In his tomb beneath the dark fortress of R’lyeth, the demon Nganuz lies dreaming.
Occasionally, one of his talons would clench, and a low grumble would emit from his throat. His breathing was slow, deliberate, and powerful, as a chest of sinewy red muscles rose and fell in a rhythm older than time itself. His towering bulk lay outstretched upon a giant stone tablet, illuminated with the flickering light of a dozen torches.
Above him, in his towering fortress of obsidian stone, hammers fell and wheels ground. Screams of the dying permeated every stone of the building, as intelligence was gathered from villagers collected from the surrounding area. The clatter of blades punctuated the night, as a swarm of goblins prepared for war.
Nganuz slept on.
***
Within the space of three days, the caravan had been prepared. Thirty wagons, newly requisitioned from the various merchants and traders of the mountain home, had been hitched into a line, their donkeys impatiently pawing at the ground. A veritable menagerie of animals weaved in and out of the carts, cats, dogs, chickens, all making a deafening racket.
On either side of the convoy, the armed soldiers of the Helm of Jaws and the Dutiful Stockade stood impatiently beside their assigned wagons, checking their weapons and provisions to ensure they were fully prepared for anything that might occur. Their armour was shiny, their cloaks cleaned.
To the front of the convoy, the men of the Courageous Bolt were playing cards. Laughter spread through their ranks as Legon threw his hand down to the dusty floor and pushed the pile of gold towards his opponent.
“Curse you to the elf-land Diesalot, I’ve had enough of this,” he exclaimed. “If I lose any more to you, I’ll be fighting Nganuz in my undergarments!”
He stood up, swinging his axe over onto his back, and shouldering his pack. He barked out, “prepare yourself to move out men, we’ll be leaving in less than a turn.”
As one, the dwarves of the Bolt leapt to their feet, shouldered their bags, and formed up. Their column was hardly the most organised or straight of the three divisions present, but the officers of the Bolt had long ago decided that time spent on practising marching could far better be served learning actual combat. The Courageous Bolt would win no points on the parade ground, but their combat prowess was unquestionable.
Captain Legon strolled down the caravan, occasionally pausing to tighten a load, or exchange a few words with one of the cartsmen. He paused as he recognised Ousire, the Courageous Bolt’s unofficial siege engineer, who was in the process of securing a wagon. The dwarf was leaning heavily back on his feet, tightening the last remaining barrel. Once it was securely fastened, he turned and nodded to Legon.
“Are we leaving soon? These beasts are getting restless,” he asked, waving towards the two donkeys that were pawing at the ground with impatience.
Legon nodded, and eyed the contents of the wagon with a curious glance. They were taller than a standard supply barrel, and each one of them had a reinforced steel base. He pointed towards them.
“What on earth have you got in there Ousire?” he asked, moving towards the cart.
Ousire motioned for him to stay back. “Just a little surprise for Nganuz, special request from Othtar. You’ll find out soon enough, but those barrels are a little volatile, so I’d stay back if I was you.”
At the rear of the convoy, Kubluk was having a final discussion with councilman Mebzuth. Servu was staggering behind them, busy loading his own wagon with various plans and documents pertaining to the construction of the ship.
“Thought of a name yet?” Mebzuth asked.
Kubluk stroked his beard in confusion. “A name?” he quizzed.
“For the ship. Apparently it’s bad luck to sail without a name.”
Kubluk lifted his eyes towards the distant clouds in deep thought. “I have not. But I am sure something will come to me soon enough.”
Mebzuth nodded. “Let it be a name that will live on in legend for all eternity. Now, the council bids you all luck, the wagons are ready, and your soldiers await your command. They will move at your order, just give Othtar the word.”
Kubluk shook his hand, then looked towards the mountain home.
“Something has been troubling me,” he began. “No ship we build will possibly be able to carry the whole of the mountain home, and those of you who stay here will have no time to reach us when the rains begin.”
Mebzuth nodded solemnly. “Of this I am keenly aware Kubluk. However, our will is strong.”
He pointed towards the massive foreboding iron gates of the mountain home.
“Those gates have stood against the Dragon Zulban, the giants of Alathgin, and over a thousand years of time. We will make our own preparations here, and when the rains come, those doors will be closed tightly. The waters may rise above us, but the mountain home will continue.”
“And what of your air?” Dirulal asked, wandering over.
Mebzuth lowered his head. “The air may last, or it may not. We have faith in our gods Dirulal, and that is all we can do.”
“Then I wish you the best of luck, and may the gods be with you.” Dirulal leaned forward, and clasped Mebzuth’s forearm in a tight grip.
“And with you old friend.”
Kubluk turned to face the distant Commander Othtar of the Courageous Bolt, and waved an arm. Almost out of earshot he could hear barked orders, and within moments the clatter of moving wagons and sound of marching feet filled the air. With a final wave to Mebzuth, the two dwarves turned and joined the procession.
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Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61683 times)