Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

At the end of her first week Ynghilda had called her into her office. She had thought she was to be assigned some new task but was surprised when instead she was invited to sit and offered coffee. Ynghilda had told her that she was doing very well and then went over the terms of her employment. They discussed her rights, obligations and how much she was to be paid. Ynghilda had written all of this down as Deandra agreed to it. She had thought that she was working for her family's keep but apparently not. At the end, Ynghilda signed the document that she had drawn up and Deandra countersigned it. When that was accomplished she was handed a small bag of coins, hardly a princely sum after a modest fee for her keep had been deducted but more than she had expected.

In a human household of this size they would have had servants to perform menial tasks, each with their own assigned duties. These people were nearly invisible in such a place, beneath the notice of their betters. These servants worked in exchange for a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. If they received any coin it was as a gift on the holidays. But in this household none of the dwarves treated those that served them as anything less than an equal.

She might almost have been happy but for the dread of the impending separation from her children. She knew that it was the best thing for them, but her heart fell at she thought of it.

Engvyr had been riding out regularly since his return and once Taarven was able to join him they were sometimes gone for days at a time. There were more raids as well, but the Rangers and Militia were seldom in the right place at the right time to intervene.

Finally the delegation from her husband's family arrived and it was as awful as she'd feared it would be. They treated her with a cold wariness that bordered on hostility, but they did not extend that attitude to her children. She thanked the Lord and Lady for that much at least.

When they departed they took no leave of Deandra, and even Saewynn's good-byes were subdued under their disapproving eyes. She went through the rest of the day in a daze, as she felt a great, aching gulf within her. The dwarves were quietly sympathetic but asked no questions and offered no comment for which she was grateful.

Engvyr and Taarven returned from patrol that night. After dinner Engvyr pulled her aside and held her for hours while she sobbed broken-heartedly. He offered no empty reassurances or platitudes, simply listened and held her until at last she fell into the deep sleep of emotional exhaustion.

When she woke in the morning still in his arms on the bench, she found that someone had tucked a blanket around them and propped a pillow behind Engvyr's back. No one spoke of this later and she was again grateful for the dwarves' sympathy and discretion.

She took some solace in her work but inside she felt wounded and incomplete. She resisted the urge to drown her sorrow in drink, or the greater temptation to take Engvyr to her bed and drown herself in him. Whatever was building between them, she would not cheapen it by using it as a drug to try to fill the emptiness inside her. In the days and weeks that followed she found her balance and life returned to a semblance of normality.

The Midsummer festival arrived on the longest day of the year. The great hall was decorated with garlands of wildflowers, bright ribbons and banners. Deandra was kept busy with preparations for the feast. Chickens, ducks and geese had to be plucked and stuffed for roasting. Great piles of turnips and potatoes must be peeled, pies baked and sauces simmered. A great roasting-pit was prepared for the centerpiece of the feast.

This was normally an ox but this year on their rounds Taarven and Engvyr had encountered what was surely the grandfather of all boars. They had been returning on the day before the feast when the great beast had walked onto the trail ahead of them, almost as if presenting itself. Engvyr had felled it with a single shot from his long-rifle. They had to send a wagon to fetch the carcass and it took a half-dozen dwarves to get it loaded.

Those inclined to put credence in such things took this as a good omen. The huge boar was mounted on the spit on Midsummer's Eve and slowly roasted throughout the night. Deandra and Engvyr watched as everyone in the Steading and the visitors that had come in from the outlying farmhames stopped by to raise a toast to the great beast and praise it for its sacrifice.