Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“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.