The trains of wagons and caravans snaked backwards through the countryside, a near endless trail of endless movement branching off endlessly, flowing in both directions. Resources flowed into the capital city from miles around, an army of countless farmers, loggers and miners toiling endlessly to feed and fuel a city they would never see. In return it disgorged the products of the factories and workhouses, food and tools flowing back out in an endless cycle, along with those poor discarded souls that had been used up in the work. The train was approaching the outskirts of the city, proper sunlight beginning to peak between the dense canopy as the treeline began to thin. There would still be several hours travel to enter the city proper, but leaving the woods meant entering the farmland bordering the city walls. Clear line of sights and financial interests to protect meant a stronger presence of the guard corps. There was a tension in the air and had been for a few hours, as the treeline approached. If any attack was to come, bandits or beast, it would come within the boundaries of the woods where no flares would reach the sky and the watchtowers would see nothing.
The tension was broken by the sounds of the impact of axes between the trees, and wood creaking in distress as restraints were released, replaced by open panic as saplings near the border either side of the wide road bent back upright, throwing up a net that stretched across most of the road, blocking the way for wagons. The net was weighed down with stones at the bottom, and all through the mesh were tied broken blades, shards of rock, anything to dissuade anyone from trying to force their way through. Some experienced travellers lucky enough to be near the front wasted no time with screaming, they grabbed what they could and sprinted away, abandoning the wagons. There was a small gap either side of the road uncovered by the net, over the ditch left a muddy trench by the morning rain, into which they threw themselves, running in slow exaggerated steps to free their boots from the muck with each step. Two men with powder rifles slung across their backs stepped towards the net and drew swords. They managed a hack or two each before arrows hissed from the woods, filling their backs and dropping them forward into the net where they hung like grotesque marionettes, swaying in the wind.
Naran stepped down from the wagon with her stone shield and club drawn. She shook her shield arm as she braced her back against the wagon, the small stone hoops bound to the underside of the shield feeding her force. It was only a small amount, but the increase in force to her blows might be needed, she couldn’t yet see the size of the attacking force. Arrows thudded into the ground just before the animals pulling the small wagon behind hers. A panicked older man managed to control the two decrepit looking ponies enough to get them turned around, pulling sideways across the lane in his attempt to escape back the way they had come. He was sideways in the lane when there was again the sound of axes and a tension being released. A second net emerged from the dirt, hidden under the space the wagon had covered just a few moments before. The rear of the wagon was raked by blades and stones in the net, but it was well clear to complete the turn and race away. The lane moving away from them was already clear, the wagons having wisely decided to speed away even before the second net had been raised. The incoming wagons were already trying to turn, the lanes blocked and cramped as every wagon sought to be the first around.
As the net raised the attack began proper. Diminutive creatures emerged from the treeline, barely up to Naran’s waist and clad in rags, most of them bare chested though some raced naked, showing nothing worth hiding. Their skin was a dull pale green, their eyes huge solid blue orbs that bulged grotesquely. Their heads were too large for their bodies and sat on necks that looked far too thin and weak to hold them. Clawed feet kicked up dirt and dust as they ran, 3 claws on their hands grasping a motley collection of broken swords, daggers that looked like short swords with their small frames or hatchets. Others ran on all fours, baring no weapons, hissing through mouths lined with a field of small serrated teeth. Some remained back in the treeline, notching bows that looked ramshackle, made of loose wood and string. They were inaccurate and slow with them but the number made the threat. A flurry was loosed at Naran and only one needed her to raise her shield, thudding against the stone and dropping harmlessly, robbed of all momentum by her moving the force. The rest sailed short or wide, thudding into the dirt or the side of the wagon. The driver yelped and threw himself into the back of the wagon for cover. He was a delivery driver returning from a drop off of new mining tools that had been kind enough to offer Naran a seat in exchange for nought but the company, he was no fighter.
She readied herself as the first creatures reached her, thankfully shortly after the volley of arrows. As slow as the arrows were, even the force of one was too much to safely hold for long. She swung the club in a lazy almost gentle swing from below, letting the Word of Force do most of the work as it impacted the lead charger in the chest. She discharged the force and the thing’s chest exploded, the head and arms sent flying by momentum as the chest near liquefied into a foul smelling snot yellow goo and sailed backwards. The legs and waist continued for another step before collapsing, twitching and kicking aimlessly in the dirt. She hid her surprise, she hadn’t expected to have such an extreme effect. She hoped it would give the other creatures a moment of pause or make them seek an easier target, but they continued their charge without pause even as the goo hit the closest in the face. She rattled her shield as she swung out again, not enough force to speak into the Word now so she settled for a brutal downward swing, collapsing the skull of the nearest. She swung again and again, quickly realising she would be shortly overwhelmed.
Winifred stood in the wagon she had been travelling in, one leg up on the sideboard as she sent took each attacker as they came. The things came in groups, and were met on her side by a sword slicing limbs and stabbing through skulls, the baton sailing down to crush hands grasping at the side and crushing skulls in. Culann was by her side, barking furiously and savaging any hissing faces that made it over the rim of the sideboard, the wolfhounds wiry grey hair already matted with yellow gore. The creatures were fragile but relentless, she saw that even those with hands shattered or arms near gone continued their assault, trying to climb up the side with any remaining limbs. When she could she would speak a Word of Fire, short bursts in their faces to blind or distract the closer attackers, and wide fans to catch the bows of the archers she could make out. She leaned back without turning her head, she could not afford to lose her sight on the attackers. She shouted to be heard over the mix of battle and screams, and the loud roars of gunfire directly behind her.
The old, burned man kneeled behind and beside her, a rifle resting on the sideboard. He gently twisted between each shot, turning to his next target as he worked the action, the bed of the wagon quickly growing a bed of brass, and slotted in the next bullet. “We’re too open, we need something to put our backs against” Winifred shouted, and after another shot he stood up, still cycling the rifle for another shit. “Agreed!” he shouted in a flat voice, firing another short before continuing. “We should circle the wagons,” another shot rang out, and she heard another thud behind her as another creature fell, “as best as we can here in the centre, make as much of a wall as we can.” Another shot and another thud behind her. “I’ll head for the front,” Winifred shouted as sword and baton swung down to meet two leering faces climbing over the sideboard, “You head for the rear.” She did not wait for a reply, instead she jumped off the side, sending a short lived wave of flame at a trio that would have her side open. Culann made to follow, and she whistled a command tone. "Guard the wagon boy, I'll be back shortly." He whined quietly but remained at the wagon, growling at a charging creature before seizing it by the throat, violently shaking it and near severing the head before tossing it aside to meet another. She ran for the front of the line of trapped wagons, seeing figures fighting ahead.
Benjamin Wakesfield, as he gave his name to his brief travel companion, heard the brief roar of flame and the sound of her charge to the front, briefly interrupted by a pained scream. He ignored it, and stepped toward the front of the wagon, stepping over the headboard as he fired another round into the skull of a creature climbing over the rear of the wagon. He leaned down without looking and grabbed the reins, urging the donkey to the side as much as he could. The old thing brayed angrily but moved, shifting the wagon off to the side of the road while he fired twice more. The woman's hound followed, darting between creatures and tearing their throats out with unnerving efficiency while. He made it a point of not straying too close to the wolfhound. The small wagon would offer little cover but turned easily enough, and was now resting almost in the ditch. He stamped on a lever beside the driver seat as he fired again, and the donkey was released from the wagon. It wasted no time in sprinting off, trampling two of the creatures as it went and scattering a trio of archers as it leapt over the ditch and charged through them into the woods. He trusted it enough to keep look after its own safety, and turned to the rear of the train.
He was near the net that had raised behind them, only two other wagons between him and swaying ropes. He patted his vest to get a rough count of bullets, and gently stepped down from the wagon, kicking out at a leering green face as he did. There were 2 wagons behind him, and the nearest was swarming with creatures. He saw the cover had been torn open and as he watched one of the creatures tore open a new hole in the canvas from inside before hopping down with its arms full of sacks. He shot it as he approached, never breaking a walking pace even as he crouched to dodge some arrows, and glanced down at the sacks as he continued. They were marked flour. He briefly stepped to the rear and glanced into the wagon. He saw enough in a glance, the swarm of creatures tearing through the crates and sacks within, the ruined corpses at their feet, and drew back. He continued to the next wagon, there was not much he could do.
The next wagon was protected by a broad woman, dressed for much colder weather. She stood on the bed of a small delivery wagon, turning side to side to swing at creatures as they climbed. He noticed her swings alternated between heavy, full force swings and more gentle taps that nevertheless sent a torrent of gore from the creatures. “A Word of Force user no doubt,” he thought to himself, “but not like I’ve seen before.” He fired a shot a small pale green body climbing the front of the wagon which had escaped her notice, catching it through the neck and watching as it slumped down, leaving a sickly yellow trail as it fell. He stepped closer and put his back against the wagon, firing shots as he shouted up at her. “We’re going to try push the wagons to the centre, form a wall either side!” She shouted something in response she couldn’t hear over a shot, and kneeled for a moment. A pale man’s face emerged from the bed of the wagon and crawled halfway over the headboard, grabbing the reins and snapping the panicked horse forward. “Pull it to the side of the road, we need to block their arrows and approach!” he shouted up at the driver. The pale face nodded, and headed off, turning around the covered wagon in front.
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Benjamin began to follow alongside the wagon, but fell as an arrow came close, leaving a deep gash in the side of his leg. The rifle fell beside him as he lost his balance and tipped into the dirt, rolling onto his back as his hands reached out into the dirt for his fallen weapon. He found the barrel and swung the rifle around like a club, catching an approaching creature across the side of the head. He swung it around, a slight hitch in his breath as his shaking hands tried to reload the rifle. A second approaching creature was struck from the side as it raised a broken sword to stab down at him, the woman from the wagon’s shield impacting it as she charged low. The thing went flying, its head flopping loosely and it did not rise again. “Can you stand?” she shouted down at him, her back to him as she guarded against more attacks. “Just a moment!” he replied, turning one hand over the wound in his leg. He focused on the Word, and a clear liquid flowed in a small stream from his hand. It stung where it landed on the wound and would need proper attention, but it was better than letting whatever had been on the arrowhead fester. He stood up shakily, the wounded leg was painful to put weight on but worked, and the arrow had missed anything that would have bled him dry. “Alright, to the centre!” he cried, his reloaded rifle swinging out as he slowly began his way back to the centre.
Felix swung out at the next green face to appear over the edge of the wagon bed. His blade had shattered early, too much force sent into the aged metal, and he had no replacement blades. He had hastily grabbed a heavy cast iron pan, and it was serving well enough. He limited the force he channelled into each blow, the thing was heavy enough that the edge was enough to crack the skulls of the creatures. He was shocked how tired he was, it was barely a few minutes into the fight and he was already breathing hard, his hands shaking with fatigue as he swung the pan over and over. He turned to the three behind him and called out “We need to get somewhere else, wagons too busy to keep this up!” The woman, Catherine, on the ground gave no response. She was heavily pregnant and flat on her back in the bed of the wagon, silently crying and trying to be still. Not quite near time, but much too close for her to move at any pace. Her husband James stood at the front, his body visibly trembling as he stabbed out with amateurish strikes whenever a flash of green appeared from the front of the wagon. “Where can we go?!” he cried out, panic clear on his face and in his voice. Meanwhile, the thing in the middle darted back and forth, a long metal rod stabbing out through the canvas cover anywhere there was a bulge suggesting a creature was climbing or attempting to crawl into the wagon. An owl life face, mostly concealed by a hood, turned to Felix. “I agree we need to move, but Miss Catherine cannot run. We need a destination before we put her at risk.” The hood turned again, and the rod lashed out, striking like a snake through the canvas, the wagon shaking as the priest stepped back and forth to either side.
Felix turned, and brought the pan down on yet another weevil. He had always hated these things in the arena, they were individually fragile but spawned in numbers and were incredibly tenacious, enough to overwhelm most groups. He had no answer for the priest. A few moments passed as he desperately tried to think of options, until he was interrupted by a woman in a blue uniform he didn’t recognise slamming herself against the rear of the wagon. An arrow stuck from her right arm, and it hung loosely as the sleeve turned a dark brown. “We’re moving wagons to the centre, making our stand there with a wall!” she cried, and gritted her teeth and let out a long hiss of pain. She looked up into the wagon, and her eyes opened wide as she saw the priest, her sword coming up as the owl like face turned to look at her. “By Her crown, what is that?” she cried, but Felix interrupted her. “A priest!” he called out, climbing down out of the wagon. “He’s with us, now c’mon!” he turned back to the trio and shouted in “Fuath, keep the missy safe! James, get that wagon turned around and head for the centre, we’ll keep you clear from out here!” He didn’t wait for a reply, but hopped into the dirt beside the woman. He nodded to her arm as he struck down another weevil. “You good to keep fighting with that arm?” She didn’t respond, she had already turned to face a pair of incoming hissing weevils. A burst of flame erupted in their faces, and they drew back with visibly burnt flesh on their faces. Before they could recover she stepped forward, and with two quick practiced stabs she felled both. “Fair enough.” He turned back to swing at another weevil, blocking a clumsy swing of a dagger with the pan before swinging horizontally, sending it flying in a spray of yellow. “I’ll clear this side of the wagon, you take that side and we keep it clear while we move it around.” They fought on, his arms growing weaker and weaker as the horde kept coming. He had slain at least fifteen by his count, luckily they were not focusing on him. They ran past him to climb the wagon and he would strike them down as it turned, only having to defend from the strays that charged directly at him and duck to avoid occasional arrows. As the wagon rattled back the way they had come, he climbed back into the cabin, coughing and struggling to catch his breath on all fours. “Priest…trade out…need a moment...catch m’breath…”
Fuath jumped down from the wagon, and turned back. He saw and heard the pan strike out through the canvas of the wagon covering, and his weapon struck out to clear the last two straggling weevils still clinging to the side. He could see up ahead some people fighting, two wagons pushed close together to make a wall blocking one side of the woods, protecting them from arrows at least. He kicked out at a charging weevil, sending the thing flying back with its skull shattered. They were distasteful things, lacking a true spark of life. He checked the wagon was safe and broke away to check the wagons they passed. The first they passed was empty, the occupants fled and belongings taken. He was worried, Richard had left their wagon to assist anyone left isolated and had not returned. He found Richard in the second wagon, lying flat in the uncovered bed. There was another beside him clearly dead. No one could live with the wounds visible on her back. He lay with 2 dead weevils across him, and Fuath saw he was breathing but wounded deeply. As carefully as he could he picked him up, and carried him to the moving wagon, a strong kick felling another weevil as he did.
With Richard safely stowed, he emerged again, weapon and symbol drawn. The last wagon between them and the makeshift wall was not worth investigating, something set the canvas cover ablaze, yet no noise or screams came from within. He prayed silently that anyone inside had escaped or at least gone quickly. He struck down two more weevils as they charged, his weapon darting out and piercing easily through their skulls before they could react. He turned to check on the wagon, and felt the impact of three arrows in his back. Two bounced off, the hard material of his body not allowing them to dig in, though he felt his body deform. The third impacted and embedded itself, the pain radiating out. He would have to ignore it for now. He took off, his body low as he sprinted towards the edge of the road and leaped over the ditch into the middle of a trio of weevil archers. He struck out with weapon and limb, dropping them quickly and darting back to the road. There were more in the woods, he feared they would overrun him if he stayed too long. He darted back along the length of the road, quickly catching up to the wagon and darting into the small cover that had been formed between the three wagons, joining the survivors.
Two of the four standing in the space drew back as the owl-faced thing came around the side of the wagon, a rifle and a stone club raised to attack before the old man and the uniformed woman put themselves between. A bark came from below the wagon where a large hound sat with one leg outstretched loosely, a pair of arrows buried in its flank.
“S’okay, all good, he’s a friend, jus’ looks funny!” said the old man, still breathing hard but recovered somewhat.
The uniformed woman raised one arm “It does seem to be helping, for what it’s worth.” She gave a quick snap of her fingers. "Friend Culann" and the barking halted, replaced by a steady whining.
The burned man spun and loosed a shot into a weevil coming through the gap between the wagons. “Good to know.” He might have been commenting on the weather his voice was so flat and monotone. “We can make a stand here, keep them underneath the wagon to keep them safe from arrows.” He cocked his head at the four people and hound under the wagon to his side. The pregnant woman had been helped underneath by her husband, who knelt over her and was muttering vaguely comforting things to her. A pale faced man knelt by a blood soaked guard, keeping his hands pressed down on a wound in the guards guts. The hound could not run, but was positioned to maul any creature that tried crawl under the wagon at its side.
“We can try hold here”, injected the broad woman, “but how long can we?”
“They’re going for the contents, dragging back anything and anyone they can carry” replied the uniformed woman, a wooden baton dangling from a limp arm by a leather strap around her wrist. “We hold them off long as we can, lest anyone feels like abandoning those that can’t fight?”
No one made to move out from the space, they had moved to hold the gaps between the wagons. The old man chuckled as he brought his heavy pan down on another peaking head. “Good, hate to think I was dying beside an asshole. Y’all got names? Hate for anyone to go buried unmarked.”
A stone club sailed and pulped the head of a weevil diving from the top of the covered wagon, the stone shield rattling. “Naran, of the Bear-Sky tribe.”
A wave of flame scorched a pair of weevils crawling under the wagon, and a short sword finished them off. “Constable Winifred Buckshield, a pleasure to fight at your side!” A single bark came from below the wagon. "And Culann."
A long thin arm shot out, skewering a weevil charging through a gap while a small hand sickle turned the dagger it held aside. “Brother Fuath, of the Order of Grim Tidings. May we be unmourned this day.”
A roar of noise and a plume of heat and smoke as the rifle swung around, sending a weevil standing on the top of the caravan flying back out of sight. “Benjamin Wakesfield.”
Another chuckle as the pan swung around, reducing a weevils head to yellow pulp as it reached for the people under the wagon. “Felix Peace! Pleasure to meet y’all! Now let’s go! Onwards to glory! Forward with honour!”
