* * * * *
For the past two months or so, the North Wall had been restless. The mountain range that ran for hundreds of miles and formed natural barrier of earth, sediment, and wood had been teeming with Orcs, Goblins, and Trolls like never before. Stacattus stepped down from his horse and looked at the mountains from across the river. In the dead of night, he could see nothing, save the little splotches of light from Scourge campfires. He squinted, hoping to get a glimpse of the scouts he had sent out earlier, but found nothing. He could see nothing. It was as if the night sky itself had descended upon the mountains, covering them in darkness. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of indifference. “It’s bloody dark for any man to see anything,” he grumbled, his deep, gruff voice only complimenting his frustration, “where are my damned scouts?!”
As if by coincidence, the sound of leather boots stomping on muddy ground filled his ears seconds later. He turned to where the noise was coming from and could vaguely make out the shapes of two Imperial soldiers, dimly lit by the small torches they were carrying. “Captain Stacattus,” said one, “there were far too many camps than we could make out, and we can only assume that there are just as many on the other side of the mountains.”
“And what of the skirmish from which that rider earlier said he had barely escaped?” Stacattus asked, “Did you find anything? Corpses?”
“We did, sir,” Camillus, the younger of the two scouts, reported, his face smeared with mud, “we found roughly fifty dead soldiers somewhere further up the river, could be more. A lot of them were found with arrows jutting out of their chest pieces, and a great deal of them were missing limbs. Several of the bodies appeared to have been crushed by some large animal; trolls, maybe. We believe the rest of the legion scattered and were all killed off one by one in various locations through the mountains.”
Stacattus furrowed his brow and looked to the mountains. “Do you suppose the entire garrison could face this horde head-on?” he asked.
The two scouts looked at one another and shook their heads. “There’s too many of them, captain,” the older one, Erebus, said, “our numbers wouldn’t even last us an hour against those savages. We need reinforcements.”
Stacattus let out a sigh of contempt. “So be it,” he said, spurring his horse to a slow canter, “come. Let’s get some rest. The sun should rise in a couple of hours.”
The scouts nodded as the rest of Stacattus’ ten-man company followed suit. They rode in almost total darkness; the only light they had came from the scouts’ torches, the moon, and several roadside lamps. Stacattus felt vulnerable. He rarely ever did. He had no need to. He was a captain of the Imperial Army. He had a hundred men at his command. He had been serving for twenty years. He had fought in countless wars and lived through countless battles. He had slain basilisks at Stygia and had fought hordes of Draugr during the Skandean War. He had witnessed the ritual sacrifice of two hundred children in Anglica. He had no reason to feel vulnerable tonight.
Yet, he did. Death was standing right at his doorstep. He was in dangerous country right in his homeland. All around him, he could hear the beating of Orcish war-drums and the cackling of Goblin assassins and the bellowing of Trolls. The North Wall was riddled with danger, and that danger lived off the fear of men. “Show no fear,” Stacattus commanded his company.
Camillus swallowed his spit. The lad was a fresh recruit and was barely fifteen. He was absolutely terrified. “Erebus,” he muttered, his voice shaky.
“Yes, Camillus?” Erebus replied.
“What do you suppose are the odds of all of us being murdered in our sleep tonight?”
Erebus’ eyes fogged up; Camillus could see it in the torchlight. “I’d say there’s a good chance of that happening,” Erebus said grimly, “but, if they come, I’m dragging them to hell with me.”
As if by coincidence, the sound of leather boots stomping on muddy ground filled his ears seconds later. He turned to where the noise was coming from and could vaguely make out the shapes of two Imperial soldiers, dimly lit by the small torches they were carrying. “Captain Stacattus,” said one, “there were far too many camps than we could make out, and we can only assume that there are just as many on the other side of the mountains.”
“And what of the skirmish from which that rider earlier said he had barely escaped?” Stacattus asked, “Did you find anything? Corpses?”
“We did, sir,” Camillus, the younger of the two scouts, reported, his face smeared with mud, “we found roughly fifty dead soldiers somewhere further up the river, could be more. A lot of them were found with arrows jutting out of their chest pieces, and a great deal of them were missing limbs. Several of the bodies appeared to have been crushed by some large animal; trolls, maybe. We believe the rest of the legion scattered and were all killed off one by one in various locations through the mountains.”
Stacattus furrowed his brow and looked to the mountains. “Do you suppose the entire garrison could face this horde head-on?” he asked.
The two scouts looked at one another and shook their heads. “There’s too many of them, captain,” the older one, Erebus, said, “our numbers wouldn’t even last us an hour against those savages. We need reinforcements.”
Stacattus let out a sigh of contempt. “So be it,” he said, spurring his horse to a slow canter, “come. Let’s get some rest. The sun should rise in a couple of hours.”
The scouts nodded as the rest of Stacattus’ ten-man company followed suit. They rode in almost total darkness; the only light they had came from the scouts’ torches, the moon, and several roadside lamps. Stacattus felt vulnerable. He rarely ever did. He had no need to. He was a captain of the Imperial Army. He had a hundred men at his command. He had been serving for twenty years. He had fought in countless wars and lived through countless battles. He had slain basilisks at Stygia and had fought hordes of Draugr during the Skandean War. He had witnessed the ritual sacrifice of two hundred children in Anglica. He had no reason to feel vulnerable tonight.
Yet, he did. Death was standing right at his doorstep. He was in dangerous country right in his homeland. All around him, he could hear the beating of Orcish war-drums and the cackling of Goblin assassins and the bellowing of Trolls. The North Wall was riddled with danger, and that danger lived off the fear of men. “Show no fear,” Stacattus commanded his company.
Camillus swallowed his spit. The lad was a fresh recruit and was barely fifteen. He was absolutely terrified. “Erebus,” he muttered, his voice shaky.
“Yes, Camillus?” Erebus replied.
“What do you suppose are the odds of all of us being murdered in our sleep tonight?”
Erebus’ eyes fogged up; Camillus could see it in the torchlight. “I’d say there’s a good chance of that happening,” Erebus said grimly, “but, if they come, I’m dragging them to hell with me.”
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