think that we'd best stick to the heights today,” Engvyr said and Taarven nodded agreement. They spent the day moving along the upper edge of the tree line, the folds of the land bringing the refugees below in and out of sight. That afternoon the valley turned sharply north, and in the bend on the opposite side they could see what must be a Baasgarta city. They broke out their spyglasses and looked the place over.

The city had a low wall dividing it from the fields. It appeared to be ten to fifteen feet tall, varying with the rise and fall of the land. Past the wall were more of the low stone buildings that they had become accustomed to seeing, and as the ground rose along the side of the valley the slope was cut into terraces. Some of these had buildings butted up against the hillside, others had arched gates leading underground. With their spyglasses they could make out people moving, but whether these were Baasgarta or Braell they could not tell. Most likely it's a mix of both, Engvyr thought.

The refugees were funneling into the city through several gates in the low wall, crowding into the streets and moving through the arches into the underground.

“Looks like quite a bit of the place is mined back into the hills,” Taarven noted.

“Yeah… Gonna' be fun digging them out of there,” Engvyr said, “And that's a whole bunch of Braell. Don't know how they're going to figure into things, but I doubt they're going to make it simpler.”

As sunset approached and the refugees outside the city began to thin out they could see Baasgarta directing large parties of Braell outside of the city. When it became apparent what they were up to Engvyr began to swear softly. They were digging defensive earthworks and trenches, and the dwarves were all too familiar with the effectiveness of such when properly defended. With the large crews of dwarves at work the defenses began to take shape with remarkable speed.

Supplies and people moved in and out through the night. Taarven and Engvyr kept a cold-camp where they could keep the city under observation, sleeping in short shifts with one of them always watching. While it was hard to make out details the overall impression was of orderly efficiency. By first light activity had begun to taper off.

Dawn revealed the completed defenses and Engvyr was impressed. Over the course of the night a veritable maze of parapets, berms and trenches had sprung up. Studying the layout Engvyr saw that the works, while extensive, were far from perfect. There were interrupted lines of sight here and there and the overall layout wasn't optimal, but it wasn't bad. When those defenses were filled with determined defenders it was going to mean a hell of a fight to get to the city beyond.

“They moved the last of the Braell into the city just before sunrise,” Taarven told Engvyr, who had been taking his turn to doze. He started to say that if it came to a siege, as it surely looked to do, it was foolish to take so many of the Braell into the city. Then he realized why the Baasgarta had taken their slaves with them. They were a resource. He shuddered and mentioned his thoughts to Taarven, who shrugged.

“On the bright side,” Taarven said with dark humor, “The longer the siege lasts the less we'll have to worry about the Braell getting in the way…”

“That's not funny,” Engvyr said.

Taarven heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back.

“No, it surely is not, but Maker take me if I can see an easy answer to that problem, except to break the siege as fast as we can manage.”

“Lord and Lady grant that much,” Engvyr said fervently.

An hour after sunrise the sounds of a distant battle drifted to them, lasting perhaps fifteen minutes before stopping. The rangers looked at each other and declined to speculate as to the outcome, but they saw evidence soon enough.

At midmorning the Baasgarta army began to arrive and disperse into the defensive works, filling them from front to back.. As more of the army arrived they were passed through the lines to fill the next ranks of defenses. So the ones with the most rest will be the first to be engaged, Engvyr thought, a good tactic.

Wagons came out of the Baasgarta city and moved among the trenches and berms distributing supplies. More firing broke out, much nearer this time, and died away after a few minutes.

“Good news is it doesn't look like we'll have far to go to let our people know we've found the city,” Engvyr commented.

“Speaking of which it's about time for us to head out and report before they can see all of this for their own selves,” Taarven said.

They left their observation point and began to work their way south towards the approaching dwarven army.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Nothing guarantees that you don't know what's going on better than the certainty that you do…”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

“So in the end our mission was kind of a bust, I guess,” Engvyr said, finishing his report, “Seeing as the army caught up with us and all.”

“I don't know as I'd say that,” Captain Gauer replied, “If nothing else you've filled in the map some and gotten us an idea about how the more remote Baasgarta settlements are situated. Anyway, Torvaald and Brekke are still out there somewhere, north of this valley we think.”

They had found the Dwarven army less than a league from the city and driving the Baasgarta back. Now their forces were digging in their own defenses well out of reach of the Baasgarta heavy crossbows, which meant their rifles couldn't reach them either.

“Anyway, the Eastern Force should be arriving tomorrow. The engineers will have some thoughts about taking this place down quickly. Get some food and shut eye; siege-work isn't a job for Rangers, but I'm pretty sure that we'll be able to find something for you boys to do tomorrow.”

That proved true, as the two rangers discovered at first light.

“Gear up, boys,” The Captain shouted, waking the sleeping rangers, “The Baasgarta are on the move. Let's go!”

They rolled off their cots and dressed for action. Rather than repairing to the mess tent bowls of stew were brought to them as they dressed, so they sat on their bunks and shoveled it down as the Captain addressed them.

“The Baasgarta forces are assembling inside their defensive works. It looks very much like they intend to meet us on the field. Since by now they have to be aware of what a very, very bad idea that is, either they are suicidally desperate or they have something up their sleeves. Anyone care to place a bet as to which it is?” he asked rhetorically, “Right. Me neither.

“So what we are going to do is have a look up their sleeves, so to speak. Taarven and Engvyr, you'll go up the northwest side of the main river valley. Sergar and Gimli, you'll go up the east side. The rest of you will follow behind and peel off to check out the branch valleys, half on each side. Settle that among yourselves but let me know.”

“When do we pull out, captain?” Gimli asked.

The Captain gave him a flat look and said, “I have people saddling your ponies and seeing to your packs as we speak. Does that answer your question?”

The rangers ate faster as he continued, “Two days travel out, then straight back as fast as you can. Naturally if you find a surprise get back and let us know.”

“What about the southern approaches, Captain?” Engvyr asked.

“The army is going to cover that. Time to get moving, people!”

There was an increasing clamor building up from outside, soldiers rushing here and there in ordered chaos. From the sound of things the Baasgarta weren't going to keep the Dwarven forces waiting for long.

By the time the rangers were mounted and moving the battle had been joined. Baasgarta were pushing forward behind metal pavises and engaging the dwarves with their heavy crossbows as they advanced. The dwarves actually had a tactic to deal with this; there was a practical upper limit to the weight of a shield that could be maneuvered effectively in these circumstances. Each company would focus its volleys on a single shield. With each volley three pounds of lead would slam into each shield every two seconds. Often the shock of this would tear the shield out of the carrier's hands and the next volley would slam into the gap before the shield could be righted. Either that or the expert fire focused on the center of the shield would simply hammer its way through the metal after enough volleys struck. Then the company would shift fire to another shield. It was effective but relatively slow, and in the meantime the crossbows were producing casualties on the dwarves’ side despite their own wooden pavises.

The Baasgarta were pressing outward on a wide front, with a large reserve waiting near the gates to move out to exploit any weaknesses in the dwarven lines. As the sun rose the two armies were fully engaged, hammering at each other with the Baasgarta slowly creeping towards the dwarven lines.

The rangers skirted the outer edge of the conflict and headed north, riding through the abandoned plantations. Not far beyond the battle they came to a bridge over the river and half the riders peeled off and headed for the eastern side of the valley. Taarven and Engvyr's group rode through the plantations to the wooded slope and moved along the edge of the forest.

Within a league the first valley branched off to the west and a pair of rangers peeled off to check it out while the rest forded the stream that flowed down to join the river. They had only gone a few hundred yards when a horn sounded behind them. They pulled up and glanced at each other as the horn sounded again. They looked back and within moments the two rangers shot out of the mouth of the branch valley and rode hell for leather to the south, blowing frantically on their horns. Seconds later Baasgarta cavalry boiled out of the opening and charged after them.

Engvyr swore softly as the mounted goblins poured out into the valley, thousands of them bearing down on the rear of the dwarven army only a few thousand paces away.

“Well, that's one sleeve accounted for,” Taarven commented.

“So, do we head back?” Engvyr asked uncertainly.

“There’s still another sleeve to look up, I think,” Taarven said.

“Looks like we won't have to wait for that one either,” one of the other rangers said pointing north.

They turned in their saddles to see infantry spilling out of the next branch valley a half-league ahead and turn towards them. The rangers watched and rank after rank of Baasgarta emerged. So far the cavalry, several thousand strong, were ignoring them and heading south, but with the goblins bearing down on them from the other direction they couldn't stay where they were for long. By the time a third regiment marched into sight it was time to go.

“Follow me!” Taarven told them, and bolted for the river. They rode after him, heading not for the bridge but for a calm section where their ponies could ford the river. As they plunged into the icy water the lead for the pack pony came loose. One of the other rangers downstream made a grab for it but Engvyr yelled for him to leave it. Likely the beast could fend for itself well enough. Lunging up the west bank they turned south and spurred their ponies to a gallop. Engvyr was able to see some of the action around the city as they approached. The dwarves on the northern flank of the siege were turning to engage the cavalry and hammered them with volley after volley. Hundreds of the mounted goblins and their ulvgaed went down with each crash of the slug guns, but thousands more came on.

It would have been a massacre if the dwarves did not, out of habit, build their siege-works to account for enemies at their rear. Instead of slamming into the spike covered berms the cavalry force wheeled aside, racing along the fortifications. The gunners took a horrible toll on them, but each cavalryman had a light repeating crossbow and as they passed along the dwarven lines they emptied them as fast as they could fire before wheeling away to reload. The light, un-aimed quarrels individually weren't much to worry about, but the dwarven gunners were showered with them and inevitably, by blind luck and sheer weight of numbers, they were having an effect.

If the cavalry can take the beating long enough, Engvyr thought, then they can peel away just as their infantry arrives to hit the earthworks. That's going to get ugly in a hurry…

Once they were well clear of the battle with the cavalry, the rangers turned and forded the river and rode into the dwarven camp, right up to the canopy where the dwarven commanders were directing the battle, shouting to alert them to the approaching infantry.

The commanders immediately dispatched two of the rangers to get the supply train to move south, away from the battle on the flank. Two more were sent to the infantry to the north with instructions to reorient the defensive works to face the flank attack. Engvyr and Taarven were sent to find the commander of the 4th Heavy Infantry, the unit the cavalry was engaging, and tell them to prepare to pull back.

They rode their sweating ponies across the camp and dismounted, leaving them. They jogged between the berms and into the trenches, working their way towards the fight. Before they got to their destination they had to borrow shields to hold overhead against the rain of quarrels. Engvyr and Taarven found the commanders in a dugout crudely roofed with logs and gave them the order to begin pulling back.

The officers consulted briefly then came back to the rangers.

“Tell command we'll need support from the Battlemages; something to allow us to break off without getting hammered. We'll blow retreat when we need them, but we’re going to be in real trouble if they aren't ready.”

“Battlemages standing by when you blow retreat. Got it.” Engvyr said.

“Give us a quarter hour if you can,” Taarven told him as they ducked out of the shelter under their borrowed shields and raced away down the trench. They made it back unscathed and relayed the request. Other runners were sent to the Battlemages and the two rangers were instructed to grab some food and take a breather. There was half a cold ham, some cheese and bread in the command post and they munched on that while they rested.

“Here we go,” said one of the officers after a few minutes and moved into position to view the battle on the northern flank. Some of the other officers joined him and the two rangers came with them, pulling out their own spyglasses.

The cavalry had just come back for another pass, this time with their infantry at their heels to hit the dwarven lines as soon as they had softened them up with another hail of quarrels. The retreat sounded and as the oncoming cavalry began to fire, their mounts suddenly found themselves charging headlong into knee-deep mud. The results were catastrophic as ulvgaed went down en masse and those following crashed into them. Volleys slashed into the suddenly stationary cavalry. The ulvgaed, panicked, snapped at and trampled each other. The floundering beasts and goblins blocked their own infantry from advancing.

The dwarves of the 4th Regiment rose from the trenches and performed a fighting retreat, each rank firing a volley then moving back. The cavalry was massacred wholesale, their bodies forming a temporary obstacle to the infantry following them. The 4th moved behind the newly reoriented flank defenses and were ready to resume fire well before the Baasgarta infantry could close with them.

“I thought that might come in handy,” an officer said, “I've had the mages working on it ever since the cavalry came into view.”

Engvyr nodded. He was familiar with Battlemages and their uses from his time in the regiments. Big effects like this had to be used sparingly lest the mages 'burn out' from fatigue; if that happened they would be useless for hours or even days.

The day wore on and the battle seemed stalled along the front, neither side able to gain a concrete advantage. The battle on the northern flank however, was not going as well. The cavalry's repeated attacks had weakened the 4th, and they were slowly being pushed back as the day wore on.

One thing that seemed to be in their favor was that the Baasgarta either weren't using their battlemages or they didn't have any. Late in the afternoon one of the command staff, a captain, approached the rangers.

“I need you to go talk to the battlemages, see if they can detect any workings on the Baasgarta side. I'm starting to get the feeling they're saving them for something particularly nasty. Also ask them if they have any sense what has happened to Eastern Force; we need them and they should be here by now.”

They found the Battlemages a little down the slope from the command post. Many of them sat or stood, eyes closed. Some were resting, the others… well who knew what they might be doing? Catching the attention of a mage that didn't seem busy at the moment they motioned him over and explained the commander's concerns.

The mage frowned and said, “There’s definitely some magery going on over there.”

He indicated the city with a jerk of his head.

“It's deep inside the city though, and it's focused there, not out here. We've been trying to suss it out but it's different than anything we've dealt with before. I don't know what we should be expecting but I doubt we'll like it. As for Eastern Force, well, hang on a few minutes and we'll try to see what's what.”

He went over to a group of the standing mages and interrupted them with a touch on the sleeve. He spoke to them, gesturing to the rangers and then to the command area. They nodded and they all moved into a circle and closed their eyes. Engvyr looked at Taarven, who shrugged. After a few minutes the mage returned.

“Eastern Force is going to be late,” he told them, “The Baasgarta apparently broke a dam in one of the branch valleys and the flooding has slowed them down. I'm not sure how bad it was but I doubt we can expect them before midnight.”

The rangers relayed this to the commanders.

“This is not good,” Colonel Oakes said. He was the leader of the 3rd rifles and in overall command. “They're still pushing us back from the north, and they've brought their reserve to bear there as well. If something doesn't happen soon they're going to roll us up.”

They'll break the siege, Engvyr thought, and if they push us out of the fixed defenses it's going to get ugly fast. The truth was that they had gone into this fight outnumbered more than two to one. Generally when attacking you wanted to out-number the enemy, but the dwarves had been forced into the fight before the remainder of their army could get there. Their superior training, discipline and weapons might still have carried the day, but with the forces that the Baasgarta had brought down from the north they were now outnumbered at least four to one.

Engvyr and Taarven were sent forward again, this time to see how the 4th was holding up. They had much less far to travel this time. The situation, they found, was desperate.

“The Baasgarta are almost into the trenches, and we've nothing that can stop them,” they were told. Once the goblins were in the trenches the fighting would go hand-to-hand. While the dwarves would give as good as they got in such a fight that wasn't good enough, not while they were so heavily outnumbered. They would be overrun within the hour.

The rangers returned and passed the grim report along to command, who began furiously trying to come up with some manner of stopping the Baasgarta.

So this is what it comes to, Engvyr thought as he looked to the north in the gathering dark, If only we could just hold out until Eastern Force arrives… That was wishful thinking though. Movement caught his eye, a rippling in the darkness. The moon had not yet risen and he couldn't make out what it was. Had their reinforcements arrived after all?

He peered through his scope but he still couldn't see what the source of the disturbance was. It seemed to cover a good-sized area. Fires had been lit along the northern flank to light the battle but whatever was moving out there was too distant for the glow to reveal them. Suddenly hundreds of torches flared into life, illuminating a battalion formation just now flinging aside their darkly colored cloaks.

“You need to see this,” he called urgently. The officers came over and looked, many of them raising their own spyglasses. Engvyr looked again himself. The troops of the unknown formation were wearing breastplates over bright blue tunics, bright red leggings and caps. They appeared to be carrying a mix of pikes and short spears or…

“Are those rifles?” asked one of the staff in disbelief.

The question of whose side they were on was answered quickly enough. The Baasgarta noticed them and a group broke off to close with the newcomers, who stopped and spread out into line, four ranks deep. When the Baasgarta closed to just over a hundred paces the unknown force leveled their weapons and fired. The noise was just perceptible over the din of battle.

Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop!

The first rank of riflemen fired five shots in rapid succession! They knelt and the ranks behind them moved past them and fired.

Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop!

Somehow the distant gunners were firing a shot every second. The effect on the Baasgarta was devastating. The ranks kept leapfrogging forward, firing constantly and the Baasgarta melted away before them. The sound of distant screams came to them as the goblin casualties writhed on the ground until the advancing troops bayonetted them before continuing to advance.

“What the bloody hell?”

Engvyr wasn't sure who had said it but it summed up their collective feelings nicely. The strange battalion cut between the 4th and the Baasgarta, driving the enemy back and dropping to assume defensive positions. For the moment it appeared the flank was secure.

They all looked at each other in bafflement and Engvyr figured he and Taarven would be heading for the flank momentarily when they were hailed from the rear.

Turning to look they saw two baffled and very nervous looking skirmishers escorting a figure in the blue and red uniform of the unknown force between them. He carried a long-gun unlike anything they'd seen before and had a falchion belted at his waist. As he approached it was also obvious that he was a…

“Goblin?!” squeaked one of the aids in disbelief.

The goblin strode nonchalantly under the awning, nodded dismissal to his escort and looked around curiously. Spotting Engvyr he grinned and the ranger suddenly recognized him. He stared in disbelief as the goblin approached, bowed slightly and straightened before speaking.

“I see you, Engvyr Gunnarson Falkevellklan,” he said, clasping forearms with the stunned ranger, “I am Captain Grimnael Killraven, lately of the Southern Tribes Allied Forces and I am at your service.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“It's not horns, scales or fangs that makes a monster, it's a man's absolute certainty of his own rightness.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

When Engvyr mastered his shock well enough to speak he said, “Good to see you again, old friend. I see that your Common speech continues to improve.”

The Goblin shrugged and said, “It seemed that clear communication might be important. I also have brought some things of yours that fell into my people's hands, but for the moment that must wait. There are urgent matters to address; if I may send word to my people they will bring one who can explain.”

Engvyr glanced quickly at the gathered commanders, who were still too shocked to respond one way or another. Turning back to the goblin he said, “Of course.”

Grimnael turned to one of the skirmishers and, as if he had an unquestioned right to do so, ordered, “Go to the place you found me and blink a lantern three times. Three goblins will join you; bring them to us.”

The skirmisher looked around for confirmation and Engvyr nodded. The soldier departed.

Someone cleared their throat and he turned. Colonel Oakes said, “Ranger Engvyr, perhaps you would be so good as to introduce your, er, friend?”

Engvyr hesitated, not knowing quite how to introduce the goblin, but Grimnael rescued him by speaking.

“Normally it is the habit of our people to give our names only as a sign of great trust, but under the circumstances it is needed. I am Grimnael Killraven and I am the local commander of the Southern Tribes military forces. My official rank is Commander.”

The Dwarven commander bowed formally to him.

“We thank you for your timely intervention,” He said. Turning to Taarven he ordered, “I need you to go directly to the 4th's commanders and inform them to give our 'allies' their full cooperation and support.”

Turning back to Grimnael he said, “Not to look a gift-horse in the mouth, but how do you come to be here? We had no idea that you would help or had such… well-armed and disciplined units that might come to our assistance. Nor that you possessed guns, frankly.”

The goblin shook his head and said, “You dwarves! We make the finest clocks and mechanisms in the world! You think maybe we do this in caves? With rocks and twigs?”

Grimnael gestured with the gun he carried and said, “Is bellows and spring hooked to blow-gun. This is hard? But as to how we came to be here you may thank my friend, who spoke to me of the Baasgarta, and gave his name to insure belief. I took this news to our elders. Then other things happen, and the elders understood the threat. Because I am known among my people and yours they placed me in charge. We wish to show you we are not as they, these Baasgarta. What better way to show this than to help you, yes?”

The Colonel grinned and said, “I suppose so; certainly I’m not inclined to question your intentions after you have so handily saved our skins! Have you brought other forces as well?”

Grimnael nodded and said, “We have brought more, yes. For now I think maybe we hold those in reserve?”

The Dwarven commander looked around, catching the eyes of the command staff who suddenly decided that they had things to do.

“Things seem to have stabilized for the moment,” He said, “And we are expecting reinforcements before too long. Perhaps you will join us?”

He gestured to the map table and Grimnael joined the dwarven commanders there, looking over the map while they explained the layout of their defenses and the situation to him. Having no instructions to the contrary Engvyr joined them.

Shortly the skirmisher returned with the three goblins that he had been sent to retrieve. Two were uniformed like their commander. The other was in civilian dress, including a face-scarf and broad-brimmed hat. The civilian bore no weapons, not even a small eating knife.

“Ah good,” Grimnael said, and introduced them, “This is my Assistant. His rank is Leftenant and you may address him by his rank.”

Turning to the other uniformed goblin he said, “This is my… Your rank is 'Sergeant-Major.' You may call him 'Sergeant.'”

Indicating the final goblin he said, “And this is Kruger.”

The final goblin removed his hat and face-scarf, revealing his facial tattoos and hair tightly braided with beads and small bones. Several of the dwarves recoiled as the Baasgarta revealed himself, but Grimnael held up a hand to forestall any hasty action.

“Kruger will harm no one!” the goblin said, “He is… your word is what? A 'dissident?' He does not believe in The Dreamer, and wishes to tell you what he has told us. He is the other part of the reason that we are here.”

The dwarven commander gestured for them to join him and moved to one side. The others continued their work, though not without casting an occasional glance at the Baasgarta in their midst. Oakes favored the tattooed goblin with a flat look and said, “Well?”

The Baasgarta spoke, with Grimnael translating.

“Know this,” Kruger began, “I am yet your enemy in all things but this matter, which is more important by far than our war.”

“Fair enough,” Oakes said in a hard, quiet voice, “Go on then.”

“Many years ago in the digging of this city-in-the-mountain, a thing was found. The corpse of a great, strange creature. Its flesh- or what passes for its flesh- was uncorrupted by time. It was considered a great curiosity, but we knew not what it was, and eventually it was sealed away, forgotten. Then a young man of our people broke the seal and went to see this eldritch wonder, and afterwards he began to dream. In his dreams he was told that the corpse was of an ancient god from the Time Before Time, when people who were not men walked this world. The young man became known as The Dreamer, and he became powerful among our people, for wisdom was granted him in his dreams. Wisdom that was of great help to our people.”

Engvyr felt a chill run up and down his spine… he had heard of these beings before and the memory of those times was not a comfortable one. The Baasgarta continued.

“Around four decades ago an old woman of our people, her body ridden with sun-cankers, went to die at the Roof of the World. There she encountered Braell, but like no Braell she had ever seen. They were tall and proud, un-branded and uncut, well dressed and bearing many fine goods. And she knew them for an abomination, for these must be the sons and daughters of the God-slayers, unrepentant and proud.”

Engvyr's eyes grew wide as he realized exactly who those dwarves had been, and he swore softly. The others eyes flickered to him briefly, uncomprehendingly.

“She knew then that she must not die. She returned to her people to tell them what she had seen and they knew that god would want these people destroyed. But they despaired, for these Braell dwelling in abomination were many and wielded great power.” Kruger locked eyes briefly with each of the dwarves before he continued. His expression filled with hate.

“Then The Dreamer came and said that they should not fear, for God had not placed this task before them with no means to accomplish it. There was an artifact buried somewhere near that could raise the Dead God from before time. It would smite their enemies, destroy them in flesh and spirit and the Baasgarta would reign supreme.” He paused.

“They searched long and hard for this artifact, which they called the Soul of The Elder, eventually finding it in the valley of the Abomination. An expedition was planned to recover it so that The Dreamer's plan might be accomplished.”

“This is what they dug up in the Makepeace Valley?” The Colonel asked.

Grimnael translated the question and the Baasgarta shrugged and continued.

“I had long suspected that The Dreamer was not really speaking to God as he slept. This to me confirmed it, for I was a scholar and had studied much of the ancient times. I did not, do not believe that the dead God will be bent to The Dreamer's will. He would try chain it with our own magics. But these would be nothing to the creature he would raise, any more than the chirping of crickets can compel a man to do their bidding.”

“You're saying he's going to rouse this thing? And that it will be loose in the world with no control?”

The goblin nodded and said, “It will destroy the Baasgarta, destroy the Dvaerg. It will murder the world in its grief and fury. The Dreamer must be stopped. He must not wake the Dead God!”

The Dwarven commander studied the Baasgarta's face, then nodded and said, “Thank you. Remain here.” He gestured for one of the staffers.

“Get a couple of gunners to watch this fellow, but be polite. Get him food, some coffee or something to drink if he wants it.”

Turning to Engvyr he said, “I need you to get me one of the Battlemages. I don't know if I believe in this 'Dead God' of theirs but he certainly believes in it.”

“Sir?” Engvyr said, “A word before I go?”

The commander looked at him inquisitively and motioned for him to speak.

“This may lend some credence to at least part of his story. The part about the old woman at the Roof of the World? That much at least is true. I was there. My family were the dwarves that she met.”

Colonel Oakes looked at him, raised an eyebrow and he explained quickly. When he was finished the Commander gave a sharp nod and sent him to collect a Battlemage.

“Ah, Ranger. Is it true that the southern goblins have come to help us?” asked one of the mages as he approached.

“So it seems. The Colonel wants to speak to one of you about some new information. Can you come?”

The other dwarf nodded and Engvyr led him back to the command area. The mage raised an eyebrow when he saw the goblins among the commanders, speaking with them and apparently perfectly at ease. Colonel Oakes saw them, made a comment to one of the other officers and came over. He quickly explained what they had been told and the mage shook his head, disturbed.

“We've been trying to suss out what the Baasgarta are up to, but we can't make heads or tails of what we're sensing. Certainly it jibes with some of that goblin's remarkable story and what little we know of the eldritch gods, but is it true? I can't say for certain, but I hope not!”

“Bring the rest of the mages up here, with us,” the commander said, “I want you folks reporting to me as things happen.”

The mage departed. With the spoiling of the flank-attack the fighting had slowed down for the night, with only occasional shots, shouts or screams being heard. Wherever possible the troops were being given a hot meal and some rest. The fighting would most likely resume at first light.

Engvyr stayed with the command group. He watched Grimnael gesture, ask questions and state opinions on the conduct of the battle as if he'd been working with the dwarves for years. Something about him, perhaps his assumption that he belonged, made it easy for the dwarves to accept him. Before long several goblin runners had made their appearance, conveying his orders back and forth to their own soldiers just as the dwarves were doing among themselves.

Near midnight the officers took a break, sitting down and relaxing. Refreshments were brought and Engvyr took the opportunity to speak with Grimnael.

“Do you believe the Baasgarta's story? That the Dreamer is really trying to raise one of the Dead Gods?”

The goblin shrugged and replied, “I do know that the tribal elders, who know much that I do not, believe enough to take him seriously. I think your own leaders do not believe, not completely, but they will take no chances. When your reinforcements arrive I believe that they will assault the city.”

“What of you and your people?” Engvyr asked.

“I have two battalions more of infantry,” Grimnael said, “They will join the assault. We may have other resources that will be of help as well.”

They talked of other things, Engvyr's marriage and assumption of an estate, the liberation of the Braell and Deandra's efforts there. Engvyr kept looking at the goblin's gun. It was different than any dwarven gun he had seen, with a long slender barrel and a somewhat bulbous shoulder stock covered in leather. A lever, hinged at the end of the butt stock ended at the trigger-guard. A block of what appeared to be dense, oily hardwood around four and a half inches long and an inch thick protruded from the mechanism at one side. Seeing his interest Grimnael removed the block of wood and extended the weapon to him.

“Is smoothbore lined with brass,” the goblin explained, gesturing, “There is a bellows inside butt-stock, and a cam on the lever that opens bellows against a spring. Trigger releases spring, bellows puffs air.”

He gestured with the block of wood. Engvyr noticed the end of the block was covered in waxed paper, and there were notches in the side of it.

“Not enough power to shoot bullets well. The block has five tubes, each tube has four-inch steel dart. Dart can kill small game, rabbits, hares, maybe coyote. For war is coated with poison- very fast poison! Hit head, throat, man die in seconds. Hit anywhere maybe a minute. Causes convulsions. Very painful. Range is short compared to rifles, but fires very quickly for five shots, then reload with new 'magazine.'

Engvyr noted that the weapon seemed as well-made as their own. Different solution to making a gun, he thought, but it sure seems to work.

As he handed the weapon back a commotion started. Runners came to let them know that the Eastern Force had arrived. The reinforcement commanders joined them and the runners were kept busy as they sorted things out, positioning troops for the attack. They appeared to have the forces to crush the Baasgarta now, and hopefully penetrate the city stopping whatever insane ritual the Dreamer was engaged in. Engvyr glanced at the battlemages, who looked increasingly worried as the night wore on. That, he thought, is not comforting.

The newly arrived troops had some time to rest but not much. The assault began with torches flaring to life all along the lines. A commotion could be heard spreading through the Baasgarta lines as they realized what was in the wind.

The dwarves advanced by ranks, maintaining their standard rate of fire of a volley every two seconds. The goblins responded with their light repeating crossbows. While their breastplates were proof against these the dwarves were still vulnerable to hits in the arms, legs or face. Heavy crossbows were shooting as well, and these would pierce the dwarven armor, but they had a slow rate of fire. The dwarves pressed forward despite taking heavy casualties, driving the Baasgarta back.

The southern goblins’ rapid fire guns quickly proved their worth when the fighting moved into the trenches, as did the dwarven infantry's short cut-and-thrust swords. The close-quarters fighting was murderous. Casualties streamed back from the front, aided or carried by the dwarves’ medics but they made steady progress, especially when they could bring their guns into play.

The sounds of the battle were punctuated by the firing of the engineers’ siege engines, like giant crossbows, sending either long, iron-shod wooden bolts or round cast-iron balls whirring over the heads of the combatants to smash into the city's walls. Never meant to withstand a siege, the walls were already crumbling under the impacts.

Engvyr estimated that despite the heavy casualties they would reach the walls by dawn, but he was wrong. At first light everything went abruptly, completely and literally to hell.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“People say 'if it's stupid and it works it's not stupid,' and I think there's something to that. But if it's crazy and it works it's still crazy.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

Portions of the Baasgarta city had begun to burn. Projectiles from the siege engines had upset or scattered fires, and even with stone buildings there are plenty of things that can ignite. Engvyr felt bad about the thousands of Braell trapped within, but if the siege wasn't broken quickly their lives were forfeit regardless. For now the fires helped to light the battlefield as the dwarves and their allies relentlessly drove the Baasgarta back against their own shattered walls.

Suddenly the light dimmed and there was a basso rumble that reminded Engvyr uncomfortably of the mine collapse that he had been caught in as a boy. For a moment he thought the Baasgarta battlemages must be suppressing the fires until he looked up and saw them burning as tall and bright as ever. He realized the darkness was in his own perception.

The battlemages cried out in alarm. He saw several of them crouch or cower defensively and then it hit. A soundless, lightless explosion that knocked everyone flat but somehow did not disturb anything physical.

His vision went white as a shriek of agony, grief and triumph tore through his mind, clawing away at the edges of his sanity. Pain exploded through his head. It felt as if someone had sank a red-hot cleaver into the middle of his skull. Images and sensations flooded through his brain, distorted and incomprehensible. He nearly went mad as he tried to cope with the input of inhuman senses that had no name. In the end it was the pain that was his salvation, the one overwhelmingly human feeling in the maelstrom. It gave him something to focus on. His flailing hand landed on the action of his rifle and he gripped it frantically, another anchor against the flood of insanity washing over him.

The force of the flow subsided, but he was still awash in the alien perceptions. He forced his eyes open, and the input of the familiar sense of sight overwhelmed the madness. His head throbbed and his vision was gray at the edges but he could function. Rolling over, he gritted his teeth against the agony as he forced himself to his knees and looked around. Several others were also rising and he braced himself with the rifle, using it as a walking stick to lever himself to his feet.

Others did likewise, supporting themselves at first with the edges of the tables or the seats of stools scattered around the command area. Engvyr noted that the battlemages were not among those recovering from that blast of… whatever. Most of them were writhing in agony but some were terribly still. Staggering closer he could see blood trickling from the eyes, ears and noses of the unmoving mages.

The fighting had stopped entirely as dazed soldiers, dwarf, goblin and Baasgarta, struggled to their feet. Fumbling out his spyglass he looked over the ranks. Perhaps half were already on their feet. Of the others some were still, some writhing on the ground. Others simply sat with their heads in their hands, trying to cope with the agonizing headache.

“Lord and Lady,” He heard someone say behind him, “What the bloody hell was that?”

Someone else, Colonel Oakes he realized, replied, “At a guess the Dreamer's ritual succeeded.”

They were interrupted by a new sound. Rock cracked explosively and groaned. Turning back to the city Engvyr saw dust puff up from the mountainside and out of the gates to the underground. The earth began to tremble beneath their feet and the soldiers before the walls cried out in fear.

“It's coming,” Engvyr said. Either no one heard or his words simply didn't register.

“IT'S COMING!” he bellowed, and the spike of pain caused by that nearly made him black out.

Rocks began to slide down the hillside into the city, then great chunks of earth broke away, crushing everything in their path. The city was obscured by dust, then stone cracked, groaned and then burst from the mountainside. Boulders the size of houses sailed into the ranks, crushing soldiers of all sides impartially. A vast roar swelled as behind the pall of dust something massive stirred, moved, advanced.

Without warning a tentacle, thick as a thousand year old tree and a hundred paces long or more lashed out of the dust and scythed through the ranks of the Baasgarta. Many were flung through the air but some stuck to it, screaming as it withdrew into the cloud.

Soldiers began to fire. Bullets and crossbow bolts vanished into the cloud. Another tentacle speared out of the dust. Its tip split into dozens of smaller tentacles that pierced a score of soldiers then lifted them up and away. In some small part of his mind Engvyr felt pride for his brethren as their firing gradually went from individual shots to merge into volleys.

WHAM

WHAM

WHAM

Every two seconds like clockwork, the sound imposed order on the chaos of the battlefield. Even the Baasgarta began firing their crossbows in time to that metronome of destruction. Wave after wave of bullets and crossbow bolts vanished into the cloud.

As the dust began to settle a nightmare form was revealed. Though he hadn’t seen it in decades, it was familiar to him. He had last seen a ghost of this shape made from swirling wind and sand. The reality of the being, in the flesh, was a thousand times more horrible.

It was all colors and no color, seeming to glow faintly from within, but shed no illumination in the pre-dawn gloom. It was a hundred feet tall or even more, and it trampled the remains of the Baasgarta city beneath mismatched feet of all shapes and sizes.

A tentacle formed and again swept through the ranks of soldiers, scattering scores and scooping up dozens more. As the tentacle retreated the body split into a great maw lined with teeth to receive it. The tentacle, covered in writhing, screaming men was inserted into the mouth and bitten off, the stump withdrawing into the body as it slammed shut with an audible crash. Other tentacles formed and swept or speared into the ranks, lifting more soldiers to the maws that formed to receive them.

Each volley sent a rain of lead, bolts and quarrels rippling across the creature’s surface to no discernible effect. As Engvyr watched a ball formed from the surface of the massive body, then compressed into a tube and burst, sending a spray of spears far and wide over the formation. One of these weapons transfixed a nearby soldier. As he fell the end of the spear protruding from his chest collapsed into a plate. The portion standing out of his back writhed like a snake and spouted hundreds of legs and began to drag him back towards the creature. There was a ripple of movement across the battlefield as the same happened to other soldiers, some still screaming. With a cry of disgust Engvyr sprang forward, slashing through the 'spear' with his bayonet. It squirmed on the ground for a second before dissolving into foul-smelling smoke that made the dwarf choke and cough.

He heard shouted commands passing through the ranks before him. Someone down there was thinking; as the next sphere formed, thousands of guns focused on it and it burst almost instantly, some form of liquid rolling down the things flank. The soldiers cheered as the creature shuddered. The flesh around the wound did not immediately heal.

Another tentacle slashed through their ranks, reaching deeper and deeper into their formation as it advanced. Well, thought Engvyr, that's about it for the Baasgarta. Now the tentacles slashed into the ranks of the dwarves.

A bolt from one of the siege engines smashed into the creature. That got its attention. Small tentacles formed and probed at the wound. Another fired and this bolt too vanished into the creature’s bulk. A psychic scream hammered them to their knees once again, but the effect was less this time and they recovered quickly. Another tentacle lashed out towards the siege engines and the tip broke off, separating into dozens of balls that landed among the massive weapons. Screams rose from that direction and the firing stopped.

The creature now bled from three wounds but it did not even slow its advance.

“We can't stop it,” he heard someone shout.

Engvyr noted that Grimnael was not looking at the battle spread out before the command post, but back towards the valley that his forces had emerged from the night before. He was muttering something that sounded like, 'Any time now…'

Just as Engvyr turned back to the carnage, flashes lit up the valley from opposite the city. Great rents appeared in the eldritch horror's flesh at the same time a massive 'BOOM' rolled across the battlefield. As the creature actually staggered back, another psychic scream washed over them, but either they were growing accustomed to them or it was weaker.

Engvyr looked back towards the flashes and saw the area was obscured by white smoke. He peered at the cloud trying to pierce that veil to see what had happened but he couldn't make out what lay behind it. It was just beginning to disperse when a dozen huge blasts of red-orange flame burst forth spreading still more smoke. This time he actually heard the projectiles whirring overhead and he turned to see them smash into the leviathan.

The scream that blasted through their minds this time was less of pain than despair as the Dead God toppled backwards, crashing into the ruined city. Fluid gushed from the massive wounds that peppered its body, and it seemed to collapse into itself as the ground shook under the impact of the titanic being.

Cannon! Engvyr thought as a cheer rose from the surviving soldiers. He looked at Grimnael in disbelief. That lunatic brought Cannon!

The mighty guns spoke a third time and as the projectiles slammed into the Dead God the cacophony of alien perceptions faded from the background of Engvyr's thoughts, then winked out like a snuffed candle. The pain in his head slowly began to diminish as he looked out over the carnage of the battlefield before him.

We've won, he realized, It's not over, but we've won.

As the dawn broke they stood and stared out over the devastation before them. The command post was naturally situated on a rise to give the officers a good view. There was still much to do in the aftermath but for now, just for this moment they could only contemplate the havoc wrought in the night.

The great city of the Baasgarta was in ruins; what the siege engines and fires had not destroyed was smashed by the advance and fall of the Dead God. The mountain had collapsed into the underground city, and Engvyr doubted that any that close to the resurrection had survived anyway. Tens of thousands of Baasgarta and Braell wiped from the face of the earth in mere hours, he thought, we’d have shown them scant mercy but some would have survived…

As for the field of battle itself the Baasgarta forces were simply gone. Less than half of their own force appeared to have survived. He watched as regimental banners were raised by the survivors. There were none for the 2nd and 4th Heavy Infantry regiments that had led the assault. There might be scattered survivors but the regiments had effectively ceased to exist. Other banners were missing as well, from the Eastern force, but he was too tired to recollect which units they represented. In any event he guessed that they had taken fifteen to twenty thousand casualties, more than the dwarven kingdom had ever lost in a war, let alone a single battle. Add to that seventy to eighty thousand Baasgarta dead in the city and on the field… The numbers were just too big for him to wrap his mind around. He felt anguish, sorrow, jubilation all at once, but mostly he felt tired, exhausted of body and soul. He dragged himself away from his reverie and turned to the commanders. There was much yet to do.

Engvyr and Grimnael watched as goblins in blue and red rolled keg after keg of blasting powder into the ruins and surrounded the corpse of the Dead God with them. The explosive needed to be disposed of as quickly as possible and this would solve two problems at once; there would be no second resurrection for this god.

“I still can't believe that you brought cannon and blasting powder,” Engvyr said, shaking his head. Cannon, like other firearms had not been used in many centuries. It was just too easy for battlemages to detonate the powder at a distance. “Nobody does that.”

Grimnael favored him with a grin and said, “That's exactly why we did. Who would expect such a thing?”

“After word of this spreads everyone will. It was still crazy to take that chance!”

The goblin shrugged and said, “If it's crazy and it works…”

“…it's still crazy,” Engvyr finished for him, “Still and all I'm glad the tribal Elders picked you to lead. Maybe 'crazy' was the only rational response to this insanity.”

Grimnael changed the subject, saying, “Now might be a good time to give you those things that I brought.”

He gestured to one of his aides and spoke quietly to him. The aide nodded and trotted off, returning in a few moments with a bundle that he handed to Engvyr. At the goblin’s urging he unwrapped it to find the sax-knife that his father had given to him and The Hammer. He cradled the big handgun and looked at the goblin in shock.

“Where in the world…?”

“Many years ago some dwarves came into the territory of the Tribes,” he said, “These were bad dwarves, criminals fleeing from your law. They were apprehended, and they had these things with them. When I gave your name to the elders one of them remembered seeing it on the frame of this knife sheath, and I was able to verify that they were yours. I was told to return them to you, along with the gratitude of the Elders for your warnings.”

Engvyr felt a flood of conflicting emotions. He had long since given up the idea of revenging himself on the dwarves that had destroyed his family, but to finally know that they had been brought to justice… It was not the sort of closure he would have hoped for but it would do.

“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!”

EPILOGUE I

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.”

EPILOGUE II

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.

Let the Gods of Men tremble.

Content

Michael Pearce,Linda Pearce
Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

PART ONE: THE CRUCIBLE Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

PART TWO: THE FORGE Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

PART THREE: THE ANVIL Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

PART FOUR: THE SWORD Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

EPILOGUE I

EPILOGUE II