Prelude: The Caravan
11th of March, 2002
Prelude
The Caravan
The caravan rolled west across the great plain, unaware that it was being watched.
Ten heavy wagons, laden with goods, each pulled by four oxen, moved very slowly, and they were several days from assistance, either ahead or behind.
“Please, may I go?” the young acolyte asked.
The high priestess of Madriel looked down at her acolyte with amusement. The acolyte was a young woman, tall and slender, with short red hair and a pretty face. Her cheeks were slightly narrower than a pureblood human’s might have been, and her ears made the vaguest hint of a point, which had been the first thing that had suggested her half-elven background to the high priestess. She had known the acolyte since she was six, and could easily read the excitement and hope written plainly on the younger woman’s face.
“Imagine! A convention of healers such as has not been gathered in one place since the Titan’s War! I could learn so much! And surely the goddess means me to learn.” The acolyte watched the older woman’s face, to see which of her arguments might provide the key.
“If I’m to serve Madriel,” she pleaded, “Surely I must someday venture beyond the safe walls of this city. There is so much else to see and experience, so much that I might learn.”
The older woman sighed. “Very well, Miriel,” she said, and the young woman’s face lit up with joy . “You did show great promise in the healing arts during the Slimy Doom outbreak. There is a caravan leaving the day after tomorrow. You will have a place on it. Truth be told, I wish I could go myself, but my duty binds me here.”
The caravan rolled west across the grass, dry now in the late-summer heat, unaware that it was being watched.
Hidden in the low hills to the south was a small humanoid with beady black eyes. It walked upright, covered in mottled fur of a sickly, dark grey. Its face had a long muzzle, like a rat’s, and its ears and tail would have furthered that comparison, if anyone had observed it.
It held a small bow in its rat-like hand, sized to its four-foot tall frame, and concealed itself in the vegetation as the caravan passed two miles away.
The head of the Vigil turned from his window, where he had contemplated the setting sun.
He turned to face the man across from him. The man moved with the dangerous grace of an expert swordsman, and his face was tanned with the sun. He was in his mid-thirties, at the height of his powers, and was one of the best of the Vigilant. They had been friends and sword-mates, once.
“Steve,” he said, “I don’t know what that force is meant for. The Disease tribes have never come this far north, into Vesh, before. We must find out what they think they’re doing.”
Steve nodded.
“There is a caravan leaving tomorrow morning. Take your apprentice, what’s his name, Charles?”
“Yes. Chuck.”
“Take him, and ride west with that caravan. Protect them, if need be. When you are past this force, this army, double back and trail them. Find out what they are up to. Send word if you think you can determine their goal.”
“How much can I tell him?”
“Not everything. No more than I can tell you everything. For now, tell him that you are guarding the caravan, and hint that we’ve head rumors of ratmen in the area. You can let him know the rest later, if he needs to.”
The hidden ratman counted the defenders, three mounted on horseback, six footmen walking. Doubtless the wagon masters would carry bows, and some of the wagons might have passengers. It kept a careful count of those it could see.
When the caravan was beyond its position, the scout slipped back into the hills, and ran quickly west, paralleling the path of the slow-moving wagons, to tell his captain what he had seen.
“Do you need a hired sword?”
The caravan master looked over his shoulder in surprise, unaccustomed to hearing those words spoken with a woman’s voice, and shrugged. He finished tying a rope on his wagon, and turned around to look her up and down critically. The woman was tall, and wore a shirt of chain armor, which was rare for a mercenary. Her hair was cropped just above the shoulders, and she had a long sword, sheathed, at her belt, and a shield and bow strapped to her back. She walked like she was used to the burdens.
“I might,” he allowed. “You know how to use that thing?” He gestured at her sword.
“I might”, she said with a smile. “I spent two years in Laverne’s Company.”
He nodded – the mercenary company had a good reputation. “Why’d you leave?”, he asked.
“I didn’t think our next contract agreed with me,” she said, “So I set out on my own.”
“You didn’t get in trouble, did you?” he asked.
“No sir,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’m not a brawler, if that’s what you mean, and I don’t get drunk.”
“Okay,” he said, “That’s good enough for me. What’s your name?”
“Paks.”
“Listen, Paks. I pay one silver a day, and you won’t get an advance from me tonight: if I did that, half my guards would be too drunk to leave tomorrow. If you cause any trouble on the road, you’re out, no matter how far we are from a city.”
She nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Report here at first light. We’ll be out the gates when they open at dawn.”
The ratman’s captain was very large for a ratman, though he would have been average build for a human. He was much better muscled than the small scout who stood before him, and his fur was a much lighter shade, more silver than grey. He wore a large sword, and at his belt there was a map case and a spyglass. His face had the same rat-like muzzle and beady rat eyes, and he wore his features set in a cruel sneer.
“Only nine warriors?” he demanded. “They surely cannot believe that is enough.”
The scout cowered under his steely gaze. “It is all they had, I swear!”
“And you saw no mage?” asked the shaman, gazing intently at the scout. The shaman’s fur was nearly white. His muzzle was grey underneath, and his eyes moved more slowly than the other two. He held a cane, which he used to walk anywhere, as his tail no longer served enough to balance him.
“None that I saw, Holy One,” the scout assured him.
“Good,” the shaman said, and turned to the captain. “The titans favor our boldness,” he said.
The seedy tavern near the port slums was the perfect place for a half-orc, too dark for people to recognize his features as anything more than ugly, the innkeeper too desperate for his coin to throw him out even if he realized his bastard breeding. Every town had a tavern like this, and the half-orc was well-used to them.
“Moor,” the half-orc said emphatically, slapping his hand against the bar.
“To Moor?” asked the man sitting with him at the bar, disbelievingly. “You don’t want to go there.”
“Whyzzat?” he slurred with a drunken voice. In the dark tavern, his drinking companion could not see that his eyes remained sharp and alert.
“Ratmen!” pronounced his companion, as though it were a profound insight.
“Whaddya mean?” he asked, molding his features in the dumb-half-orc look he found he adopted too often.
“The ratmen,” he was told. “They’ve come outta the swamp, and they’re all over, outside Moor.”
The half-orc looked unimpressed. “They’re little,” he said.
“A normal one, by itself, yeah, any man worth his liquor can take it in a fight. But these are bigger, and more organized. Supposedly, they’re going around in big packs, almost an army! They’re tricky buggers, too,” his companion concluded this by finishing his ale. “I hate ’em,” he said.
When he turned, the stool next to him was empty.
“Stone?” he asked. “Where’d you go?” He checked under the bar, but there was nobody passed out, yet. The half-orc was gone.
He didn’t notice as the door to the seedy inn swung closed on the night.
The hills made a small finger out into the plain, and there was a low pass through them. The caravan made directly for the path, and the captain, watching now through a spyglass, smiled to himself when he was sure of its course.
He put the spyglass at his side, and gave the order to break camp.
Within minutes, there was little sign that the clearing had just been occupied by a hundred bipedal ratmen.
The doomed caravan trundled slowly towards the setting sun, yet unknowing of its fate.
The elf stood as still as a statue, staring with a look which might have been wistfulness across the great golden-brown plain, as though, if he looked this way long enough, he could see through the mountains which adorned the horizon, to see the great trees of the elven forest beyond.
He stood in a small grove of beech trees, and the slight breeze from the plains ruffled his long dark hair. Like all elves, he was slight of build, just under five feet tall. His clothes were handmade, of a course fiber, and travel-worn. His ears had the distinctive point of a true elf, and his eyes were deep pools of dark purple. Were any human here to describe them, they might have described his eyes as beautiful yet ageless and inscrutable, but he had the grove to himself.
The human city, behind him, was becoming audible as the day lightened, and when the sun poked its head over the distant mountain, he turned to go down towards it. Perhaps the caravan would leave today, and he could finish his journey home.
The caravan rolled west into the low hills as the day became twilight, unaware that they were being watched, unsuspecting that the gods themselves watched carefully, unaware that five of the people were marked by the gods for the parts they would play in an epic battle.
The caravan reached the spring shortly before dark. With practiced ease, the caravan master and his people set up camp. The wagons made a ring around a large campfire, with the oxen and horses staked outside the ring. Dinner was a quiet affair, as almost everyone was tired from the long journey. A few hardy souls stayed awake after dinner, playing music and talking near the fire, but within a few hours, everyone had retired to the wagons save the two sentries.
It was a dark night, without the benefit of moonlight, and the two sentries stood outside the ring of wagons. One of the oxen snorted, but the night was quiet.
A blade drew itself across one of the sentry’s throats. His blood glistened, appearing as a black stain spreading to his jerkin. His companion turned to him, and saw. He took a deep breath to scream, but never exhaled, as a strong rat-like grey hand covered his mouth, and the blood-stained knife did its work again.
Chuck’s eyes opened, and his hand flew to his dagger before he recognized the face in front of his.
“Chuck,” Steve whispered, “Wake up. Something’s wrong.”
Chuck sat up with a sullen look on his face. His brown hair was tousled from sleep, and his green eyes were not yet fully awake. He was sleeping in light leather armor, and as he stood out of the blankets, he reached for his bow. The older man held out his belt, with the sheaths for his two swords, and Chuck silently girthed it.
When he was ready, Steve drew his long sword and stepped out of the wagon, with Chuck right behind him, bow ready with an arrow knocked. There was no sign of the sentries, and the fire had burned down more than the sentries ought to have let it.
As they stepped towards the fire, an ululating battle cry pierced the night, and suddenly the darkness seemed filled with ratmen, streaming down out of the hills at the wagons. Some rode on the backs of great rats, like horses, while most ran more quickly than a man. Their weapons and outfits were mismatched, ad-hoc. Arrows began to rain down out of the darkness. Chuck fired back in reply, killing several before the ratmen reached them, and he drew his two swords to fight side-by-side with Steve.
The caravan master stood up through the back curtain of his wagon, clutching his sleep robe about himself. He shouted orders to the guards and to his people, but he was quickly cut off. A sword slashed across his chest as one of the horserat riders rode past, and he tumbled from the wagon to stain the dry ground with his life’s blood. Many of his people died similar deaths in the first onslaught.
In the guard’s wagon, two of the guards were very lucky, as they had just finished donning their armor to relieve the sentries when the battle cries rang out. The woman, slightly taller than her companion, grabbed a sword and shield from the rack, and her companion followed suit.
The tall woman stepped to the back of the wagon, and drew aside the curtains. As she did, a sword slashed at her, but she took it on the shield. She leapt from the wagon to bear her opponent to the ground, leaving space for her companion behind her. The rat-creature’s neck broke, and she stood to guard her friend’s back as he stood watch over hers. A quick glimpse of the chaotic scene revealed a small band gathering in the middle, fighting back to back, and they fought their way over to join them.
The two Vigilants were fighting furiously in the center of the melee. Chuck was in danger of being overcome, but Steve’s blades whirled in a deadly barrier at his side, and any ratman that thought to take advantage of the younger fighter met a quick end. One one flank, a tall human fighter, a man in chain mail, with a plaid tartan wielding a great sword with two hands was very much distinguishing himself, while the captain of the caravan guards fought on the other side, trying to protect the two survivors of his group as they fought there way in towards the defenders.
One of the wagons caught on fire, further illuminating the ghastly scene. Perhaps two thirds of the caravan folk were dead, wagoners, passengers, and guards alike. The dark grey ratmen flowed in a rapidly moving circle around the survivors, rarely offering to cross swords, but constantly looking for an opening.
Across the ring of ratmen, Chuck spotted a young woman pinned against a wagon by a spear. The ratman who had stabbed her held a cutlass raised above her, and was about to administer the coup de grace. Chuck rushed into the ratman, shouldering one to the ground and charging down her attacker, lopping off its head in a sudden fury. The woman looked at him with grateful eyes. He pulled the spear from her side, and she gasped and went white with pain.
He could spare no further thought for her, as the ratmen were upon him, and he let go of the spear and stepped between them and her with his swords at the ready. Behind him, she resolutely picked up the spear to help him as best as she was able.
At the opposite side of the wagon circle from Chuck, the silver-furred ratman captain stepped from the shadows, flanked by eight ratmen close to his side. Each of the eight were close to the captain’s size, of a light grey, darker in shade than the captain’s fur, but lighter than the common ratman. Steve saw them coming. “C’mon,” he yelled, “We’ve got to run for it!”
With Steve and the guard-captain leading the way, the others broke through the circle of ratmen towards the gap between the wagon Chuck was trapped against, and the burning wagon to the right. Chuck and the woman he had rescued fought their way through to join the group. The last one to depart was the foreign warrior, his mighty sword providing an excellent rearguard.
A small human shape rolled out from under one of the wagons, tumbling past a surprised ratman. It stood up to the full three-foot height of a halfling, and quickly ducked into the group, nearly a dozen strong, now.
Outside the circle of wagons, they found a monk fighting a desperate struggle with a group of the rat people. It seemed a stalemate, as he was quick and agile, dodging their swords and knives, but unable to get in a telling blow, for as soon as he turned his attention to one, the others were strong on his flanks. Steve led the refugees charging down on them, scattering ratmen with his wild charge. The monk dropped in with the rest, as they moved quickly towards the south edge of the encampment.
“The horses are gone,” Steve yelled back over his shoulder. “But there’s a small path this way.” He killed another ratman, in front of him, and the group quickly made their way up the path into the hills.
The narrow path was lined with vegetation, and one of the group, an elf, stepped to the side to let the others pass. He faced back along the path and intoned an incantation in a strange language, gesticulating. Just before the lead ratman reached him, the vegetation suddenly came alive, grabbing the pursuing ratmen in an unnatural grip. The path was suddenly blocked with writhing plants, rendering it impassable.
“A Druid?” exclaimed the young woman whom Chuck had rescued, with interest and wonder in her voice.
The survivors ran into the darkness of the night.
At first, they escaped southward into the hills, trying to put distance between themselves and the disaster. The sounds of pursuit were clear, but Steve left Chuck and the guard-captain at the front of the group, and followed along behind, covering their tracks with deft, expert motions. The pursuers fell ever more distant as the survivors climbed into the hills.
After an hour had passed since the last noise behind them, Steve resumed the lead, and started to circle the group towards the East. The Vigilant had become the leader of the group, with his quick commands and sure voice. The others began to stagger, ever more tired, most unused to the forced pace of the march. At first light, only the monk and the elf appeared able to go on, and the refugees had become a long column, single-file, and scattered over perhaps a hundred yards.
Steve drew to a halt in a small clearing, lined with small rocks. “I think we’d best rest briefly,” he said, sitting on one of the rocks while the others drew closer.
Gathered in the clearing, there were only twelve remaining, wearily settling themselves onto the ground. Few of them had gathered their packs, and there were too few blankets to make anyone comfortable. Most of the group sat on the ground, glad of any excuse to stop walking.
“Is anybody hurt?” asked the woman whom Chuck had rescued.
“Aye,” the big foreigner answered. “They got me arm.”
“Let me see,” she said, kneeling beside him to peel his clothing back and examine the wound.
“That was a Disease tribe,” Steve warned, “They oft coat their blades with disease, so be sure to clean the wounds carefully.”
As she worked in silence, the others looked around at each other, taking stock of their companions.
“We should introduce ourselves,” Steve said, in a conversational tone. “My name is Steve, and this is my apprentice, Chuck. I’m a member of the Vigil. We were warned that there were ratmen in the area, and rode with the caravan, while we looked for signs of the ratmen, in case it was attacked.” Steve was in his mid-thirties, with a wiry frame and a weather-beaten face which nobody would call handsome, especially with the grim resolve chiseled into his features now. He fought with two swords, a long sword in his right hand, and a short sword in his left, and wore a leather jerkin. If he’d once had a bow, he had long since dropped it. He moved on the balls of his feet with quiet lethal grace, but the jerkin he wore was scored with many cuts, indicating how frequently he had narrowly escaped a wound this night – and the blood on some indicated that he had not always escaped.
“I’m Chuck the Younger,” his apprentice said, “son of Chuck the Elder.” He looked to be about eighteen or nineteen, and his face echoed the grim set of his mentor’s. He was about 5’8”, with a similar wiry build, but his movements lacked the confidence of his mentor’s, and he was clearly tired. He had two swords sheathed at his side, and sat on a rock, with both his hands resting on top of his bow.
The woman examining the foreigner placed her hands over his wound and closed her eyes. “Merciful Madriel, please heal this man,” she prayed, and then looked at his arm again. “There,” she said, “That should do.” She had short red hair, and wore a traveler’s cloak distinguished by the painstakingly hand-embroidered pattern of peacock feathers, in shimmering multicolored silk thread.
“Thank you,” the foreigner said, his voice thick with the brogue of the Kelder Steppes. From his accent, and the colorful tartans he wore, they recognized him as a highlander from the hill country north of Vesh. “My name be Fergus McAllister. I would repay you – is this, perhaps, yours?” He pulled out a short spear, decorated with peacock feathers, which had been tucked in his belt.
Her face lit with delight. “Yes, it is!” she exclaimed. “I never thought to see it again. Thank you.” She turned to face the rest of the group. “My name is Miriel, and I am an acolyte of Madriel, goddess of the sun. If any of the rest of you is hurt, please let me know that I might ask Madriel to heal you.”
Fergus took up his great sword, and began cleaning the blood off of its blade.
There was a brief silence. “I could use Madriel’s healing,” allowed one of the guards, the tall woman. She was a tall woman, well muscled from years of work with the sword. Her face was not that of a classic beauty, but she had warm eyes and a likeable smile. “My name is Paks. I don’t dodge fast enough, I’ve been told.” She wore chain mail, and had a sword in scabbard at her left hip, and carried a shield in her left arm. Miriel flashed a smile at her, and set to work at her wound.
To her right sat the only surviving merchant, a fat man who had been either quick or lucky, to escape the ratmen. “Vangalot was always the month of disasters,” he said with a heavy sigh. The others looked at him, truly a pathetic sight – he had left his wagon dressed only in a sleeping shift, and wore one of the precious blankets wrapped around his shoulder, obviously cold. “My name is Kalil,” he told them. His bare feet were torn and bleeding, from the walk, not from the fight, and this made him Miriel’s next patient. He carried a dagger, and refused any other weapon.
Nobody was really sitting next to the monk, who, as the dawn light revealed his features, had turned out to have the heavy, ugly features of a young half-orc. His face was too wide set, his nose was pugnacious, his chin jutted out a little too far, and his forehead sloped back from his bushy eyebrows. The overall effect made him look unintelligent, to a human eye. He was wearing a robe with a hood, and carries a crossbow and arrows, clearly the only thing he grabbed before stepping out during the attack.
“What about you, half-orc?” called out Steve, eyeing the robe suspiciously, as though he might have stolen them from a more respectable owner.
“My name is Stone,” he said, with a flat, expressionless voice, his eyes meeting the Vigilant’s with steady defiance. “I am dedicated to Hedrada.”
Hedrada was the god of justice, and Steve’s look changed from suspicion to respect. He gave the young monk a nod. The elf, standing on the opposite side of the circle, gave him a look of undisguised disgust, and turned his back on the group, staring outward at the night.
Across a small gap in the circle, there sat the halfling. He wore leather armor dyed to a dark, almost-black brown. He had a dagger, a small weapon for a man but almost a short sword to the halfling’s frame. His mousy brown hair was disheveled, but his bare feet were strong and uninjured. He gave a sweeping bow which mocked the dignity of a courtier, and he gave a roguish grin. “Renfield Burrfoot, at your service,” he said. “You can call me Rennie.”
To his right was a woman who lacked his panache, looking bedraggled and worn. Her clothes were ripped and torn, but somehow the swords of the enemy had missed her skin. “I’m Callista,” she said, waving Miriel off, “And I don’t need a healer. All I want is a good inn.”
This brought a hearty laugh from the other guard, sitting between her and Paks. “I’m John,” he said, in a deep voice. “Paks and I used to serve together in the same mercenary company. Who’d’ve thought we’d both hire out to the same caravan two years later!”
The guard captain was standing watch, outside of the light of the fire, so John continued the introduction, gesturing at him. “That’s the captain of the caravan guards. Name’s Quirrel. He’s a good man.”
Miriel had finished tending the others, and turned to her own wound. Wincing in pain, she was unable to pull her cloak free of the injury. The spear had penetrated solidly through her side, and though she had bandaged it early in the evening to stop the bleeding, the bandage was soaked through with blood now. She tried again, and her face went white with the effort, but she was unable to peel the bandage free.
“Here, let me help,” Paks said, and pushed Miriel to a position lying on her back on the ground. “I’ve cleaned a few wounds in my time.”
“Just get the bandage off,” Miriel told her, “And Madriel will take care of the rest.”
While Paks worked, Chuck called to the elf, “What about you, elf? Who are you?”
The elf turned to regard the rest of party with an inscrutable face. His eyes were dark, and in the night had been easily mistaken for brown, but were now clearly a dark purple. “You wouldn’t understand my name,” he said, “In elven, and it would be far too long for impatient humans, anyways. You may call me ‘Goldpetal,’ that is close enough.” His home stitched clothes looked rough in comparison to those of the rest of the party, but they also looked as warm as anything anyone else wore.
From the ground, Miriel asked him, “Are you a Druid?”
He stared at her with an unreadable look. She winced, as Paks finished freeing the bandage.
“Perhaps,” he told her, after a long pause, and turned away, signaling an end to the conversation by striding off past the guard captain and into the hills.
“We will rest here through the dawn,” Steve said. “But then we must press on. Sleep if you can. We will leave when the light of the sun reaches those trees. Then we must try to work our way North.”
They tried to go north five times that day, and each time Steve or Chuck found ratmen to the North, and the group felt lucky to escape. They worked their way steadily eastward, through the desolate plain. Every farmstead they came to had been burned and looted, and they could not even spare the time to bury the dead.
By evening it was clear that the ratmen were hounding and pursuing them, pushing them further and further south, forcing them to flee out of the hills, and through a wood. They were able to grasp brief snatches of sleep a few times during the day, but never for more than an hour before their guardians noted the approach of more ratmen.
That night, they were clearly too fatigued to continue, and were all too ready to try and make a camp and sleep, but Goldpetal warned that there was a larger force coming, only a few hours away. None could see how he knew, but the conviction in his intense purple eyes convinced even the most tired to find strength in their legs.
They fled through the night, rarely stopping for more than a few minutes, starting and jumping at every noise underfoot, until, by morning, none remained alert enough to care if they were caught, let alone leap at an unexpected noise.
They stumbled through the second day, catching brief naps whenever Steve let them rest, but unable to stop. Four more times they turned northward, and each time heard the approach of ratmen, or found a small camp in time to skirt their way around it. Driven ever further south, they came out of the wood and into a grassy area. There were no homesteads here, and the signs of ratmen were fewer and far between, but as soon as they turned north the resistance was stiff. None had packed food, and Steve and Chuck were not able to spare time to hunt. Goldpetal showed them a berry that they could pick and eat safely, but no matter how many one ate, they were never enough to satisfy.
They plodded onward to the southeast, caring little whether they lived or died.
In the early evening, they died.
They had been walking along a streambed, which flowed more south than east, but provided cover in case they were observed. The ratmen were waiting in ambush, and it was never clear whether they had been waiting there for a long time, sure that the refugees would come to them, or if they had been lucky, camped near by and alerted by a sentry. It did not matter.
The first they knew of the ratmen, arrows were landing amongst them. The merchant, Kalil, died in the first volley, unsuspecting, pitching forward on his face with arrow shafts sticking from his back.
John, the loud, genial guardsman, stumbled to one knee, clutching an arrow in his chest. The others, luckier, dove to the ground to take cover, and so it was that they were on the ground when the first ratmen charged upon them with spear and scimitar.
Paks had leapt to John’s side, using her shield to provide him with cover, and it was quickly filled with arrows. She took some, herself, but staunchly remained with her friend as he tried to struggle to his feet. The ratmen charged upon them, and they appeared doomed to fall, together, on the spears. Suddenly, Stone tumbled, rolling in front of them through the legs of the leading ratman, knocking it to the ground, and grappling with another. His head-butt crushed in its skull, and he came to his feet in a fighting stance to face the next wave. He saved Paks’ life, but her companion died before he made it to his feet. With shield and sword, Paks stood back to back with Stone, and they fought for their lives.
Steve and Chuck, who had been leading, found themselves on the far side of the ratmen, with the swarm between them and their companions. Unable to leave them, they both drew swords and fell in, scything their way through the ratmen. Steve yelled “To me! To me!” He encouraged the survivors to work their way south.
Goldpetal incanted in his foreign tongue, and again the plants at the river’s bank began to entangle the archers still firing upon the refugees. A tall, white ratman, painted with a ritual decoration, with gems and silver woven into his fur, appeared on the opposite bank, and barked a sharp word of command. Goldpetal’s living plants suddenly shriveled and died, and even as he turned to face the shaman, the shaman summoned a flaming sphere, which hurtled towards the elf, burning him badly.
The others had fought their way through to the two Vigilants, and Miriel grabbed Goldpetal’s arm, encouraging him to run. Blinded by the flames and badly wounded, he staggered with her, barely able to outrun the flaming sphere as it pursued him through the streambed before flickering out as abruptly as it had come into existence.
When all the others had made it past them, Steve and Chuck began a fighting retreat, holding off the ratmen. When an opportunity came, they turned and ran.
The others had run through the streambed, but came to an abrupt stop as they found themselves on the edge of a great moor. The vast expanse of swamp spread before them, but there was no other escape – the ratmen were faster, and were on their heels, with outlying runners to help prevent escape along the edge of the marsh.
The stream itself led to a pool of water, almost a lake, but Stone had found a narrow spit of dry land between it and a second pool on the other side, and he shouted for the others to follow him as he plunged along it.
Quirrel, the guard captain, stopped, and said to Steve, “This is as good a place to make a stand as any,” he said.
Steve looked at the ground, just wide enough for two men to fight side by side. “True enough,” he said, and then turned to Chuck. “Go,” he ordered. “We two will fight here, and perhaps buy enough time for you to escape.”
“No!” Chuck tried to refuse to go, but before he could even marshal an argument against, the ratmen were upon them and the time for decision making had passed.
“Protect these others!” Steve yelled over his shoulder, as he slew the ratman foolish enough to lead the charge. “Lead them through the swamp. Watch for quicksand!”
The rest of the group had nearly disappeared into the swamp, but Chuck lingered just a moment longer, firing his bow into the pack of ratmen. The ratmen paused for a moment, and made way as their captain stepped to the fore, his great sword before him, and advanced upon the two defenders, with his eight largest ratmen close behind him. Chuck turned and ran.
He did not see that Steve slew the captain, and that between them he and Quirrel killed six of the large ratmen before the guardsman died. He did not see how the shaman’s spell heated Steve’s longsword until it was too hot to handle, and he was forced to drop it and fight with only his shortsword. Steve fought long, holding the ratmen at bay with just his single sword, giving ground steadily, but eventually he was overwhelmed by numbers, and the ratmen continued their pursuit into the swamp.
Through the night, Chuck led the exhausted survivors to the east, and tried to bring them northward. The ground grew ever treacherous, and the going slower, and he became increasingly frustrated.
Everyone was thoroughly exhausted, and those who could cast spells had used their last reserves. Miriel had healed Goldpetal’s burns, and he was bringing up the rear, listening for sounds of pursuit.
When they came to a dry place, the woman, Callista, said, “We can’t go on. Let’s stop here.”
“I can hear them,” Goldpetal said from the back of the column, “Not far behind us.”
It was nearly dawn.
“Any idea where we are?” asked Stone, of Chuck.
“We must be nearing the ocean by now,” he answered.
“Are we going to be driven into the sea?” asked the halfling, Rennie, the fear in his voice obvious.
“We’ve been making some progress northward,” Chuck said. “I hope to get us out of this swamp.”
“I don’t understand why they are so relentless in their pursuit,” said Paks. “It’s very unlike them.”
“They’re upon us!” yelled Fergus, from the back of the group.
The ratmen were close behind them. The leaders were riding great rats, but behind them strung a whole column of ratmen afoot, running faster than the exhausted humans could hope to.
“There’s a rock ahead!” yelled Chuck. “Circle around it – get your backs to it!”
They broke into a run, each making his best speed. The halfling, Rennie, was too slow, and died, trampled beneath the horserats, before he could reach it.
The rest of them reached the rock, and the irony of their position struck them – they had reached the edge of the moor, and before them stretched a great grassy expanse leading towards low, rolling hills, but they were badly outnumbered and it seemed certain that none would make it further.
“Madriel, bless these, my allies, if it is your will that we prevail,” yelled Miriel, and a brief light shone from the holy symbol she held aloft. Then the ratmen were upon them. First light presaged the dawn, and illuminated the field in shades of grey and blue.
Goldpetal was the first to fall – many arrows targeted the elf, and he was pierced several times over before he could reply.
Callista gestured, and a fan of flames burst from her hands, killing half a dozen of the closest ratmen, but this merely drew the attention of the rest, and she was run through with a spear.
Stone fought ferociously with his fists, landing numerous flurries of blows, but he was steadily hit with arrows until eventually, he collapsed, unconscious, swinging his fists until the very last.
The survivors fought on, Paks with sword and shield providing human cover for Chuck, who was firing his bow, steadily running out of arrows. He saw the white-furred shaman emerge from the swamp as he drew his last arrow. He let fly as the shaman began casting a spell, and his shot caught the shaman through the throat, killing him instantly.
The enraged ratmen charged him as he drew his swords, and he and Paks were overrun, pulled to the ground and pummeled senseless.
Fergus and Miriel fought to the last, and the foreign swordsman was majestic. He hewed left and right with his great sword, frequently felling two ratmen with a single blow, and he built a great pile before him. Finally, his sword broke, and he fell, bleeding from a dozen wounds.
Miriel was the last to fall. At the end, she prayed to Madriel to save them all. As though in response to her words, she saw the first rays of the sun reach her, but then the ratmen overwhelmed her, and she slumped to the earth.
As the world faded to blackness, her last conscious thought was that she heard the thunder of hooves approaching.
