Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Fishing or crawfishing at a guess,” Engvyr said, lowering the spyglass. Taarven nodded. They stayed high on the slope as they bypassed the outpost and continued north. By evening they had reached the point where their valley spilled out into a larger river-valley. Unless it doubled back on itself rather abruptly they guessed that this was not the same one the Baasgarta forces were fleeing along. This larger basin was under cultivation with many of the Braell just coming in from the fields. They watched through their spyglasses as the dwarves were herded into low structures, apparently just a peaked roof set on poles only a couple of feet off the ground. The poles were set too closely for any of them to slip out, and a barred gate closed them in for the night. A thread of smoke issued from under the roof at either end. At a guess there was enough room to stand only at the center of the structure. The Baasgarta posted no guards on the building and retreated into another of the low-roofed stone houses that they appeared to favor.

As it grew dark lights came on in the windows, and a short time later they could hear a thread of music drifting to them on the light breeze. Moving off the rangers found a hollow in the side of the valley where they dared a small fire for their dinner and coffee.

“It's funny,” Taarven said, “But it never occurred to me that they'd play music.”

Engvyr nodded and said, “I know what you mean. We don't think of them as being like us, reading or dancing or courting but when it comes down to it I suppose that a lot of them are just folks.”

“Just folks that have kept our people enslaved since the time of the Maker,” Taarven reminded him. Engvyr shrugged.

“Sure and that's true, but they still have to do the same sort of things as any folk,” Engvyr said, “Likely they're like most people, some good and some bad. They just live in a culture that says it's ok to keep dwarves as slaves. It's the culture that's evil, the individuals mostly just don't know any better.

Doesn't make them any less our enemies. It's a thing to think on after the war.”

Taarven poked at the tiny fire with a stick and said, “Which begs the question of what happens to all of these 'folks' when the war is over?”

Engvyr shrugged again.

“I honestly don't know. Fortunately that will be someone else's problem.”

“You dearly hope,” said Taarven with a wicked grin, “Lord Eastgrove.”

Engvyr reached out and casually shoved the other ranger. Taarven, crouched by the fire, had to flail to keep his balance, duck-walking sideways. He snickered and Engvyr glared at him.

“Don't you start that 'Lord' business with me! I've been your partner too long… I might just start to 'reminisce' with Ynghilda some evening…”

Taarven assumed a look of offended innocence and said, with mock-righteous indignation, “I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about! M'Lady and I have no secrets between us.”

“So she knows about that barmaid over in Sgeggisdale? The fat one?”

“That was one time, and I was drunk!” Taarven said, then looked at him reproachfully and admitted, “So maybe a fella needs to have some secrets…”

At first light they crossed the valley to the opposite slope and picked their way along under the trees. They saw other plantations and many Braell working under the watchful eyes of their masters. A road paralleled the river connecting the farms, and as the day went on the land below the slopes became more and more densely populated. They had to move more carefully now, as they came across evidence of logging and other activity in the forest. They dismounted to skirt these areas, one of them leading the ponies and the other scouting ahead, creeping from cover to cover.

Engvyr was scouting along the edge of a clearing when he literally ran into one of the Baasgarta. He rounded a large old-growth fir and a startled goblin rose and turned to face him, dropping his basket of mushrooms. Unlike the goblin Engvyr was primed for the encounter and struck immediately. He felt the iron-shod butt of his rifle crunch into the Baasgarta's temple with sickening finality. The mushroom-picker dropped like a pole-axed steer.

The ranger crouched and froze, looking for others. After several minutes he was satisfied that the goblin had been alone and signaled Taarven forward. They examined the corpse curiously; this was the first time they had seen a Baasgarta in their normal dress. He wore a light shirt bloused into homespun trousers and a leather jacket, fairly normal-looking boots, a belt with a knife and pouch and a broad-brimmed hat to protect him from the light. In the dimness under the trees he had undone the scarf that covered his face and they could see that he was hardly more than a youth. Engvyr's blow had cracked his skull and killed him instantly.