Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“I have too little life left in me to be worth the taking, boy! Can you not see? Cankers eat me alive from the inside. I am here to die!”

“You came to this place, Ma'am… surely you know a way that we might leave it? Will you help us?” Egerta asked.

The ancient woman gave a guffaw of surprise at the thought.

“Help you? Help you, dvaerg? That I will not.”

“But why?” his aunt said, “We have done nothing to you!”

The old woman turned on her with an expression of fury.

“Have you not? Truly? Your very existence is an affront to the natural order! Help you? I should spit!”

“But what of my child? Have you no mercy in your heart for her?”

The crone turned her blind face to Berget.

“Mercy for your child? I ache for the strength to wring her tiny neck! I long to feel her tender skin part under my teeth, to suck her sweet flesh from her pretty little bones! That is what I have for your child!”

Enraged, Engvyr made to lunge for her but his father barred his way with an extended arm.

“No, Engvyr! You cannot cure hate with blows.”

The crone cackled again and bowed to his father in mock-respect.

“Such wisdom must be rewarded. A day's travel north you will find the Laagelliev, built by the First Men to contain the Dead Gods in this place. Safety lies beyond that gate.”

His father bowed stiffly to the ancient figure.

“We thank you for your help.”

She waved a hand in dismissal.

“Oh, I have not helped you! I tell you of this to give you hope, but you will never make it to that sanctuary alive. The thought of your horror and despair as that hope is betrayed will be the last, greatest joy of my life!”

The sound of her hideous cackling followed them long after she was lost to their sight.

Chapter Nine

“There is greater evil tucked away in the odd corners of this world than is held by the hearts of men. The earth was ancient beyond imagining before the first man set foot upon her soil and it would be prideful to suggest that we stand at the peak of this world’s achievements in good or ill.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

As dawn approached, Berget, who had been looking into the desert with increasing frequency when they stopped for rest, tugged at her mother's hand.

“They are gathering. I think we should hurry.”

Engvyr agreed. He had been feeling more and more nervous. A sense of a malign presence had been growing on him. Several times he had thought that something had brushed against him.

His father distributed more of the candied leaves, a larger portion this time to each of them, and his aunt brewed more of her spicy medicinal drink. They gave the ox and pony the last of their feed and water, along with a cautiously small portion of the leaves, and set out at the best pace that they could manage.

The rising sun did not dispel the half-seen shapes in the corners of their eyes, which were constant companions now. Neither did it reveal them. They were each aware of a growing sense of menace and they hurried their steps, gasping for breath in the thin air, hearts pounding.

His aunt handed Berget up to her brother. They were all exhausted but the stimulus of the leaves kept sleepiness at bay, though it also made them edgy. They drove themselves on as the sun climbed in the sky. More and more often Engvyr felt invisible hands pluck at his clothes, his beard and hair. Sudden flurries of wind blew grit in their faces. From time to time his Aunt or father would flinch for no reason he could see. Berget buried her face in his father’s cote, peeking out occasionally with wide, fearful eyes.

Abruptly the ground fell away before them in a long slope. Far away they could see a structure of some sort nestled between the distant hills.

Without a word they all picked up their pace though they felt as if their lungs would burst. As if this was a signal to their strange pursuers the manifestations increased. Engvyr stumbled as an unseen presence shoved him. The strange wind-bursts now pelted them with gravel as well as grit. Ghostly hands- or some other appendage- pinched and tugged at them. Egerta cried out and fell. When she rose Engvyr could see a triple-row of welts running from her temple to her cheek. She clung to the pony's harness to keep her feet under her as the invisible assault continued.

Sounds that he had thought were the wind resolved into inhuman voices, chanting, wailing and shouting. He grabbed the pack-straps and held tight as he was pummeled by small stones and rocked by sourceless blows. They staggered down the slope towards the distant structure, helpless against enemies they could neither see nor touch.