Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

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.”