Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

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.