In the chill twilight of the next morning, a gentle breeze rippled across the slow-moving river current, disturbing the reflection cast by first morning light. The crystalline monuments guarding the ends of the bridge added their own ghostly glow to Exill’s face.
If anyone were to see him now, they would say he had an unsettling gaze. Those emerald eyes spoke of profound experience beyond his years, belying his otherwise youthful features. Perhaps it was true that the eyes are windows to one’s soul, because within him swirled a combined 45 years of memory and emotions.
He quickly turned away to dry his face, disturbed by his own reflection.
To distract the turmoil in his mind, he half-heartedly brushed his unruly brown hair with wet hands, trying to subdue what refused to be tamed. Up ahead, the Navigator could be heard motivating the refugees gathered near the carts, “Look, just one more day of travel and we cross county lines. You good folk will be able to rest in the safety of the military supply depot. Solid food and a soft bed, what do you say?”
Looking forward to a night of safety, the refugees quickly packed up the camp, refilled their water stores and made way on the road. As the caravan crawled west, the plains of wild grass to their left slowly gave way to cultivated fields of wheat and barley. Up ahead and to their left, columns of thin snaking smoke could be seen indicating civilization.
“That should be Brieshire, my cousin lives there.” A middle-aged man quipped as he longingly stared at the settlement.
“I heard they make some mighty fine ale around here.” another added.
A collective smacking of lips could be heard as the men wistfully thought of relaxing in a pub with a pint of good brew. The thought was alien yet familiar to them. Forced to trek over miles of dangerous road it was tempting to rest their feet, just for a while and taste civilization.
“Don’t be having thoughts of running off to Brieshire good folks! Refugees ain’t welcome there!” The Navigator could be heard as he shouted back to the group. He had been caravanning for decades and knew how to read a crowd. There was much grumbling to be heard but no one broke ranks to approach the village in the distance.
As mid-afternoon arrived, the caravan passed under the shadow of a desolate tower. One side of the heavy stone wall had crumbled, exposing the empty staircase leading upwards to nowhere. Frowning heavily, the Navigator paused to check the map. He had planned to take a break here, but this landmark wasn’t featured anywhere on the map. The nearest military outpost was half a day’s travel away.
There was a sense that something was very wrong… he flipped the brass casing covering the accumulator and channelled mana into it, causing the large dial in the centre to spin rapidly. Eventually, it quivered to a stop, pointing towards the ominous tower.
Acting calm so as to not frighten the refugees, he raised his arms and pointed further ahead, “There is a nice spot over yonder to make camp!”
The group groaned but continued on. However, two children stealthily peeled off from the caravan to explore the decaying monument, convinced in their childlike minds that they were adventurers. As they approached, a mysterious aura whispered to them of a magnificent view at the top.
The Navigator, perhaps drawn by intuition as a father himself, glanced back, spotting the two children entering the tower too late, “Stop them! Do not let them enter the Tower!”
Hearing the alarm in his voice, the mothers of the children called for the boys to return, their voices growing desperate as they heard no response. After a few heart stopping minutes, a child thankfully reemerged from the doorway, looking back in fear before running to his mother’s bosom.
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“He climbed alone. I didn’t want to go.” The pale boy’s voice trembled.
“Hey! Help me hold her down, she’s gone mad she has!” The remaining mother was restrained by others in the caravan. She was kicking and screaming, furious at the people holding her back. Only a few minutes had passed since the boy’s entry.
“He’s still in there! I can bring him back! Let me go you filthy scoundrels, it’s your fault if he doesn’t return!” she howled.
Exill looked to his side in surprise as Verill began to lower his bags on the dirt road, glaring at the Tower with stern eyes. The scene outside the Tower was pandemonium as a primal fear began to creep into the people's hearts.
“You’re not thinking of going in there are you?” Exill grasped at the Hunter’s good arm, somehow knowing Verill wouldn’t return if he stepped into the crumbling doorway. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed the Hunter’s intent, and others had gathered around to dissuade him from the foolish endeavour.
“Hey you! Don’t even think of entering the Tower if you value your life. Please, someone restrain that woman and get a move on!” The Navigator pointed to Verill with a warning look, before turning away to hasten the cart forward.
It was Exill’s look of panic that finally broke Verill’s intent. His companion released a pent-up sigh, picking up his belongings one-by-one. The refugees hurried away from the shadow of the nameless Tower. Setting up camp half an hour away. Even as they rested, their eyes were drawn to its eerie presence, far away.
Feeling discomfort grow further by the minute, the Navigator hastily razed camp, ordering them to continue on, and no one complained. They would later realize the next day, too late, that the missing child’s mother had disappeared. They all knew where she had returned to, and no one volunteered to retrieve her.
The caravan continued on.
As the sky started to darken they could see the military depot up ahead. Something felt wrong as the refugees saw too many tendrils of smoke climbing up into dusk’s reddening skies. Hearing the worried whispers around him, Exill felt his morale drop further.
Shortly, they heard hoof beats as three riders approached from the garrison up ahead. Their horses were slathered in sweat, and each of the riders were wounded in some way, bearing dents on their armour. They pulled their agitated mounts to a whinnying stop, seemingly relieved to find that it was only a group of refugees.
“Halt! The garrison is under attack! You are not allowed to approach any further!”
Over the rising collective groans of the refugees, the Navigator and a wounded soldier disembarked from their cart and approached the horsemen on foot. They appeared to exchange a few heated words before one of the horsemen barked orders, turning around, and galloping back to the depot.
After much conjecture and whispering, it was revealed that the military depot had been attacked by bandits earlier in the day. There were many wounded and supplies were lost. There was nothing to spare for the refugees.
The people felt their spirits crumble. Much wailing could be heard as refugees and wounded soldiers alike bemoaned the World Spirit. To forsake them in their time of need was too cruel.
Slowly, some semblance of order was restored, and a rudimentary camp was set up just off the road. The refugees, Exill included, had pushed themselves hard to reach here with the hope of sleeping safe, and this latest adversity had sucked the wind out of their sails, causing them to falter as they set up camp.
After an hour of half-hearted preparation, the people were about to fall to sleep when they heard the howl of wolves behind them, echoed by more howls in the forest across the road.
A chill ran down Exill’s back. ‘Truly, could this day get any worse?’ he thought with a sinking heart. There was a hubbub of noise as the caravan roused to their tired feet. Some cried out in fear while others loudly prayed to the Spirit. Most simply swore at their bad luck.
“Raise your lazy asses and reinforce the stockade, start whittling those stakes!”
“Protect the women and children, keep them between the fire and carts!”
Exill hastily assigned [Warrior] as his primary job and [Crafter] as his second and started whittling stakes. Even the wounded soldiers got up and took turns standing guard. Hours passed and the sharpened barricade was suitably reinforced. People were beginning to relax when they heard a low throaty growl behind the cart.
“May the Spirit protect us!” Many exclaimed as a pack of wolves circled the caravan, moving in total coordination as they stalked their prey from the boundary of perfect darkness.
They were surrounded.