1.4 Curse Of The First Village

When Silven blinked into existence by the river, he couldn’t help but gasp in amazement. The city before him filled his vision. Turrets and towers almost blocked out the crimson sunrise in front of him, jutting out from behind a huge whitewashed wall. Swans drifted across the channel of water at its base; wagons laden with boxes of spices rattled down the cobbled road nearby; dozens of peasants in rags and leather jackets shuffled alongside. Everywhere, the calls of shopkeepers, the hammering of blacksmiths’ tools, echoed out from beyond the bright fortifications.

Hold on. Silven looked to the towers again in annoyance. Behind the wall. He spun on the spot, his heart sinking. Farmland stretched as far as the eye could see. He was outside the capital. He had clearly pointed out the settlement on the Fast Travel Supreme, yet it had taken him here. If this was the best the teleportation system could offer, he dreaded to think what lay in store for Olgred’s customers.

Wearily, he dragged himself to the nearest gate. He approached amid a huge group of braying ruffians, waving their axes in the air and whistling at the womenfolk as they sauntered beyond the gatehouse in ones and twos. Silven relaxed. Olgred was clearly exaggerating about security.

“Halt!” screeched someone from the side of the road. At once, six shiny soldiers had blocked his path. “That’s far enough, newcomer. Have you important business here? A letter from a count, perhaps? A fond memory for poor Old Tom?”

Silven shook his head and sighed. He staggered to the side as a muscular brute of a man shoved him away and walked onwards. The guards parted and waved. “Morning, and welcome to Solmond City!”

“Arse-licking pisshead!” snarled the man as he stomped on. The guards smiled and took up formation around Silven once more. “Why can he waltz in?” he cried, gesturing after the scallywag.

The soldiers ignored his question. “Of course, if you had a little donation for us poor folk, keeping the city safe day and night....?” offered the youngest as he stretched out an open palm.

“Oh, sod this!” yelled Silven. He took out his map and looked along its roads, anxious to be somewhere nice. Was Ornsdale blacksmith and beer country, or a stinking cesspit of scum and serpents? He really didn’t know. "The Table Treaty is a hidden pitfall,” said a passing urchin to his friend, far too loudly. “Those heavy forks on Fridays are a demon in disguise.”

With that important information in mind, it was off to Gigglewick after all.

A second later, he was standing on a bridge above a chuckling brook, taking in a pleasant little hamlet in a broad green clearing. The oaks of the forest huddled in all around, and from somewhere far away came the howling of a hungry wolf. Silven shivered and strode on into the single street. The beamed building at the far end declared itself to be the Wayfarer’s Solace. The inn, he supposed. The neighing of horses assaulted his ears from the stables to his right. And all along the little road, higgledy-piggledy cottages jostled for position in the morning light. This was what he was after.

As if to confirm his first impressions, a clean-shaven, friendly-looking old man approached cautiously from the nearest house. “Ah, hello, and welcome to Yiggle-wike-a! Folborn at your service. You look lost. May I assist you?”

Silven shrugged. “I am. I just need a place to get some sleep. I was looking for Gigglewick really, but that tavern looks cosy enough.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “An outsider, eh? Well, don’t be saying Gigglewick round these ‘ere parts. You see, ‘Yiggle’ is Fairish for outpost. Back in the elven days, this was their most northerly base, you know! And then the Dorsk Clan drove out of the mountains and formed a Wike, the governing seat of their forest kin all around. And then the pronunciation got changed to Wike-a as King Vooluk’s people came seeking work in the new quarries...”

Silven nodded and did his best to look interested. “Fascinating, but tell me one thing. Is it friendly?”

The elderly gentleman threw back his head and cackled. “Lonely too, eh? You’ve come to the right place. Only safe haven in the entire north-west of Oldeburgh. He twirled and pointed his bony hands dramatically. “To the south, the rebel-held lands of Warlord Wallace. Nasty lot, coming out from that marsh fort a-pillaging day and night. Hide your horses, hide your gnomes, they’re raping everyone out there. Nice craft ales, though.” He turned. “To the east, we have Zolar Ceneron, the former keeper of the King’s enchanted armour. She turned rogue and carved out a witchdom of her own around the town of Greenholme. A few of my friends have been drawn there, obsessed with her powers. And none,” he boomed, eyes like saucers, “None have ever returned. Not with a bosom like that.” He relaxed. “But this here forest? Safe as a jewel in the royal vault. No missing sweet rolls for seven years.”

“Congratulations!” growled a thunderous voice from beyond the stables. Equally thunderous hooves pounded into the earth as the host of cavalry swooped into the settlement. Their black chainmail reflected the light in curious patterns as they rode. Their black spears shimmered in hazy rainbows about their winged helms. And their black horses emanated an aura of pure dread as they charged. The speaker continued at their head. “As the Only Safe Haven in the Entire Area, you had been pre-selected for complete annihilation.” He drew up his horse in a flurry of dirt. “Of course, I couldn’t risk my Elite Terrorknights of the Black Shadow in a full on assault of a lonely pleasant village unless absolutely necessary. But those oafish thugs have forced my gauntlet. Men, find Sylvia!”

“Oh great! There goes a sweet roll!” cried Folborn as the knights dismounted and burst into the nearest houses. But Silven wasn’t listening. A knot of sickness and guilt was drawing tighter in his stomach as he watched the sacking begin. This was all his fault! It didn’t matter who was after him, or why. All that mattered was that kind-hearted souls were being dragged from their chairs and torn from their loved one’s arms because he had been foolish enough to bring his problems to their home. And if he died trying to stop it, he would.

Silven drew his sword, and with a scream of rage, he ran at the leader and swung with all his might. The slash was wild and clanged against the horse’s metal plating an inch from the leader’s leg. The knight chuckled beneath his grim helmet. “Horse armour, my poor wretch. It does have its uses after all.” He raised his spear and brought it down hard on Silven’s shield as he tried to duck back. The copper shattered into shrapnel as the buzzing weapon connected, and the hero fell back under the sudden blast of energy, barely conscious. “Now you’ll pay!” shrieked the knight, kicking his horse into action.

As the attacker charged, Folborn ran ahead and leapt over his fallen visitor. “Save yourself, friend!” he croaked as the spear-tip skewered his chest. “And just for the record, I think we can put that ‘jewel’ thing to bed.” He closed his eyes and spoke no more as the knight struggled to free his spear. Silven dropped his sword and scrambled away down the road, heartbeat thumping in his temple. Flames licked from every window, men cried out to their wives as they were lined up in rows and searched. Gigglewick was no more. Silven had the feeling he would be even less more if he didn’t pick up the pace. Folborn’s last croak looped over and over in his numbed mind as he limped on. After a prison escape, endless fighting and a good old village ransack, bed didn’t seem like a bad idea.