The problem with trade caravans is the
sheer mundanity of it. The road, the sky, the air—it's all the
same, all the time. Nothing changes, even as you move across the land
between villages. You stop, you sell, you buy, you move on. And the
more of this that happens, the more it stays the same.
The wheels creak and groan, the pack
animals snort and snuffle. Mild chatter between the drivers, the
guards, the merchants. Farmland and farmland and farmland and
pastures and pastures and crops and crops and then woods and pastures
and woods and crops. It's a waking, dreamless, sleep.
Then the ground beside you explodes in
a shower of dirt and rocks, and a landshark is in the middle of the
caravan, biting a draft horse in half, smashing a cart and pouncing
on some unlucky bastard who's just trying to make an honest living,
all in one move. Animals bolt, carts flip, men are crushed beneath
them, and it's a mess and and panic and din and that damned thing has
already snapped another bastard into its jaws before anyone's even
gotten their damned weapons to bear.
The crossbows aren't much help; that
hide is thicker than an elephant's, no one's got anything approaching
war draw, and even if they did, half are too damned panicked to even
hit the beast that's larger than the goddamn wagons it's smashed.
Swords? As if. Everyone's got
slashers, for the bandits. Even if they had a good piercer, you'd
have to get up there to stick it, and that's damn near suicide. The
guys with poleaxes get in there, and the spears, but it's a mess. The
fucker bites the shafts off, tosses a man or two.
And there I am, not even got a
pigsticker in my hand. The new guy, Aldred or whatever, is about to
get bit. I shove him aside, and I
get snapped up. But it's not able to snap me in half, small thanks to
the Gods on that one, just crunch it down. And I start punching it,
right in the eye. It shakes me like a terrier with a rat, and I shove
my hand into its eye and through the skull, right into the brain.
It
falls, and I'm barely seeing anything but the edges of shadows. My
guts are smashed and ruined, and I'm glad I can't really feel them. I
hear some movement and voices. They're muddled and, even though
they're near, they're distant. One sounds urgent; the others not.
There's jostling of what's left of my armor; it would hurt if there
was a hurt to have any longer. Black.
Wetness
on the lips. In a rush, my body explodes in pain as it knits itself
into a whole, and immediately the pain washes away. Color floods in,
and there's a small old face in front of mine. The gnome.
