It wasn’t long before they reached the fringe of the estate where the palisade marked the boundary to the forest beyond. The Sword halted his horse, instructing the front row of slaves to lift the spiked obstacles blocking the road. The path was cleared for the rest to proceed. He made a mental note: It only takes two people to get past the palisade. There are no guards here.
They moved through the gap, and the Sword ordered him and PP to close it once more. He could scarcely lift the sack with the pickaxes earlier. He glanced at the large man beside him. Without hesitation, PP dropped his sacks and deftly repositioned the defences. Then he collected the pickaxes again as though it were nothing. How is everyone here so strong? Well, that doesn’t matter right now. It will come in handy later.
“Move out. Stick close together!” the Sword commanded as he took the lead.
The men returned to their double-row formation and marched on. After a brief trek, he glanced back toward the estate. Their camp and the shanty town had melded into a singular brown and white smudge, shrinking on the horizon. The only structure distinguishable was the manor atop the hill, its peak, the tower he observed that morning, still surveying the land below. He redirected his focus to the front. The Sword stayed close to the Blitz brothers at the very front. He was distant enough that only the horse’s gallop was audible.
image [https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/4/patreon-media/p/post/99990609/ba6522135d784ac29f49e571ca520561/eyJ3Ijo4MjB9/1.png?token-time=1731628800&token-hash=6KvHVXbc7DUTK0KhW_4t-LGZwzOLUfPhLPYsubbw_fo%3D]
“He’s isolated. We could easily jump him,” he murmured to PP but was ignored.
“If we startle the horse, and he falls, we can tie him up.”
PP still paid him no heed.
“Save your strength for the journey,” a slave ahead advised.
“We don’t have much time until the other guard arrives. We must act now!” he argued.
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“That’s a terribly bad idea,” the slave replied, “a terribly bad idea indeed.”
PP gave him a silent side-eye. What’s wrong with them? Now would be the perfect time to strike. We could ambush the Mace once he arrives, and the Baron would be none the wiser. We have the whole day to come up with a plan to free Cadmun and the manor servants.
He shifted the sack to his other shoulder to ease his muscles. Why are they this hesitant? We definitely outnumber them. We have PP on our side. We have the element of surprise. What am I missing?
The Sword was out of sight, and the galloping had diminished, suggesting he was at the front of the line.
He attempted to appeal to the slave ahead: “We have our pickaxes if the worst comes to the worst.”
“If the worst comes to pass, not even magic will aid you. You saw what they did to Sir Frost,” the slave responded.
“The road ahead is long,” PP said.
The slave shut up, and the conversation was over. Are the Adventurers really that strong?
They continued straight through the forest for a time, the beaten path beginning to hurt his feet. Occasionally he stepped on a small stone, losing his balance. The sun above didn’t help maintain a steady pace either. It would soon be noon, and what little shadows remained from the surrounding trees would soon retreat from the path they trod. He was already losing his grip on the sack of pickaxes due to sweat. No one else seemed to be experiencing what he was. The sturdy men around him were well-conditioned for this march. Especially the large man beside him, who—he just now noticed—was larger than the rest, displayed no signs of fatigue. He paused for a moment to catch his breath while others continued marching. Every time he breathed in, his throat started burning.
Someone shouted: “What are you doing?!”
His heart leapt. He anticipated seeing the Sword approaching to reprimand him, but it turned out the slave from before was beckoning him over.
“Quick. Get over here!” he yelled. “There are Dire Wolves in this forest!”
A chill crept up his spine. What? Seriously?
He began to run, the clinking pickaxes on his back resonating all around. His eyes darted through the tree lines from left to right, but he couldn’t discern any creatures. A rustling on his right caught his attention, causing him to stumble. He fell on his side, the pickaxes weighing him down. Something large was approaching rapidly.
“Dire Wolves!” a slave shouted. “A whole pack of them!”
Shit, shit, shit. Fuck!
The group was far off. He scrambled to get up, but his foot was tangled in the sack, causing him to fall to his knees again, scraping them as the growling and heavy footfalls grew nearer. When he regained his bearings, he saw it: a massive, ravenous maw with colossal fangs was about to swallow him whole. Fuck, no!