Considering the rather inebriated state of the vast majority of the dwarves, the decision was made to stay clear, at least temporarily, of the perimeter of the elven forest. Many were disappointed, but after Tacken drunkenly navigated the lead wagon off the road into a tree, they began to acknowledge the wisdom of the move.
So the dwarves bedded down once again in a small clearing for their final night on the road, each and every one of them wondering at the dangers the following weeks would bring.
As night shrouded the camp, Legon sat in the darkness on watch, his short sword resting on his lap, and eyes scanning the distant wood for any sign of movement. Shadows seemed to flit from tree to tree, dark shapes of indistinct shape and size moving within the rustling leaves and branches, and the soldier was not entirely convinced they were just tricks of the light. He listened intently, and absorbed the various night-sounds of the encampment.
From behind him, he could distinctly hear the rhythmic scraping of Othtar sharpening his sword against a rough stone. For the many years he had known the commander, Legon was at a loss to remember a single time that he’d ever caught Othtar asleep. Rumour and legend amongst the ranks held that the dwarf was immortal, and had no need for rest. Legon doubted its veracity, but whenever the commander was required, he always seemed wide awake, regardless of the hour.
To his right, in a distant corner of the camp, he could dimly make out the sound of scribbling. By the dull glow of a candle, he could make out the faintly illuminated face of Servu, who was furiously making notes and performing calculations on his miniature abacus. Legon had a quiet respect for the dwarf. A mind of numbers and words, not weapons, but all the more dangerous for it. It was his calculations that had allowed Teach to kill the liche Bonegrave, and it was his calculations that would allow the construction of the biggest and most important mega-project the dwarven race had ever undertaken, the very ark that would carry their race into the future.
Tacken the herdsdwarf was a short distance away, nursing his bruised head with a damp cloth. Legon shook his head with amusement as the injured dwarf reached for yet another drink.
As for Kubluk? The distant and rather loud snores of the inebriated dwarf could be heard throughout the camp, even while several others could be heard muttering about the racket. But still, Legon thought, let the dwarf sleep. With the burden of the gods on his shoulders, he deserved a couple of hours rest.
***
Hours later, dawn broke over the Spiritwood to reveal a lone wagon break away from the caravan and proceed slowly towards the looming trees. Aboard the shabby looking cart, the well rested figures of Kubluk, Dirulal, Legon and a rather hung over and tired Tacken peered into the surrounding trees with great apprehension.
As the wagon slowly pushed its way into the edge of the forest, the leafy canopy seemed to whisper at their passing. Legends among the dwarves told that the souls of the elven dead would always find their way to this forest sanctuary, where they would live out the rest of their existence within the trees of the Spiritwood. Whether true or not, the rustling of the leaves added a rather sinister ambience to their slow advance.
Kubluk shivered slightly, as if attuned to the trembling branches above him. His eyes darted from left to right, every shadow seemed to conceal hidden dangers, every dark spot a possible trap. Tacken pulled his cloak tightly around himself, seeking warmth from the cold morning air. With the creaking motion of the wagon, they rode onwards in silence. The only other sounds came from the canopy above them, which swayed continually in the gentle breeze.
Above them, startled by their passing, a large bird erupted from the trees in a cacophony of wings, causing the dwarves to crouch even lower in their perches.
Finally, after some minutes, Dirulal spat into the dirt beside the wagon. “Bugger this for a lark, I’m not sitting here in silence till the elves turn up.” He coughed, and began to sing in a low and doleful tone.
“Here we stand, mighty dwarves.
Digging in and making home.
Where we choose to strike the earth
We choose to call our own…”
One after another, the other nervous dwarves began to join in, their voices quiet to begin with, but as their confidence grew, they soon found themselves bellowing at the tops of their voices. From nowhere, Tacken had found himself another drink, which he used to conduct the others in song.
“…Strike the earth!
Dig a hole!
Find a gem,
Find a coal!…”
Fearful glances soon transformed into infectious grins, as the booming voices of the dwarves penetrated the shadows of the forest.
“…Mighty dwarves of old,
Ne’er been so bold,
Sheltered from the cold,
Making stuff to be sold!”
Suddenly, a loud snap shattered the shadowy silence. Instantly, the dwarves were silent, save for a slight silken sound as numerous weapons were drawn from their sheathes.
“What in the various gods names was that?” Dirulal muttered, clasping at his belt for a crude steel dagger.
“Show yourselves,” Kubluk shouted into the shadows. “We’re not afraid of you,” he added, wishing it were true.
With an amusing sense of timing, the brush moved aside to admit a small furry woodland creature. Its nose tested the air around it for the scent of danger. Finding none, it scurried onwards, clambering up the side of the wagon as if it were nothing more than a continuation of the forest. Suddenly it paused, inches from Dirulal, puzzled by the strange smell of the dwarf.
“What’s that?” Dirulal asked, peering down his nose at the new arrival.
“Lunch.” Kubluk replied, after a moments contemplation.
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Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61674 times)