Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“I see you, Engvyr Gunnarson Falkevellklan,” the goblin said, bowing, “and I am honored to accept your name and oath. I will take your words to my elders.”

The goblin rose, bowed to him and donned his hat, scarf and gloves. Turning to Ynghilda he said, “Thank you for te' coffee, great woman. Engvyr, maybe ye can walk me out? We would not want any misunderstandin's wit' yer friends.”

Engvyr rose and escorted him to the gates of the palisade.

“Safe journeys, old friend,” he told the goblin as they clasped forearms, then continued, “There's a war brewing with these Baasgarta of yours. I know the rangers and army know that not all your folk are the same. But word of the war will reach Ironhame, and the folk there may not make a distinction between your folk and these other goblins. It might be best if your traders withdrew from Ironhame for now, maybe out of Dvargatil Baeg altogether. To avoid… misunderstandings.”

“I will say this to the elders as well. Be careful, my friend. Dvaerg and Duergar, some are good, some bad. But all the Baasgarta are evil.”

Engvyr assured him that he would indeed be careful, and watched the goblin lope away until he was out of sight.

“What just happened here?” Ynghilda asked when he returned to the hall.

Engvyr shrugged. “Goblins only give their names as a sign of great trust. I not only gave him my name but swore by it. I've trusted him with my most precious possession. He must believe me until proven otherwise.”

“I know that it's not the case here, but what if it were proven otherwise?”

Engvyr said, “I wouldn't dare lie under the circumstances, because if I were caught I would be dead to him and to all goblins.”

“And that would be so bad you couldn't possibly lie?” she asked.

“Um… you should remember that goblins eat their dead.”

Ynghilda blinked, then blanched as understanding hit her. “Oh. Right. Good to know. I notice that he didn't give you his name in return. Was that because I was here?”

Engvyr shook his head and said, “That wouldn't matter to him. If he gave his name to me while you were present it would not be the same as giving it to you, and you'd be obliged to pretend not to have heard. No, he was just saving it, because you only get to give someone your name once.”

“I suppose that makes some sort of sense,” Ynghilda said, “I'm glad that something about this mess does…”

Chapter Sixteen

“There are worse things a man can be saddled with than a load of common-sense. Add to this the burden of knowledge and skill, then any other weight he needs to bear will be the lighter for it.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

A squad of infantry had been sent to check on the column of smoke from the burning farmhame.

Taarven had a hard time convincing them not to take off after Engvyr and the raiding party.

“Engvyr is as skilled a Ranger as I've ever seen,” he told them, “ You'll come to grief for sure if you try to take a squad along those ridges at night. You'll never catch them goblins on foot else wise.”

“Might be we'd surprise you,” the Sergeant said.

“Fair to say, but even if you caught up to them you'd be a squad against a platoon-strength enemy,” Taarven said, “Even as good as I'm sure your people are that's going to be some mighty bad odds.”

The Sergeant reluctantly agreed and ordered his men set up camp. They gathered the bodies of the goblins and examined their appearance and gear. They would be fighting these people, after all and every bit of information that they could glean would help.

“This is damn well-made,” one of the soldiers commented as he examined the raider's repeating crossbow. It was gravity fed from a box magazine mounted above the firing-groove. A long vertical lever mounted just under the prod was pulled toward the shooter to cock the string and another bolt would drop into place from the magazine.

“Can't fire it prone,” another pointed out, “Have to be kneeling or standing to work that lever. Not sure how accurate it would be, either.”

“If'n they're taking their time it's accurate enough,” Taarven said, “Not so accurate when they are in a hurry, but they can fire three shots every two seconds.”

Someone whistled and the soldiers looked at the weapon with new respect. They could only manage a shot every six or seven seconds with their slug-guns. These used the same stock and firing mechanism as Engvyr's long-rifle but had shorter smooth-bore barrels. They fired a 16-bore/225 slug and they were accurate to about a hundred paces.

The previous afternoon Taarven checked the signs and discovered that three of the skirmishers that had attacked them in the trees had escaped to follow their comrades. He thought it likely that they would have taken the remaining oxen, but the Sergeant had insisted that they go to check.