Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

Morning brought news that changed all of their plans. Engvyr woke to the sound of a rider coming into camp and pulled the blanket over his head. After the fight in the trees and the attack on the trail followed by too little sleep on hard ground he felt like he'd been pulled through a knothole.

He heard the rider dismount, a quick discussion that he couldn't make out, and then someone prodded his foot.

“Engvyr? It's Taarven- there's a rider from the steading and I think that you need to talk to him.”

Engvyr groaned and rolled over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he peered blearily at the pair of dwarves standing over him. He'd seen the rider around but didn't know him personally.

“Well, go on then,” he said grumpily, “I'm awake.”

The rider looked nervous and said, “You're needed back at the steading sir.”

Engvyr looked at him a moment waiting for him to elaborate. After a few seconds the rider seemed to realize what he wanted and said, “Something's happened, sir, I mean, back at the steading.”

Engvyr waited, calmly looking at the nervous rider.

“Uh, right. Well, it seems last night Ynghilda walked into the great hall a bit after midnight, and there was, uh, a goblin in there.”

The Ranger sat up abruptly throwing back his blankets and grabbing his boots.

“Was she hurt? Is she OK?” he asked as he shook his boots out before putting them on and rising. To his surprise Taarven looked more amused than alarmed.

“Oh no, it's nothing like that, he didn't attack her or anything sir…”

“Lord's teeth boy!” Engvyr exclaimed, “A fella could starve to death waiting for you to tell a story! What did he do?”

“Well sir, it seems he was a'settin' by the fire. Drinking coffee. Asked after you, he did.”

“Asked after me? By name?”

“N-no sir. He said 'the blonde ranger.' And he called you something else… “’Son of Good Stew?'”

It was mid-morning when Engvyr rode into the palisade. He handed his pony off to the groom and headed for the great hall. A number of Dwarves were gathered around peeking through the open door, whispering among themselves.

He pushed his way through them and stepped inside. Ynghilda was sitting by the hearth with the Goblin drinking coffee. She was laughing over something he'd just said and they both turned to look at him.

“You have the most interesting friends, Engvyr,” she said as he joined them.

“Don't I just?” he replied, shaking his head. He noted Ynghilda's 12-bore standing nearby. He turned to the goblin and said, “What were you thinking, sneakin' in here like that? She could have blown a tunnel through you!”

“But she did'n,'” the goblin replied with an unrepentant grin.

“How did you get past the palisade and guards?” Engvyr asked.

“I've asked him that myself,” said Ynghilda and turned to the goblin, “Tell him what you told me.”

The goblin gave Engvyr a grin full of pointy teeth and said nothing.

After a moment Engvyr said, “Well?”

The goblin remained silent and Ynghilda said dryly, “That's exactly what he told me. Nothing.”

Engvyr couldn't help grinning himself as he clasped forearms with the goblin. After they were all seated he said, “You're looking well, old friend. How in the world did you find me?”

“Troll saw te' mark and pass word. So I asked te' trolls where you were an' they tol' me.”

“You talk to trolls?” Ynghilda asked disbelievingly.

“Of course. Trolls see ever'thing. You don' talk te' trolls?”

“Uh, no,” Engvyr said with a glance at Ynghilda, “Did the trolls tell you anything else?”

The goblin nodded.

“They say you have trouble with,” he made a circular gesture in front of his face, “Tattoo-face people. I do not know what this means.”

Engvyr described the facial tattoos and braiding of the goblins that were raiding from the north and while it was not possible for a goblin to become any paler he was visibly agitated by the description.

“This is not right,” the goblin said, shaking his head, “These people you say, they are long dead. No more!”

“I have seen them myself,” Engvyr said, “both here and on the edge of the Daenteg Idengeord, when I was a boy. What do you know about these Goblins?”

“In te' time of te' Maker Dvaerg and Duergar, goblins as ye call us, were all slaves. But some duergar t'ink the Maker was a god an' worshiped him. They became ver' special guards of other Goblins. But they are all dead, long time ago. Very, very bad were the Baasgarta.”

“Apparently they didn't so much die out after all,” said Ynghilda.

“I can assure you of that, my old friend. These goblins are very much alive and are raiding all along our northern frontier.”

The goblin frowned, looking at them dubiously. Engvyr thought for a moment, then looked the Goblin straight in the eye and said, “I am Engvyr Gunnarson of the Falkevell Clan, and I swear to you on my name, the name of my father and the honor of my clan that this is true.”

The goblin's eyes grew wider as he spoke. He stared at Engvyr for a few moments and then nodded decisively.