The Book of Warlock

The Book of Warlock 11. Ghosts and rumours.

The beautiful goblin city of Everdwell was in the rat's sights. It sat on the horizon, nestled in the chunky rocky outcrops of the mountains. Sunlight reflected from lofty spires. Clouds cast shadows over the tall, fortified walls, their timber supports plunging down into softer soil below.

Hemlock sat on his backup pony and wondered if the citizens beyond had any inkling of what was coming to them. Probably not. The rat's army moved quickly, too quickly really, pushing their advance as far as possible in every minute of daylight given to them. The men were tired.

Nisgarant wasn't, though, and he was ultimately in charge; so they rested only when he needed it, and ate when he got hungry and thirsty.

Camp was being set up at the foothills ready for when they arrived, which would be very soon.

The rumble of war machines trailed behind them. The steady tramping of a thousand boots, too. Added to that was the neighing of horses and lowing of the oxen that pulled the wagons.

Nisgarant wanted to move faster than the speed of news. Everdwell would be settling down for the evening when they turned up on the doorstep. It would be a slog of a battle, there was no fooling themselves of that, but once the king/emperor/high priest or whomever had been slaughtered it was usually plain sailing. The gnolls would be slipped in amongst the fray to hunt them down and Nisgarant would do his big scene of public execution.

General Warlock had made it look easy, co-ordinating the archers and the battering-ram team for a short, sharp offensive that gave them access to the inner cities where the sword fighters would take over and do their thing inside the walls, as the trebuchets lobbed everything they could get their filthy claws on outside of them. Every Major kept their team in check. Every Lieutenant and Corporal following their orders down the chain of command.

If it went wrong, their own men could be squashed under flying boulders, or the enemy would surely drive them back using their knowledge of the city's layout to their advantage, knowing perfect ambush locations or thinning the soldiers out in labyrinthine alleyways making them easier to cut down. Being a mountain city meant that they would have dugout passages to escape through to delay the rat's victory even longer. It would actually be rather easy to defeat Nisgarant's army if only a handful of men could fight at a time in a narrow tunnel. And they would be narrow because these were goblins.

All of that was coming at dawn tomorrow.

Over all the din of the travelling warband, a hue and cry came up to announce the return of the gnoll hunting party. They snaked through the throng, their once golden dappled fur now dull with mud and slick with sweat. Their eyes blazed and their muzzles were flecked with sweat. It was clear they were bursting with news. What they were not bursting with, was success of capturing the rogue Lieutenant. Ordinarily, it would be reckless to return empty-pawed and risk the rat's wrath. Something exceptional must have happened. Or Brook was already dead, and for some reasons unknown, her corpse could not be carried.

There was also no sign of Bromor, the General's big, black horse.

Hemlock, Threllif and the other senior officers halted their steeds, and Nisgarant held the Tri-Horn Sceptre aloft to stop everyone in their tracks.

At the sight of it, Hemlock swung fluidly out of his saddle, his reptilian legs carrying him swiftly to the returning pathfinder team he'd sent out in the hope they would be utterly useless at tracking down their missing officer. If they died it would be blood on his hands. They were a simple bunch, and they didn't know he'd been crafty and set them up for failure. He accosted them in the brief moment he had before Threllif would be screeching at him that he was interfering in his taskforce again.