Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Oh come on, she'd just bruise you some. I can do this, Taarven. Bring the ponies up and wait for me here but keep an eye out, there might still be one or two of these fellas creepin' around. I'll try to be back before midnight.”

Trails are never the shortest distance between two points. They are made for easy travel and as a consequence follow the path of least resistance so they tend to wind around a lot. Sometimes a lone man on foot can cut across in a straighter line and cover a lot less distance than the people following the trail. It was a gamble- he might find himself cut off by a cliff or box-canyon but Engvyr had spent more than a few years in these mountains and had a pretty good sense of the lay of the land.

He needed to travel light so he left the carbine with Taarven. This was going to be long-distance work. He jogged, walked and scrambled along the succession of ridges through the long afternoon, keeping below the crests to avoid sky-lining himself. It was getting late by the time he finally spotted his quarry on the trail by the river far below. They had the captives roped together in the midst of their group and were herding the goats from the farmhame ahead of them. Many of the captives carried bags or bundles of loot and supplies. Several oxen were strung together and bringing up the rear.

Shortly before sunset Engvyr had found his firing position and settled in. It was a place where the trail below narrowed and ran alongside a section of whitewater. It wasn't ideal but it was the best he was likely to get.

In the Regiment the maximum effective range of an Infantry Long Rifle was said to be three-hundred paces and the goblins were strung out along the trail at a bit more distance than that. But a good trooper could push that out to four-hundred or even more in the right conditions. After thirty-two years with this particular rifle Engvyr was very, very good.

He braced his left hand on a tree and rested the fore-stock on his extended thumb. He had cut into the bark to mark the position for consistency. He'd even risked a ranging-shot at a rock next to the trail, hoping that the smear of lead where the bullet impacted would go unnoticed. His sights were set and he was ready.

He waited until most of the captives were past. When one of the goblins stopped to look back along the length of the train he put the sights on him and squeezed the trigger. He saw dust puff off of the target's jacket and the goblin fell into the river with a shout.

The sound of the tumbling rapids covered the distant report of the big gun so several goblins rushed forward to help, not realizing that he'd had been shot. Engvyr put his second shot into the group and was rewarded with a scream of pain. They scattered, not knowing where the shots were coming from. One of them ducked behind a rock, his back full on towards Engvyr, who promptly put a slug into it.

The remaining goblins quickly herded their captives away, crowding too close to the prisoners for him to risk a shot at that range. They were quickly gone around the edge of the hill but before they got out of sight Engvyr shot the first ox in the string. The goblin holding the lead rope scrambled away as the ox sank to its knees and died.

Engvyr would have loved to slip down to the trail to cut the other oxen loose, but he didn't dare. If the goblins didn't come back for them, eventually the oxen would get hungry enough to break the lead and move off on their own. They might even go home to the burned-out farmhame.

The sun was going down and he might be hunted himself within the hour, so he reloaded and set out. Darkness eventually forced him off the ridge and onto the trail. The going was easier then, but the distance longer and it was well after midnight when he got back to the ruined farm.

An infantry squad had arrived to investigate the fire and their sentry challenged Engvyr as he approached. Fortunately good soldiers weren't inclined to be trigger-happy and he was admitted to the camp without incident.

Taarven crawled out of his bedroll and they sat by the fire as Engvyr described the events of the afternoon to him and the squad-leader, Sergeant Heryl.

“Might be we could recover those oxen, 'stead of leaving it to chance,” the Sergeant said, “Lord and Lady know folk around here could use them.”

“Whatever we do is going to have to wait for morning,” Engvyr told him, “I am plumb beat.”

“I think that we should all hit the sack,” agreed Taarven, “We could use the rest and I don't fancy trekkin' into Goblin country in the middle of the night. Besides, there's those skirmisher's to think of. Likely they come across those oxen and made off with them already.”

Engvyr was chagrined. “I forgot all about them! Just blind luck I didn't run into them on the way back. Either way we can see what's what in the morning. Me, I'm hitting the sack.”