Send a spelling or grammar correction to: Tracy Johnson
This is a first draft of a story set in the world of Greyhawk.
It is based on a home campaign so some of the people, places and things
may be different. Any helpful comments or suggestions are very welcome.
Thanks
Jason Zavoda
"Welf! Gentian!" called an immensely broad dwarf who led the squad
of mercenaries. He was dressed in a long chain shirt with a polished steel
cap on his head. A crossbow was in both his hands but he had it pointed to
the sky.
"Gylfi! Keep the mob back!" Gentian shouted. "They'll be more
trouble than help."
"Will do." shouted back the dwarf.
There were only eight members of the campwatch in Gylfi's
squad. They fanned out before the advancing crowd of drunks and toughs
and with surprising ease began to push them back. The armed and armored
men and dwarves projected a force well beyond their numbers.
"Back to your tents! Back to your tents!" the watchmen shouted.
Cries of protest, mixed with a subvocal grumbling, came from a
dozen throats, but the tone was one of disappointment instead of anger.
They had missed the fun, and the chance for mayhem. But the people in the
crowd were either too sober or too drunk to fight the watchmen.
Gyfli left his guards to handle the crowd and jogged over to
Gentian and Welf.
"Who is that?" the dwarf asked, catching sight of the old nomad.
"Kassar, he's hurt." said Welf.
"Hells," cursed Kassar, "I'm fine. Where's ma horses?" he put his
fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle.
Gentian almost dropped her sword as she put her palms over her
ears. "Kassar! Tell someone when you're going to do that!"
The old nomad only chuckled.
* * *
The commotion of the camp lay behind him. Dinet was riding an old
nag he'd stolen from a merchants horseline and led through the woods till
he was beyond the camp.
He'd slipped from beneath the guardwagon, unseen, while the fight
raged and ran from one shadow to another down the eastern road. The tents
and encampments along the roadside provided him with ample cover from the
eyes of the watchmen.
A slight pang of regret pinched him at leaving Kassar, but he
shrugged it away. He was no warrior. The old nomad faced almost certain
death and Dinet had no desire to join him. His skills would not even
have slowed the worgs.
As he rode, Dinet mused on the mistakes and ill-luck that had
plagued him this past day. It had been a mistake to try to steal one of
the nomad's horses, a mistake to steal the money from Trader Barnett. He'd
had always been too ambitious. Dinet shook his head at the thought.
Bad luck for the merchant to die beneath the wheel of the wagon.
The worgs had seemed to be more of the same unkind trick of fate, but they
attack had given him the means to slip from Kassar's grasp and make his
way from the camp unseen. Perhaps his luck had changed.
This time he'd learned from his mistakes. The horse he'd stolen
would hardly be missed. The two mares he'd left on the picket line were
worth ten times as much, though he doubted that the merchant would thank
him for stealing the one that was the oldest and of least value.
The woods were too much a risk to try again this night. The worgs
were abroad, they'd have him for certain if he ventured out to find his
treasure. Even the short distance through the trees from the camp to the
road had made him squirm with fear. The watchmen scared Dinet, but the
worgs brought out a terror he'd never known before.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)