The main road through the centre of the town seems the quickest way to reach the keep. You pass the bloodied corpses of kobolds, cultists... but mostly unarmed men, women and even children. Many of the buildings look to have been have been ransacked, razed to the ground by fire, or both.
As you take a turn in the road, you reach the main town square. It is... was... a market day. Several wooden stalls have been knocked over, spilling foodstuffs, pottery, clothes everywhere. Flags and pennants have been trampled into the ground.
To one side, a large and heavy wagon has overturned, spilling several barrels. No less than five kobolds are clambering over it, shrieking wildly and jabbing at the underside with their spears. Three cultists are each carrying a barrel away from the wagon, through the ruined marketplace.
The corpses of several guardsmen, still clad in bloodied chainmail, have been strung up in the large leafy oak tree in the middle of the square, swinging gently in the breeze. A further cultist - dwarven, judging by their stature and beard - sits beneath the tree with a keg already open, chugging from their tankard.
You haven't been noticed yet, but it would only take a turn of the head from one of the kobolds or cultists to spot you. There's cover from the market stalls for perhaps one or two to hide behind, but none of them are large enough to conceal a cart full of people.