Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

They holed up in a gully off the main trail and rested for a few hours at dawn, even risking a tiny fire to heat some coffee before moving on. Occasionally they left markers along the trail to indicate that the way was clear. They stayed off of the path where they could and moved with painstaking caution where they couldn't.

Late that afternoon they passed through another narrow valley. The trail skirted a small lake. They examined the area from the edge of the forest and saw the trail enter a crack in the rocks at the far end. Engvyr was about to ride out when Taarven stopped him with a hiss.

“Look at the cliff-face on the left side of the path, a hundred paces up the mountain,” he told him. Engvyr did as he was told and caught a flash of light. They waited and when the flash came again Engvyr pulled his spyglass and scanned the rock face. He caught the flash again and nodded.

“Yep. There's someone up there with a glass,” he said, handing his own instrument to Taarven.

The other ranger examined the face for several minutes, then said, “There he is. Well, that presents a bit of a problem…”

Engvyr examined the lay of the land. The slopes were forested in pine and aspen with a strip of mountain meadow running down the center of the little valley up to the lake. It would be wet, almost marshy in the middle of that grassy area.

“I'm pretty sure,” Engvyr said at length, gesturing to the western edge of the valley, which was already in shadow, “that at twilight we can work our way along that edge on foot and have a look up that canyon.”

Twilight was actually a better time to attempt the approach with the ground dark and the sky bright, the watcher above would be nearly blind to anything going on in the deep shadows.

Taarven agreed, and said, “Can't see as there is a way around it. Can't say as I like it, either.”

“Best we leave a mark along the trail, then get these ponies stashed and maybe get some rest. This is shaping up to be a long night.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“How do you tell someone that they are free when even the concept of ‘freedom’ has never occurred to them?”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

The 4th Heavy Infantry moved through the camp late in the afternoon of the breakout. The refugees cheered them on their way; they had a proprietary feeling for the regiment due to the battalion that had sacrificed itself to allow them to get to safety. The regiment settled into the defenses at the mouth of the pass where they would spend the night before following after the other regiments.

Word of the slave-camp and the pursuit came to the camp late the next morning. Deandra had listened with horror to the account of the mass-execution of the mining slaves. It was all Ynghilda, Deandra and Grael could do to keep the enraged dwarven refugees from following the regiments en masse in pursuit of the fleeing Baasgarta.

Squirrel was picking up the language quickly in the way of children immersed in a new culture. The Dwarven language and the dialect of the slaves were both descendants of a common tongue, which helped. There were still many words he didn't understand but after a few days he could for the most part make himself understood. It's getting him to understand us that's the problem, Deandra reflected, and that's a problem much greater than mere words.

The boy was sitting nearby peeling turnips. When presented with the task and a small knife with which to accomplish it he had been wide-eyed with joy. Apparently among the slaves being a cook was a high-status position. He approached the job with single-minded determination worthy of a much more complex task. Deandra had watched the boy with concern as the story of the executions unfolded but he had kept working diligently, seemingly little affected. While the others discussed these events among themselves Deandra spoke to the boy.

“Squirrel? Are you alright?”

He looked up at her warily and said, “Yes Deandra. I do good job, yes? Finish soon!”

She blinked in surprise at this response.

“Did you understand what the ranger was saying?”

He appeared puzzled, but nodded and said, “He say many dwarves, Braell like me, killed by Masters, yes?”

“Yes, that is what he said,” She confirmed, “Does that upset you?”

The boy thought about that for a moment, “If my ahfnoon, how you say? Crew? If they dead I miss them, be sad for me. But happy thing, yes? They reborn to Gotlaeyef, is better, yes?”

“Gotlaeyef?” she asked, “I don't know this word.”

He frowned, and said, “When God is repaid, Braell die and are born in better life. Is called Gotlaeyef. No branding, no leg-cut. Have nice clothes, be warm, never hungry.”

He looked pensive for a moment and gestured around the room.

“This maybe Gotlaeyef I think.”