Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

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…?”