The dwarven caravan rolled out of camp in a cloud of dust, leaving a scattered pile of debris, abandoned barrels, several broken wagons and a number of dead dwarves in their wake. At the head of the caravan, Tacken urged his wagon faster and faster as they bounced ferociously over the rough surface of the roadway. Whilst the fog had lifted slightly, visibility was still poor, and his eyes were narrow as he peered into the darkness.
“Come on you damned mules,” he shouted. “I have no intention of being lunch for a hungry deadite!”
On the back of the wagon, Kubluk held desperately onto the wagon alongside Othtar.
“See anything?” He asked the commander, who was scanning the darkness either side of the wagon with a practised eye.
“They’re certainly out there. Hundreds of the buggers. Just stood there, watching us. It’s like they’re playing with us.”
“Think we’ll get through?”
“Depends if they’ve had time to circle round us.”
As if in response to his statement, Tacken yanked back on the reins, pulling the wagon to a swift halt. Somewhat inevitably, from further back down the caravan line came a crunch, and several angry shouts.
“What is it?” Kubluk asked.
“They’re lined across the road ahead of us.” Tacken replied. “It looks like we’re going nowhere.”
Othtar turned to Kubluk. “We can try to run them down, but if we get bogged now, we’re toast.”
Kubluk paused, staring into the darkness. “We’re dwarves,” he said finally. It was enough.
“Right you lot,” Othtar’s voice detonated into the darkness. “Grab yourself a weapon, a pick, or a kitchen utensil. Line yourselves up out front, military dwarves to the front. We’re not getting out of this one without some bruises.”
With an element of both practised discipline and some pushing and shoving, within less than a minute the dwarves assembled into a rough defensive line. To their surprise, the hordes of the undead had not moved the entire time.
“What are they waiting for?” Kubluk finally asked.
“Dwarfmen!”
An unpleasant slither of a voice echoed across the intervening distance between the two lines. From the lines of the dead, a pair of rotting humans parted ranks to allow the sinister speaker to step forward. A monk, or at least the remains of one. His habit was torn and coated in mud, and his flesh hung in chunks from his body. Unlike the rest of the dead, he held himself firmly upright, his body held in strict self-control. He stood motionless, his eyes scanning the ranks of the dwarves with distaste and rancour.
“Dwarfmen,” he repeated, raising an skeletal arm with next to no flesh to point in their direction. “My name is Bonegrave, and these are my lands. And these,” he continued, waving his arm to encompass the assembled masses of the undead, “are my legion of the damned. And you,” he continued to continue, “will join them. Who speaks for your number?”
Kubluk looked up at Othtar stood beside him, who to his surprise was staring straight back at him. The muscular commander nodded to him, and motioned him forward.
Kubluk coughed in the silence, and took a deep breath.
“I am Kubluk Taniden,” he squeaked. “And I speak for the dwarves.”
Bonegrave’s snickering laughter filled the air. “You are no leader little dwarf,” the monk replied. “You tremble at my name. I am Bonegrave, the leader of the dead, fiend of the damned. My reign of terror has spanned fifty years. I slew Mizbo Masteredlengths the hero of the humans, I consumed the flesh of Urist McDwarf, I devoured the elven riders of the east, and I survived the heart of Boatmurdered. Bow before me!”
Kubluk furrowed his brow, and felt his cheeks reddening. Despite the terrifying circumstances, he could feel his temper running away with him. He flung down his pack and shook his fist furiously.
“I am Kubluk Taniden of the clan Taniden! My father was the miner Odthist Taniden, slayer of, of orthoclase and granite, and we stand against you. These lands are free lands, and we are free dwarves!”
Bonegrave laughed once again. “Perhaps I was wrong little dwarf. You speak with words of strength. Your fate will be long and agonising.”
Kubluk’s anger was reaching boiling point. “And your fate will be arduous and dull!” he found himself replying. “Until we kill you!”
“We will add your number to our own.” Bonegrave snarled. “You will serve me in death and beyond. Your women and young will serve as our feast tonight.”
Kubluk paused, considering his response. “No we won’t!” he finally yelled back, instantly regretting it. “I mean,” he added, “we will crush your bones to pave our road!” Yes, that sounded better.
The dwarves were becoming restless. They were not used to any pre-battle discussions beyond “charge!” Finally, from the ranks of the dwarves the quiet voice of Servu could be heard muttering to the dwarf beside him, almost under his breath.
“Wind speed, less than a knot…adjust for terrain…angle ten degrees…aye that should do it.”
A silvery shape leapt from their number, and danced into the air in a smooth parabola. Bonegrave looked up with mild interest at the flicker of light in the moonlight. Living and dead alike felt their eyes drawn to the mysterious object as it span through the air. The dead monk narrowed his eyes. “What sorcery is this?” he muttered.
Moments later, his head was split like a pumpkin by the expert signature throw of the Courageous Bolt’s blind swordthrower, Teach.
Silence ruled the land, as the ranks of the living and dead stared as one as Bonegrave slumped lifelessly into the ground, Teach’s sword protruding vertically from his corpse. Within the ranks, Servu nodded to himself in satisfaction.
“What a great pansy!” Teach shouted from the ranks. “Can we kill the rest o’ them yet?”
With a unified moan, the undead surged forward.
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Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61691 times)