Commander Silus looked up at the approaching sound of pounding feet, and reached for his weapon. He was relieved yet still somewhat disappointed when moments later the three dwarven scouts of the Helm of Jaws came into view.
“The village…” Falk panted, “overturned carts…blockades..”
Rocard waved his exhausted colleague to sit down, and saluted the commander.
“There are signs of a prolonged attack,” he began, sketching a vague outline of the village in the dirt with his foot. “The villagers have erected defences around the boundary at these positions,” he marked a couple of new lines in the dirt, “and pretty much blocked off access via the main roads. The blockades seem to be holding, and the wall still seems relatively secure, but we couldn’t see anyone moving around inside.”
Silus scratched his beard, and leaned forward to inspect the diagram. “Did you see anything of the attackers?” he asked.
Rocard shook his head. “Not one. Tracks lead north from the village and indicate a group of about fifty, but they’re badly scuffed, and it’s difficult to get a clear print from them.”
“Goblins?”
“Could be sir, but it’s not their usual hunting grounds.”
“No, that’s what I thought.” The commander peered at the diagram closely. The road the caravan would take ran straight through the village, and a detour was impossible in the difficult terrain. The blockades would have to be shifted aside to allow the wagons access to the road north.
“I guess we’re going to have to go take a look then.” Silus stood up, and shouldered his pack. “Form up lads!” he barked. “Grab your weapons and prepare for trouble. We’re heading into town!”
***
The dozen dwarves of the Helm of Jaws knew that approaching the village unseen would be impossible. A wide area of ground surrounding the wall had been cleared of bushes and debris, permitting no cover to the approaching dwarves. Silus had therefore decided to dispense with a covert operation, and march right up to the front door.
As the dwarves in their glistening armour marched in perfect rank and file down the roadway, Silus ordered the banner unfurled and within moments the purple flag flew with its proud emblem of a silver helm on the backdrop of a golden cog.
As they approached to crossbow range, he lifted his hand and brought their number to a swift halt. He drew a small bronze horn from his belt and blew a loud tone. The tone spread across the silent village, shattering the silence. A flock of dark crows exploded into the air, startled by the noise that interrupted their feeding.
Rocard pointed the climbing birds out to his commander. “Carrion birds,” he remarked. “they can only mean death.”
“True enough,” Silus responded, eyeing the crows with some distaste. Suddenly, he broke into a smile. “Let’s just make sure it’s not our death then, shall we?”
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Hello?!!”
The dwarves stood in silence for almost a minute, before the commander tried again.
“Hello! Is anybody there?”
A distant crow cried out the only response.
Silus adjusted the strap on his helmet, and nodded towards the barricade. “Falk, Rocard, see if you can’t find us a way in.”
The two dwarves scurried forward, crouched low to protect themselves from any hidden bowmen concealed within the village walls. Within moments, Falk looked up with some surprise to find himself at the wall without a scratch. He knocked apprehensively on the hastily erected barricade, a hefty wagon that had been turned at considerable effort on to its side. The silence that replied was almost worse than the expected cries of ambush, so he coughed softly to bring an end to the quiet.
Rocard shrugged, and muttered. “Guess they’ve up and left. Give us a hand, and we’ll get this shifted.”
The two dwarves leant heavily against the wagon and strained. With their combined dwarven strength, the wagon creaked loudly, and finally tipped back onto its wheels, where it was an easy matter to wheel the cart aside.
“All clear!” Rocard shouted, and the rest of the dwarves surged forward at a run. The party rushed through the newly formed hole, their weapons held high in expectation of resistance. Silus was at the head of the charge, his silver axe presenting the tip of the assault. His skill in battle was a close match for the legendary prowess of Othtar and Teach, so it was somewhat disappointing for the accompanying dwarves when they discovered nobody waiting for them on the other side.
“By the gods, where is everybody?” he grumbled, his axe lowering slightly, but still ready for use.
Suddenly, a loud bang shattered the silence. Within an instant, the dwarves moved into a practised formation, every eye and blade focused on a different location, making a surprise attack impossible. Falk lifted his crossbow to his eye and scanned the rooftops around them. He cursed to himself as he could feel his hands trembling in fear. Silus waved an arm without saying a word, and the diamond of dwarves moved slowly forward, still in battle formation. Another bang reverberated through the streets, its source concealed by the echoing alleys and walls.
“Bugger this for a patrol,” Silus muttered, almost to himself. The other dwarves grunted in response.
They rounded a corner as a final bang shattered the silence. Its source was an elderly shutter that swung precariously in the wind. Instinctively, Falk’s finger tightened on the trigger and a crossbow bolt sliced across the square. It slammed into the shutter, which sagged rather pathetically before dropping into the dust of the street.
Rocard chuckled at the inexperienced dwarf. “Nice shooting,” he remarked.
Falk mumbled apologetically, before fumbling another bolt into the crossbow.
“So,” Silus announced. “Either we’ve missed the party, or no-one wants to come out and play. How rude.”
As if in direct response to his comment, a door slammed open across the square from the dwarves. A wide eyed human burst from the doorway, his clothes in tatters, and ran towards the dwarves, a rusted blade in his hand. The dwarves raised their weapons in preparation for attack.
“Steady,” Silus warned, and raised his axe. “Either you stop, or we will cut you down where you stand!” he warned.
The human slowed, and collapsed into the dust almost at the commander’s feet. He looked up, his chest heaving from exhaustion. The absolute terror in his eyes was palpable to every member of the patrol.
Silus stared the man in the eyes, and lowered his own weapon. He reached out, took the rusted knife from the unresisting human’s hand, and dropped it in the street.
The human stared back at him, and croaked something inaudibly.
“What was that?” Silus replied, leaning forward close to the man’s mouth.
“Run,” he whispered.
“Run? From what?”
“The dead are coming.”
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Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61291 times)