11th day of Lustertide, 1373
The dawn was but a pale whisper against the eastern horizon as three thousand settlers, drawn from cities and towns far and wide, gathered in a field on the outskirts of the ancient city of Kerkenberge. It was a sea of faces and voices—some anxious, others filled with excitement—all united in a shared desire for a fresh start in life.
Men hefted sacks of grain and tools, the sinews in their arms straining under the weight of their future. Children clung to their parents, seeking comfort and reassurance from their elders as they prepared for their long trek ahead. The campsite bustled with activity as wagons and carts were packed and loaded with everything they could carry. The scent of woodsmoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the cries of livestock and the murmur of conversation.
A handful of traders had also tagged along, eager to stake their claim in the frontier lands.
Their destination lay farther northwest: the Eldergrove Valley.
According to rumors circulating throughout the city-states, the region held great promise for anyone brave enough to venture out and establish themselves. The mountains provided rich mineral deposits while the ancient forests and rivers were ripe for harvesting. Even the prospect of building a trade route between the Eldergrove and Kerkenberge—which could potentially bypass the high taxes imposed by the nobles in charge—was enticing enough for many to consider making the trip.
As the sun began its ascent into the sky, the caravan's leader called for everyone to begin loading up their wagons and mounts. They had a long journey ahead of them.
The road leading out from Kerkenberge cut through miles upon kilometers of grasslands and bogs before reaching the verdant forests of the valley. From there, they'd need to cross an old stone bridge spanning a ravine filled with rushing waters that flowed from distant glaciers hidden beyond snowcapped mountains far away. Past the ravine, their path would wind along the river until they reached the westernmost edge of the Eldergrove.
Miriam stood near the edge of the crowd, her sturdy frame clad in a leather apron over a simple tunic. Her hands, calloused from years of labor at the forge, rested on the handle of a hefty hammer slung at her side. She was a blacksmith by trade, her skills honed in the bustling city of Redmoor, but here she was just another hopeful soul seeking a new beginning.
She glanced back over her shoulder to check on her family's belongings for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. Satisfied that everything remained where she'd left it, she turned her attention towards the front of the caravan where a group of people had gathered around the leader—an imposing figure with scars crisscrossing his weathered face named Gareth.
His armor, though dented and scratched, was well-maintained, as was his sword—a wicked blade carved with runes along its length. He stood tall above everyone else present, towering over even the tallest of men with ease. The crowd quieted as he spoke.
"Not too long now," Gareth rumbled. "Four days' march before we reach the Eldergrove. And if the weather holds...we'll make good time." He gestured towards the horizon ahead. "If you have any last preparations to make, do them now. Otherwise, let's move out!"
With that, he turned and strode off without another word. The rest followed suit. A rumble of voices rose behind him as the caravan got underway at last. Miriam lingered a moment longer, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains looming ahead. Her hand tightened around her hammer's handle. "Here we go," she murmured under her breath. She turned and strode towards the front of the convoy with purposeful strides.
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The caravan wound its way through the countryside, a serpentine line of wagons, horses, and hopeful souls trailing behind. The sun had crested the horizon fully now, casting long shadows that danced across the dew-laden grass. A gentle breeze stirred the air, bringing with it the scent of wildflowers and fresh rain.
Miriam walked alongside her family's wagon, her hammer swinging at her side. She kept a watchful eye on her surroundings, the rhythmic creak of wheels and the steady clop of hooves blending into a background hum that did little to soothe her nerves. They'd left the road behind them hours ago, opting instead to travel through the wilds to avoid the bandit groups known to lurk along the well-trodden paths.
Beside her, a boy of ten summers named Thom trotted to keep up with her long strides. His curly brown hair bobbed wildly as he tried to match pace.
"Mama," he piped up, "how long until we get there?"
Miriam smiled and ruffled his hair fondly. "Not too long now. Another week or so, if we make good time."
Thom wrinkled his nose. "Another whole week?" he whined. "That's forever!"
"You'll survive," Miriam replied dryly. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun overhead. "Come on, let's keep moving."
They walked in silence for a while longer before Thom spoke again. "Mama? Why did we leave Redmoor?" he asked curiously. "I liked living there."
Miriam sighed and glanced sideways at him.
"We had to leave, Thom," she said softly. "Things weren't working out for us there anymore." She hesitated for a moment before continuing. "The city's changing. People aren't as nice as they used to be. They expect more from you when you're older...and there's not enough room for everyone anymore."
"Oh." Thom paused to consider this. "But why didn't we go somewhere else? Why did we have to travel so far away?" He kicked at a pebble on the ground with his foot. "Why did we leave all our friends behind?"
Miriam sighed again. "It wasn't easy for me to decide where we'd go," she admitted. "I wanted to find a place where we could make a fresh start—where we wouldn't have to worry about anything but ourselves. And I heard about this valley...so I figured we should give it a try."
Thom frowned. "But what if we don't like it there? What if we hate living in the valley?"
Miriam stopped and knelt in front of her son. She cupped his chin gently with one hand and looked him in the eyes. "Then we'll figure something else out," she promised. "We always do."
"Okay..." Thom nodded slowly, still unconvinced. "Can I ride in the wagon for a while? My legs hurt."
Miriam smiled and stood up again. "Of course. Just don't get into trouble, all right?"
She helped him climb into the back of the wagon where he sat next to his sister Aleya, who had fallen asleep some time ago. As they rumbled along, she reflected on their journey thus far. She'd never traveled this far from Redmoor before—in fact, she'd never been outside the city at all until recently. It was strange to think about how much had changed since then.
The sky grew darker as afternoon turned into evening. Soon enough, they stopped for the night to rest and prepare for the next day's journey. As she helped set up camp alongside the rest of the caravan, her husband Rhys came over to greet her with a tired smile.
"How're you holding up?" he asked quietly. His gaze flickered towards the children playing nearby. "They haven't given you any trouble?"
"They're fine," Miriam replied with a faint smile. She rested a hand on his shoulder. "How are you doing? I hope you've gotten some rest since this morning."
Rhys chuckled softly. "I'm fine, love. Don't worry about me."
Her husband had joined Gareth's mercenary band during their last year in Redmoor—spending most days fighting off brigands and rogues from around the countryside. He'd become fast friends with Gareth himself after proving his mettle against many enemies and foes. When Miriam had heard about the opportunity to venture out to new lands...Rhys had jumped at the chance to start afresh with her and the kids.
It meant leaving his mercenary life behind and starting anew as a farmer...but he'd done so without complaint.
"Gareth said we'll be traveling through a bog tomorrow," Rhys said as he unpacked their sleeping rolls. "It'll take us a couple of days to cross it. We'll have to make sure the horses don't get stuck in the mud." He shot her a rueful smile. "Better pack your boots."
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Miriam grimaced. "Wonderful. My favorite part of this trip." She glanced towards where Gareth stood near the edge of the camp, conversing with a few other travelers. "He seems like an experienced leader. You trust him?"
"Aye," Rhys nodded solemnly. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. I wouldn't follow him otherwise." He patted her arm gently before heading off to check on their wagon.
Miriam watched him go before turning her attention back towards the children. She watched as Thom and Aleya chased each other around the campfire, laughing and giggling as they went. She couldn't help but smile at their antics.
The night passed quickly enough. Miriam slept fitfully beside her family—though she did manage to catch a few hours of rest before sunrise. When she woke up again, the sky had lightened to a dull gray, and a fine mist hung over the grasslands.
She stretched and rubbed her eyes blearily before rising to her feet. Around her, people began stirring as well. Gareth's voice rang out as he called for everyone to break camp and get ready for another long day on the road. Miriam pulled on her boots and strapped her hammer to her belt before heading over to join the rest of the caravan.
A few minutes later, the wagons started rolling again.
The lush grasslands soon gave way to stunted shrubs and tufts of moss. Mud squelched underfoot as they marched onward through thick sludge. The bog had seemed like a harmless fen at first—an unpleasant obstacle to be crossed quickly but nothing more—until the wheels of one wagon sank halfway to the axle into soft ground. The poor beast pulling the wagon whinnied miserably as its hooves sunk deep into the muck.
Several travelers helped push the wagon free—miraculously managing to salvage the vehicle and its cargo with no further issues—but Miriam noticed Gareth grow increasingly tense as time went on. He kept glancing around warily, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. A few other guards in the caravan did likewise.
Something didn't feel right.
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Rhys watched Gareth out of the corner of his eye as they trudged through the swampy terrain. His friend's demeanor had changed over the past hour or so—ever since they'd entered this part of the bog.
Trees stood like skeletal sentinels, their twisted branches clawing at the sky, draped in thick curtains of moss that swayed in the breeze. Waterlogged grasses covered the ground in places, dotted with clumps of mud and rotting logs. There was no path here; only marshland stretched ahead.
The further they ventured, the more the bog seemed to close in around them. The sunlight, which had been bright and warm in the open grasslands, was now reduced to a dim glow filtering through the mist.
"You sure this was a good idea?" Rhys murmured. "Crossing through this place rather than taking the long way around?"
Gareth glanced his way and grunted noncommittally. "It'll save us three days of travel. That's worth the risk."
Rhys frowned but said nothing more. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. They'd passed a few old campsites earlier—places where other caravans had made camp in times past—but none seemed recent enough to offer much comfort.
The traversable route kept narrowing as they progressed deeper into the bog. Eventually, they reached a point where there simply wasn't enough room for all their wagons to pass side by side anymore. So they formed a single-file line instead, with the lead wagon in front and everyone else following behind.
The settlers huddled closer together, their chatter subdued to nervous whispers. The mist thickened, cloaking the world in a gray shroud that muffled sound and distorted shapes.
Rhys strained his ears, listening for any hint of danger, but all he heard was the steady plod of hooves and the occasional creak of wagon wheels.
"I don't like this," Rhys muttered as he rode beside Gareth. "It's too damn quiet."
Gareth glanced sideways at him. "Relax," he replied in a low voice. "Nothing's going to happen. It's just a bog. There's nothing out here but us."
Rhys kept one hand on his sword hilt and scanned the murky depths ahead.
Gareth said that, but they both knew better. Lands outside a god's domain always carried risks—even when traveling in large groups. Drakes, chimeras, elementals, aberrations, spirits, Jotunns, Fomorians...and other such monsters roamed wild beyond the established divine territories.
Monsters lurked everywhere in such unprotected places. You'd have to be a fool to wander about carelessly without taking precautions against such dangers. And yet here they were—traipsing through this accursed swamp like fools indeed.
"I hope you're right," Rhys muttered. "But I don't believe it."
Gareth didn't respond. He simply continued riding alongside Rhys without a word.
They rode onward until eventually reaching another clearing where they could stop for a rest. The bog stretched out around them in every direction—a vast expanse of gloomy shadows and tangled foliage. The mist grew denser still, reducing visibility to only a few meters at most. It swirled around the wagons and horses like a living thing. The travelers' faces took on grim expressions as they dismounted.
No one spoke as they ate their rations.
Rhys spotted Gareth and a few rangers huddled by the edge of the clearing. He excused himself from Miriam's side and joined them.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice low.
Gareth stood, a grim expression on his face. "Tracks. Big ones. And they're fresh."
Rhys looked down at the prints in the mud. They were deep and wide, with elongated toes ending in sharp points. His heart sank. "Trolls?"
Gareth nodded grimly. "I'm afraid so."
"How many?" Rhys demanded. "And how far away?"
One of the rangers pointed northward. "Judging by the spacing between these prints...there's probably at least ten. Maybe more."
Rhys swallowed hard. "We need to get moving. Now."
Gareth nodded again. "Agreed." He turned to the rest of the group. "Everyone! On your feet! We're leaving!"
The settlers obeyed quickly, packing their belongings and climbing back into their wagons. Within minutes, the caravan was moving again—though at a much faster pace than before.
The further they went, the more uneasy Rhys became. He had encountered a troll once before. He remembered its massive bulk—all muscle and sinew—and its powerful limbs tipped with razor-sharp claws. It had taken ten men to bring the beast down. And even then, they'd barely escaped with their lives.
Gareth's band numbered only two hundred, with eight Arcanists included in their ranks. Dealing with ten trolls was one thing, but protecting three thousand settlers at the same time? In this terrain? A lot of people were going to die today.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath. "Shit shit shit."
As if reading his mind, Gareth spoke softly. "We'll handle this. Just stay focused."
Rhys grimaced. "Easier said than done."
They passed the remains of an old camp, its fire pit long cold and overgrown with weeds. Scattered around were tattered remnants of tents and discarded belongings, half-buried in the muck. Rhys spied a skull lying amongst the rubble—its empty eye sockets staring sightlessly into the mist.
Gareth motioned for them to keep moving, his expression set in a hard line.
"No stopping," he ordered. "We need to be clear of the bog before nightfall."
The caravan pressed on, the mood growing ever more tense. Rhys found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, every rustle and creak setting his nerves on edge. He spotted a broken wagon wheel half-submerged in a pool of stagnant water, its owner nowhere to be seen. Several sets of tracks led away from the wreckage into the mist. Rhys guessed those people had met a grisly end.
As they rounded a bend, Rhys caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. Hanging from a low branch was a decaying corpse, its clothes rotted away and its flesh picked clean by scavengers. The bones jutted through the tattered skin, gleaming white in the gloom.
The wagon behind them slowed down.
"Keep moving!" Gareth shouted. "Do not stop! Keep going!"
The driver gave a frightened yelp and spurred his horses forward. The wheels churned through the mud as he passed beneath the corpse's perch. Rhys winced at the sound of snapping branches as it came loose from its mooring and fell to the ground with a sickening thud. A cloud of flies buzzed angrily around the remains.
The travelers' faces grew pale and drawn. They kept their eyes fixed ahead, not daring to glance sideways at the macabre sight.
Suddenly, a low, guttural growl echoed through the bog ahead of them. Everyone froze instantly. Silence hung thick in the air as they waited with bated breath. Then another growl sounded—closer this time—followed by another. And another.
Rhys strained his eyes, trying to pierce the fog, but all he could see were shifting shadows. The horses whinnied nervously and tossed their heads. The rangers drew their bows and nocked arrows. Gareth unsheathed his sword. Rhys followed suit.
"Formations! Get ready!" Gareth commanded. "Arcanists! Prepare your spells!"
The settlers scrambled to obey. Families huddled together inside their wagons while the guards spread out into defensive positions around them. The air crackled with energy as the Arcanists summoned their magic. Sparks danced along their fingertips as they readied themselves for battle.
Then, through the mist, Rhyss saw it—a massive, hulking figure, its eyes glowing with a malevolent light. The creature emerged from the fog, its grotesque form becoming clearer with each step. Covered in muck and filth, its skin was a sickly green, festooned with boils and warts that oozed foul liquids. Long, tangled hair hung in greasy strands over its face, obscuring most of its features save for its mouth full of jagged teeth.
It wielded a massive club made from a tree trunk and covered in rusty nails.
A Bog Troll.
More shapes appeared, flanking the caravan from both sides. Rhys counted at least thirteen trolls emerging from the shadows. A few had rudimentary weapons such as crude clubs or stone axes, but most were content to rely on their claws and fangs.
Rhys felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at the advancing horde. This was not good. Not good at all. He turned to Gareth, hoping for some reassurance. But his friend's expression mirrored his own fear.
"Ready yourselves!" Gareth shouted. "They're upon us!"