As one, the goblin blacksmiths looked up from their hard labour as a deafening roar reverberated through the dark stone of the demon fortress of R’lyeth. The hammering of armour and blade swiftly came to a halt, replaced by the whispering of the goblin masses. The words were indistinct, but one was repeated by all.
Nganuz.
His name spread quickly through the ranks, uttered in a terrifying rendition of Chinese whispers. Within moments, the mutterings began to rise in volume as the word spread quickly through their midst, rapidly becoming a repeated chant.
Nganuz, Nganuz.
Over a thousand goblin warriors heard the chant, and raised their weapons above their heads. Razor sharp swords, halberds, pikes, some still bearing the stains of their victims, were held aloft in a gross parody of a parade.
Nganuz! Nganuz!
Deep within the fortress cells, the surviving prisoners of the goblins dropped to their bony knees and trembled in terror. Their starving bodies froze in shock at the name, and mindless fear spread through their number as they began to claw at each other in panic. The moans of despair fuelled the chant to rise even higher in volume, as the guards noted their wards’ discomfort.
Suddenly, another roar ripped its way through the fortress, even louder than before. It was a sound as old as time, evoking primal memories of fear in all that heard it. A roar that promised only lingering pain and suffering, to which death would come as a welcome release.
In an instant, the chant vanished, replaced by a silence punctuated only by the sound of a low grumbling breathing.
Nganuz was awake.
***
After almost two days of nothing but swamp, the repetitive vista of the marshlands began to come to an end. Patches of dry land and sturdy terrain, that until now had been a rarity, began to become more frequent. Progress along the muddy road became easier, and before long the caravan found itself returning to a semblance of dry land.
The relief was palpable, almost as evident to any observers of the convoy as the stench of the swamp that lingered in the air around the wagons. As the caravan began to accelerate its pace along the more reasonable roadway, Kubluk was finally sighing with relief as his hangover retreated. Dirulal had since retired to a half empty provisions wagon further down the train, and his grumbling snore rose and fell with the clatter of the wheels. The driver of the lead wagon was also taking a well needed break, and the butcher Tacken had taken the reins. After a brief introduction to the trader, Kubluk quickly found himself enjoying the dwarf’s company.
“Despite what anyone says,” Tacken was insisting, “slugman is actually quite a delicacy. It’s all in how you cook it. The secret, I find, is in the juices. If it’s fired for too long, it grows too tough to handle, but not long enough, and it’s still relatively toxic to dwarves.”
“Doesn’t it disturb you,” Kubluk responded, “slicing up a sentient creature? We’ve brought so many provisions with us, it surprises me that you’d want to look elsewhere.”
Tacken raised an eyebrow. “Sentient? The beasts ambushed a heavily armed dwarven caravan without a second thought. I’d hardly call them thinkin’ creatures. Besides, those provisions back there might need to last us a very long time, so if the options there for a little variety, I’m going to take it. There might come a time when you’re sick of bread and cheeses, and desperate for some slugman meat.”
“I suppose,” Kubluk responded, despite being unable to think of such an occasion off the top of his head.
Suddenly, he looked up with a start at the shout of his name. A dwarf in full plate armour clanked up to the wagon and saluted. He raised his visor to reveal himself as a slightly tired looking Commander Silus, commanding officer of the Helm of Jaws detachment, who were taking their turn as the eyes of the convoy.
“What is it Silus?” Kubluk asked.
Silus pointed down the road. “We are approaching a village, should be upon it in the next few hours. Your orders?”
Kubluk looked surprised. After experiencing the likes of Othtar and the dwarves of the Courageous Bolt, he wasn’t used to military dwarves asking his opinions, let alone his instructions. His brow furrowed in thought.
“Hmm,” he finally responded decisively. “Can we send up a few scouts to take a look around it? It would be a good idea to know what we’re getting ourselves in for.”
Silus snapped a salute. “Very good sir,” he responded, and trotted back in the direction of his men.
Kubluk breathed a sigh of relief, and sat back. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Othtar looking in his direction. Wordlessly, the soldier raised his hand in a salute, and gave him a slight nod, their eyes fixed on eachother. Kubluk nodded back, and couldn’t help feeling like he’d passed some kind of test.
Author
Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61705 times)