The Pioneer Companies are a uniquely dwarven institution, a hybrid military and commercial organisation that arose after groups of dwarven prospectors began falling victim to bandits in the remoter regions in the early 1100s, and demanded either protection from the military or the right to better protect themselves. Wary of allowing her subjects to raise their own private armies but acutely aware that her forces were already sorely taxed, Queen Olga devised a masterful compromise in the form of a Royal Warrant to arm and train companies of engineers in return for the right to conscript them to military service in time of war or national emergency. Obtaining such a warrant requires only naturalised citizenship of the dwarven kingdoms and testimony of good character from a mayor or landholder, whereas recruitment is at the founder's sole discretion, save for a loosely-enforced minimum age of sixteen years; human or elven Pioneers are uncommon but not unheard of.

The defining characteristic of the Pioneers is their self-sufficiency; a typical ten- to fifteen-man team is capable of building a satisfactory outpost all by itself. Though individuals specialise in one trade or another, all Pioneers are expected to have a basic grounding in carpentry, masonry and blacksmithing and carry the necessary tools to undertake them at all times. Team leaders are further trained at one of the famous dwarven academies of mining, architecture or mechanical engineering, and usually act as both foreman and designer for the contract they are assigned.
Since Pioneers must of neccessity travel light, they have developed a truly astonishing variety of lightweight, multi-purpose tools for work and survival. Most teams work only with what they carry in their packs and a single wagon containing extra food, a portable forge and crucible and any specialist equipment for the job in hand that would take too long to assemble on-site, though it is far from unusual for a newly-formed company to take a contract with a mining concern and accept part of their fee in the ore from which to forge a complete set of equipment. Not for nothing is their motto "One Tool, Many Uses".

-- From "Notable Military Formations of the Dwarven Kingdoms" by Major Tolkid Sigurdsson (ret'd), originally published in the Veropan Military Gazette, June 1723

"Well aren't my holidays off to a splendid bloody start," Sven grumbled mildly.

The incessant drumming of the rain had been a blessing, drowning out the sounds of debauchery and fleeting, rented passion and thus allowing him to get a reasonable night's sleep... at least once he'd impressed upon the proprietress that he'd reached the age where he wasn't going to spend fifteen shillings on anything he couldn't take home and get years of faithful service out of, which was extremely unlikely with what was on offer here, and would she please just let him rent a room for the night and get some blasted kip?
Unfortunately, the same rain had apparently flooded most of the roads heading out of the city and put a couple of bridges out of action, leaving him stranded here for three days with nothing very much to do. Never comfortable resting on his laurels, or one to pass up an opportunity to earn a few bob, Sven found a small eatery near the gates and made a list of the items he'd need on the back of an old envelope.
Raw materials wouldn't be a problem; all he needed for what he had in mind was a couple of old fenceposts and about fifty pounds of scrap metal. As far as fuel went, a sack of charcoal to be getting on with and a few bundles of firewood to make more would be easy enough to get cheaply. A few other items might be a wee bit harder to find, though...
But hadn't he seen a ruined tower a quarter-mile up the road on some common land? Sven snapped his fingers in satisfaction. That would do nicely.

The ruin had once been a bastion, one of a ring of defensive fortifications outside the city walls. A couple of heavy repeating crossbows and a forty-strong force of archers and grenadiers were stationed there to slow down the approach of enemy forces with harassing fire, with a couple of post-horses tethered outside to send warning back to the main militia garrison. They'd played a major role in bogging the Ardalans down during their last campaign, buying two precious weeks to bolster the city's defences and forcing the Imperial Army to sorely deplete their gunpowder reserves just to get within cannon-range of the city.
This one appeared to have been fired upon with a whole regiment's worth of artillery for a week, and been treated as an unofficial source of free building material for some time afterwards. The squat cylindrical tower was visibly leaning over amidst a litter of rubble and shattered, half-rotten timber palisades, making the occasional ominous creak in the gusting wind. A particularly dramatic hole gouged out of one side had been braced with a few beams, which were now visibly riddled with dry rot; a well-thrown half-brick would probably bring the whole lot down.
Making certain that he was well upwind of it, Sven set down the battered hand-barrow he'd picked up for a song and cast around until he had a dozen lumps of stone to serve as firebricks, then untied the entrenching tool from the side of his pack and started to carefully cut through the turf.

Ten minutes later, he had a satisfactory firepit. Sven carefully placed the stones and packed the charcoal in around them, then tossed in a handful of kindling and a lit match. Once it was blazing merrily, he turned his attention to the ruined bastion. He needed a large block of stone with one smooth face, maybe one of the 'teeth' of the crenelations or something...
"Jackpot!" Sven said to himself in surprise and satisfaction. A particularly large cannonball was lying in a small dip in the ground, one edge crushed flat by a glancing hit on the bastion. On close inspection it proved to be cast lead; the Ardalans had little iron ore in their original territory, and had learned to make good use of lesser metals.

By the time he'd rolled it over to the firepit and set it up as a makeshift anvil, the coals were glowing nicely. Sven thrust a few lengths of old cast iron pipe into the pit and unpacked his tools; a hammer, tongs, a whittling knife with one serrated edge and some gauntlets. "Start with a few trowels and hand forks, maybe a proper spadehead or two if I can get it hot enough..." He glanced at the old oak planks he'd bought from a wagoner, mentally calculating how many handles he'd get out of each one. He'd never been much of a carpenter, but the results should be serviceable enough.
That could wait, however. Sven set a kettle on top of the firepit and filled it from his waterskin, then unwrapped his simple lunch of bread, cheese and a meat pie.

He'd just finished his fourth set of gardening tools and was considering a couple of crowbars for variety when he heard fast-approaching hoofbeats. Sven glanced up idly as a carriage with an escort of six Ramelan Mounted Militia cantered along the coach road towards the town. The elven soldiers were in full dress armour, with plumed helmets and ridiculously ornate sabres that would be next to useless in actual combat, which might have explained their deeply disgruntled expressions.
An equally likely explanation was the heraldry of the Ardalan Emperor adorning the door of the carriage, and the wooden standard being held upright by the driver, bearing a mountain lion rampant in gold plate; pure gold if Sven's practiced eye didn't deceive him, not brass or an alloy, and with black bronze letters beneath it. An Imperial herald, quite an important one too.
"Wonder where he's off to?" Sven said to himself, returning to the job in hand... only to be distracted once more by a startled whinny and a couple of loud thumps, followed by a string of oaths. One of the militiamen's horses had thrown a shoe, lost its footing and hurled its unfortunate rider into a drainage ditch.
"You alright there, mate?" Sven called out, though he knew from long experience that someone suffering from a truly life-threatening injury generally has trouble swearing.
"Aye, just bruised. You see where that shoe went? Might have a job for you in a-"
"I say!" exclaimed the poshest voice Sven had ever heard. "What's the damned delay this time?" A portly figure in Ardalan ducal regalia peered out of the carriage window. "Oh, get up you bally fool!" he demanded. "I haven't got all day, you know!"
"Wasn't his fault, lordship," the coachman pointed out, looking rather embarrassed. "Horse threw a shoe is all."
"Stay out of it, you. Come on, we can't sit about all day. You there, dwarf!" the Ardalan noble demanded. "Fix that horse's shoe and be quick about it; there's gold in it for you." Sven's fists clenched involuntarily at the man's condescending tone. He was all set to tell the overbred, ill-mannered swine exactly what he thought of him when the coachman caught his eye and shook his head frantically, pointing at the standard. Sven nodded fractionally and subsided, prudence overriding wounded pride.
"No good, sir," interjected the militaiman who'd fallen. "I think my animal's picked up a sprained ankle."
"Well, the devil with it then. On, coachman!"
"And good bloody riddance," Sven muttered. "You'd think a diplomat would pick up some manners, eh?"
"With that bunch? Fat chance." The elf undid his breastplate with some relief. "It's his driver I feel sorry for; we only had to see him as far as the border, but he's headed all the way to the Steel Keep. Dunno what's so important that they had to send the Emperor's great-nephew all the way from the capital."
"They just want rid of him for a bit, I reckon," Sven opined. "Anyway, I could do with a brew; care to join me?"
"Gods, yes." The elf took a tin mug from the saddlebag and passed it over as Sven set about making tea. "I reckon them buggers are up to something, you know," he added.
"The Ardalans are always up to something; wheeler-dealing and backroom politics is practically a betting sport down there. Nothing'll come of it, though; where'd they be without all the import and export duty?"
"Making it up with income tax on their new conquests?" the militiaman wondered sourly. "And remember where that coach is headed."
Sven thought about that, and came to a conclusion he heartily disliked.

The dwarven kingdoms and their forest-dwelling neighbours had had their share of differences over the years, with regular border disputes and the odd flare-up of outright hostility over excessive logging in the foothills, several major elven religions regarding the trees as sacred and everybody else objecting strenuously to the ensuing landslides. It hadn't come to actual combat in a long time, however; the dwarves might be sitting on most of the good iron ore and flux stone in Veropa, but they had very little arable land, and depended on imports of elven grain and livestock as much as the elves depended on dwarven steel and manufactured goods. Co-dependency fosters coexistence, and in any case the terrain favoured the defender from both directions; the handful of good roads through the mountainous and thickly wooded border regions would make for bloody and protracted siege warfare.
The Ardalan Empire hadn't realised that until their previously unchecked advance south towards the polar mountains began to falter, and they'd also made the mistake of diverting all exports of food from the occupied territory to their own markets, pushing the dwarves from armed neutrality and logistical support of the Ramelans to active military assistance. That single mistake probably saved both peoples from eventual defeat, at least this time around.
Say what you might about the Ardalan Empire, however, its ruling dynasty seldom failed to draw profitable lessons from setbacks. They'd probably try and secure some sort of non-aggression pact with the dwarves, potentially driving a wedge between them and the Ramelans even if no treaty was signed. But the King and Parliament wouldn't be fool enough to actually sign anything, would they? It had been an intense, brutal eight-month struggle with heavy casualties; there could hardly be a family in all the dwarven realm that hadn't lost at least one member, and plenty of villages had been sacked.

Sven looked out over the horizon, watching the sun begin to sink. There were a handful of clouds blowing south towards the mountains, but not enough to threaten rain yet. He hoped that was an omen.