Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Dwarves are but one of the five races of men. These are the Afmaeltinn, Dwarves, Goblins, Elves and Trolls. Some argue for six, separating the elves from the Fey, but that may just be splitting hairs. We know that Dwarves and Goblins were once Afmaeltinn, but the Elves maintain that they are a separate order. What the Fey and trolls think no man can say.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

The next week passed in a whirl of preparations for the journey. One of the miners had a friend coming to fill a vacancy at the mine and he was pleased to purchase the hame to accommodate his family. That being settled there was a surprising amount of work to be done to prepare for the trip. Engvyr had vaguely imagined them traveling from inn to inn along the High Road but his father shook his head at the notion.

“That's a far richer way to travel than we can manage, lad,” he told him, “We'll be sleeping rough much of the time and doing for ourselves for food and the like.”

They would be weeks upon the road, his father explained. The mining town lay at the far south of Dvargatil Baeg, as the Dwarven nation was called, and the home of their Clan was in the far north. As the crow flew it was no more than 300 miles but by road they would cover a little less than three times that distance as they must wind a snake-like path through the high valleys and passes.

Engvyr knew it would be faster to go down to the coast to the Trade Cities to take ship to the North and then cut through the mountains to their destination. But that would mean placing themselves in the hands of the Afmaeltinn, or Humans as they called themselves. This was a thing no dwarf would willingly do if it could be avoided.

Using their savings, the wergild for his uncle and the proceeds from the sale of the hame they bought oxen and a pair of wagons. The oxen were not the great lumbering beasts used in the lands of the Afmaeltinn, but smaller animals with long hair and short horns. Hearty and strong, they were bred to live in the harsh conditions and high altitudes of the mountains. The wagons were strongly built of planks with a cabin of canvas stretched over a frame on top. At need they could crowd in among their goods for protection from the weather.

They also bought supplies and Engvyr was shocked at the sheer quantity of food they must carry even for the first leg of their journey. They were but three adults, himself and the twins yet they must carry barrels of flour, great bags of beans and coffee, slabs of bacon, dried beef and sausages, barrels of dried fruit and casks of water until the wagons fairly groaned under the weight.

Of their household effects they took little but what was needed for the journey, their clothes, cooking gear, tools and a few keepsakes. Their furniture was too bulky and heavy and it was easier to simply replace it at their destination.

The day of their departure they rose at first light and broke their fast with stew left over from the night before and mugs of coffee. Before they left their little hame for the last time his father pulled Engvyr aside while his mother and aunt cleaned and packed the breakfast dishes.

“There's one last thing that you might be needing on the trip, son,” he said as he placed a new sax-knife and sheath in his son's hands. Engvyr was delighted with the gift and examined it carefully. The scabbard was of thick hide, waxed to rock-hardness and covered with deeply tooled knot-work. There was a sturdy and elaborately engraved bronze frame along the top of the scabbard, with two loops to hang it horizontally below the belt.

He drew the knife and examined the stout single-edged blade of fine dwarven steel. It was eight inches in length and shaving-sharp. The carved handle was stag-horn and had a slight curve to it that felt natural in his grip. The hilt was topped by a bronze plate with a lanyard ring.

Engvyr thanked his father profusely, and stood proudly as his father threaded it onto the front of his belt so that the hilt hung close to his right hand. His father smiled at him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You'll be doing a man's work on this trip, so I thought it time you had a man's blade,” he told Engvyr.

As they set out the last of the winter snow was still piled along the shoulders of the High Road, but it was melting day by day. Traffic was sparse but regular, with wagons of food and other supplies bound for the southern towns and trains of ore heading north to the great foundries at Ironhame.