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
"Well, we're here." Kyle said to Waddard. "What now?"
The two sergeants crouched in a muddy ditch before the walls of
Hochoch. The great gate was closed, the bridge raised and the walls seemed
empty of life.
"We wait." answered Waddard. "Unless you think two hundred of us
are going to be able to take that gate by ourselves."
Kyle looked out over the stagnant water to the walls, wretchedly
filthy and strung with the bones of the town's inhabitants. His people.
There was no movement, no wind, nothing but the buzz of insects and the
grunts and curses of the trooper around them.
"That moat looks almost solid enough to walk on." Kyle's nose
wrinkled. Even the sight of the slime-congested stream offended his
sense of smell.
"Don't fool yourself." Waddard twisted round so that his back was
against the ditch and Hochoch was behind him. "That's a real mire. It'll
suck us down like stones if we put a foot on it."
"I wish they'd come out and fight." said Kyle. He'd lifted a
handful of gravel from the edge of the ditch. His hands picked out
a round stone, perfect for the sling, but he tossed it with a flick
of his arm out into the middle of the stream.
The rock plopped wetly into the layer of filth that floated on the
water. The mire erupted in a geyser of muck. Long, barbed tentacles
ending in leaf-like triangles chopped at the surface, then, finding
nothing, disappeared. In a few moments the mire returned to its false
solidity.
Kyle let the other rocks drop from his hand. "I wish they'd
come out and fight."
"They might." Waddard nodded. He'd craned his neck and half-turned
toward the stream when he heard the sound of the disturbance. He glanced
up at Kyle and they both shrugged. "Don't know why they don't."
"I think they're scared ." said Kyle.
"I hope so." Waddard looked from side to side along the length
of the ditch. "Time for us to get our centuries back to work."
"We spend more time using a shovel than a sword." said Kyle.
"Until Sterich." added Waddard.
"Until Sterich." Kyle agreed.
The field around them was muddy, torn and gouged. Several long
ditches curled and wove across the ground at odd angles as if turned
by a titanic plow driven by a madman. The soldiers of the Eighth squatted
within the stretches of the ditch nearest to the stream and before the
gate.
Kyle and Waddard set the men to action. Each trooper had been
issued a short-handled shovel which they kept strapped to their packs.
None had been tossed aside during the march, though the green recruits
would have liked to lighten their loads. Such an act would earn them
the lash. A missing half-handle, as the shovels were called, would
mean five strokes. Now they began deeping the ditch, tossing the muddy
over the edge facing the stream.
"We'll need wood to shore this up." Kyle rubbed his chin
thoughtfully.
"You have, of course, studied siegecraft." laughed Waddard.
"I know how to dig a trench." said Kyle.
"Looks like we'll have to show the Fifth how to do the
same." said Waddard. "Maybe first teach them how to use a shovel."
"They're Eighth's now." Kyle said as he watched the soldiers
work.
"We will also have to teach them what that means." said Waddard.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)