Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

Goodbye, Taarven, he thought, you were a man to ride the river with. Deandra… dammit, I'd hoped to make a life with you. Lord and Lady bless and keep you through what is to come. He felt peace settle over him as, bit by bit, he let go of his life until there was nothing left but his purpose. As he emptied himself of everything but the mission the world around him came into sharp focus. Every sound took on a bell-like clarity, every leaf and shadow stood out in high relief. When he was ready he drew his bayonet, slipped it over the muzzle and twisted to lock it in place, then loped off up the slope, eyes scanning for enemies, his rifle at the ready.

– **-

The Baasgarta entered the camp slowly and cautiously, examining the ground for sign and checking the corpses. One of them had a bandaged shoulder and was pointing things out to the others. As he was gesturing at the slope that Engvyr had used to fire down on the camp a heavy slug slammed into his ribs just below his outstretched arm. At five hundred paces it didn't have the energy to pass clear through him but it had enough to do the trick.

Hate to leave a job half-done, Engvyr thought as he reloaded. It was the longest shot he'd ever taken and he settled the big gun back into its rest in the crook of a sapling, ready to try again. By the time he had done so there were no goblins in sight so he waited. Five minutes, ten…

A subtle movement caught his eye and he watched as a goblin rose slowly to his hands and knees, scanning the hillside below the ranger. WHACK. Dust spurted by the target's hand and the goblin dropped and rolled under cover again. Dammit. Missed, Engvyr thought as he reloaded. Or maybe not, he amended as a distant shriek of pain reached his ear. Guess he won't be playing the fiddle any time soon.

Scanning the area he saw no further movement. Like as not they won't any of them move for a good fifteen minutes, he decided, Time to move along. He backed off, eying the woods around him warily, then slid into the hollow where the ponies were tied up.

“Damn near fell asleep waitin' for you to finish playin.'”

Ageyra blocked his instinctive slash with the bayonet with the carbine’s fore-stock. She grinned at him and said, “Jumpy feller, aren't ya?”

Engvyr took a deep breath and said, “Dammit woman, you're supposed to be long gone by now! What the hell are you playing at?”

She swung easily into the saddle, laid the carbine across the saddle-bow and looked at him coldly. “I ain't 'playing at' anything, boy. It occurred to me that you could use a hand, and could maybe do worse than having a veteran Battlemage at your side.”

Engvyr noted fresh blood on the iron-shod butt of the carbine and looked at it pointedly before raising an eyebrow at the old woman. She shrugged.

“I got bored waiting around. What's a girl to do?”

Engvyr grinned at her suddenly and said, “Alright then. Let’s see what kind of mischief we can get up to, you and I.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Rear-guard actions are tricky. If you haven't got the force to stop your enemy cold it becomes a balancing act. You have to go fast enough to stay ahead of them but not so fast that you catch up with whatever you are trying to guard. Go too slow and they overwhelm you. Make things too difficult and they'll go around you. It's like a duel with swords. Engage and disengage, sting and move. Keep them interested or better yet make them mad as hell- angry people make stupid mistakes. Whatever you do you should never underestimate your enemy's intelligence and resourcefulness.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson