Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Ranger Engvyr Gunnarson, reporting as ordered,” he said, touching the brim of his hat in salute.

The Colonel waved a hand in greeting and said, “Make yourself comfortable, Ranger. I expect you'll know if you’re needed. At any event you'll have a good view of the proceedings should the Baasgarta decide to try their luck tonight.”

He turned back to his conversation with the company commanders and Engvyr looked around for a good seat on the hillside. The battalion's Sergeant Major saw him and came over, checking the position of the sun as he did.

“I expect we've some time before our friends come a'calling. If'n you haven't had a hot meal there's still time before they shut things down.”

“Thanks, Sergeant-Major, but I'm all set,” Engvyr told him. The older soldier looked at him quizzically.

“Are you the Engvyr Gunnarson that served with the 3rd Rifles a couple decades back?”

Engvyr sighed and admitted that he was. He hoped that the Sergeant-Major wasn't going to make a big deal of it. His wish was granted when the Sergeant-Major simply nodded and said, “Thought so. Well, we oughta have a good seat for the show tonight.”

The sergeant wandered off and Engvyr looked out over the troops deployed below their position. The 3rd's lines spread out to either side of the narrow river that ran down the center of the valley. Looking at the lay of the ground and their positions he had to admit they had an excellent view.

He took a quick mental inventory. He'd had a hot meal, reported for duty, was in position and had nothing to do at the moment. That being the case he did what any experienced soldier would do under the circumstances. He sat down on the hillside so that he was comfortably propped up by his pack and went to sleep.

Engvyr woke instantly when a stir went through the nearby troops. Quickly looking around in the dimness he saw two mounted scouts trotting their ponies towards the 3rd Rifles lines from the north. Checking the western sky he guessed that it was an hour or so after sunset.

“They're coming, then,” a nearby soldier commented to his comrades. The infantry on the hillside were in 'hasty' fighting positions, really just a shallow hole with the excavated dirt piled before it to form a short parapet. It was simply a place for them to duck while they reloaded. On the steep slope it also insured that they had secure footing to fire from.

The soldiers checked their slug-guns and other weapons. Down along the lines of riflemen in the valley Engvyr could see them doing the same. Looking north along the enemy's avenue of approach he could see the range markers that the riflemen had placed earlier. They were simple planks driven into the earth with the side facing the enemy stained a medium brown and the side towards the dwarves a glittery, reflective white. The furthest was at three-hundred paces and they were spaced every fifty paces as they approached the dwarven lines to allow the riflemen to easily adjust their aim for the range.

Engvyr saw to his own weapons with practiced hands. He was not particularly nervous or afraid at this point; in fact he was rather bored. Plenty of time for terror later, he reflected. He very much wanted a cup of coffee but he could already hear the mass of approaching Baasgarta.

Soon the goblins hove into sight. They were a solid mass from this distance and they just kept coming and coming, carpeting the valley floor. The moon had risen nearly full and dwarves have pretty good night vision but even so they were within a thousand paces before he could really resolve details of the oncoming horde. They were advancing in ranks and keeping their lines together fairly well, given the ankle-to-knee-high brush that dominated the ground at this altitude. That will limit their pace, he thought. Attempting to charge over that carpet of foliage would be disastrous, at least for the first ranks. At five hundred paces they stopped, and he could see some milling about as they re-ordered their lines.

An Afmaeltinn army would have been shouting insults, clashing weapons against their shields and working themselves into a frenzy. The Baasgarta began a rhythmic chant instead. He could not make out he words or even the language at this distance, but the cadence would help them stay in-step and coordinated as they moved forward.

He could hear a distant shout passed along the goblin ranks and he watched the ripple along their lines as they unslung their shields and held them before them. Horns sounded and the Baasgarta began to advance at a walk.

“Load!” was the shout from their own lines and he watched as over three thousand dwarves, almost in unison, cocked their rifles and thumbed heavy lead slugs into the chambers of their weapons. He knew well the routine from his own days in the regiment, and his impatience and boredom evaporated as the enemy drew closer.