Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

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.