There was something methodical and calming about the thudding sound of horses pacing down a dirt road and the creaking of the wheels as the caravan carriages were drawn behind the many horses. At least Clifford Sventon thought so, an almost perfect background noise for the avid reader he found himself to be, though he did miss the quiet of his own bedroom back home. In his scrawny hands he held what he considered to be a philosophical masterpiece, discussing the different ways magic had been used throughout the recorded timeline. Everything from curing illnesses and advancing civilisation, to war and means of torture. Thankfully the author hadn’t elaborated in great detail on the last topic, as his weak stomach would likely not be able to handle detailed descriptions of the torment criminals would put men like himself under. Afterall, Clifford was a businessman. A trader of exquisite goods and a caravan leader, a career taught to him by his father. For generations the Sventon family had made their home in the merchanting town of Kagos, travelling great distances to buy and sell rare goods in the various kingdoms of Strathos. Proudly doing their part in helping Kagos remain as ‘the city where anything can be bought’. At least that is what the rest of the world called it, considering the great amount of crime that took place within the city. No matter the amount of guards that patrolled the streets, the criminals of the city still managed to run an extensive black market somewhere within the city walls. Despite everyone knowing of its existence, few actually knew how to find it, and if Clifford did not fear the criminals as much as he did he would likely have tried to seek them out as well.

Yet there was nothing Clifford feared more than the Syndicate and the vastness of their criminal empire. Just the rumours themselves of how the organisation operated and went about handling those who crossed them was enough to send chills down anyone’s spine. Horror stories which could make even the bravest men cry, and the worst nightmare for anyone in Clifford’s profession. As the more sizable groups of bandits were rumoured to sell the things they sold and the people they kidnapped to various Syndicate associates. Thankfully, his father’s vast contact network allowed him to hire skilled mercenaries in great amounts to help protect his caravan, and knowing there were currently twenty four men protecting him, the goods and the horses helped put his mind somewhat at ease. The last remaining bit of anxiety quenched by the large glass of wine in his hand, poured from a fine bottle of Sunset Red. He took a sip of the beverage and savoured its taste for a moment, the aroma of blackberries and raspberries filling his nostrils and throat. Despite the sweetness there was an earthy tone to the wine, which filled him with a nostalgic feeling that reminded him of his youth. Memories of the evenings he had spent with his father in the caravans, before he learnt to appreciate the profession.

He had never been someone who wanted to see the world. Frankly, there weren't a lot of things in life which Clifford wanted or sought after. His life had been full of opportunities which he had chosen not to take or failed at, yet it didn’t really bother him much. His father had paid thousands of gold pieces for Clifford to study magic at The Arcanium Index, yet his studies quickly proved to be fruitless. By all means Clifford had been a privileged child as he grew up, and now it almost felt natural to give up when things became difficult. Life was easier that way, there were books to read, wine to drink and food to eat, and that was enough for Clifford. The only reason he found himself sitting on the stuffed, silk pillows of this caravan was because his father had demanded he ran six long distance caravans per year or he wouldn’t be welcome home anymore. Though things could definitely be worse, as the months he spent on the road served as a decent opportunity to read and cultivate his thoughts.

Carefully he placed his glass down on the stack of books next to him which served as a makeshift table, and took out a map from his purse. It would take at least another month before he arrived in Ravia, which he found to be both an annoyance as well as a blessing. Considering how frustrated he had been with his father in the last few months it was wonderful to be away from home, though he was missing not just his bed but also his 30th birthday celebration. He’d have to ask the servants to order a second cake once he returned home to make up for the missed celebrations.

Suddenly the carriage came to an unexpected halt, sending the stack of books tumbling into Clifford’s lap. The glass of wine which rested atop it spilled all over his clothing before shattering as it fell to the wooden floor of the carriage. Broken glass covered his leather shoes while the wine stained the large silk shirt which covered his sizable belly. “You incompetent fool!” He yelled at the carriage driver, though his shouts were quickly drowned out by screams of terror which hailed from outside the carriage doors.

Moving the curtain to peak outside the small window he spotted a group of the mercenaries whom he had hired drawing their blades. Though as the ground shook moments later he closed the curtains and moved to unlock the carriage doors.

“What sort of bandit gang dares to take on twenty four armed guards?” He asked himself in an hysteric fashion as he fiddled with the locks, struggling to unlock them. Panic quickly filled his very core as all the worst case scenarios flashed through his head, like visions created by his vast imagination. Burnt alive inside his carriage, sold as a slave to the syndicate, brutally murdered before his body is harvested for materials to be used in the casting of dark magic. His thoughts raced similarly to a rabbit running from wolves and only one thing made sense in that very moment. Evaluate the threat before choosing to either run or hide.

When the door finally burst open he fell forward, landing face first on the dirt road below. He quickly dusted himself off after crawling to his knees and then looked around to get an idea of the enemy numbers. Though everything he could see was the crushed corpse which landed next to him as if it had been shot out of a catapult. Its femur had been broken off and stuck out of his thigh, and his chestplate had been squeezed to the point where there was no way his ribs were intact. The helmet he had worn was nowhere in sight, and his face had been disfigured, looking as though it had been crushed by a rock.

Clifford screamed out in terror, as he stared at the corpse of the man next to him. An unusually high pitched shriek for a man of his size. Never before had he been this close to a dead body, and now here he found himself crawling away from the fresh corpse of a man he had spoken too earlier that day. He could tell his identity from the badge strapped to his armour, it was Cedric the mercenary captain.

Not even a moment later he heard the panicked neighing of a horse, which he looked up to find flying over him. A loud thud followed by an audible snap could be heard as the horse slammed into a nearby tree with enough force to take the tree down with it. The horse’s corpse slammed into the ground with a loud boom which sent chills down his spine, and the tree creaked and groaned as it snapped. As if trapped in a trance he watched the absurd scene before him, only to be torn from his daze by the deathly screams of the men tasked with protecting him.

Clifford stumbled to his feet and turned around only to see the impossible, an armoured, one armed giant swung a blade as tall as a house. The ground shook and as Clifford turned to look for the source of the tremors he was greeted by the sight of two more giants massacring the few men which remained. He could do nothing but watch as one of the mercenaries was knocked off his feet by the giant’s blade. Not even a second later a sickening crunch filled the air as the man was crushed underneath the same giant’s gigantic foot. The sound itself made him want to vomit, and what pushed him over the edge was the sight of the man’s mashed innards sticking to the sole of the giant’s foot once its metal covered toes left the ground.

His throat filled with wine, cheese and his stomach acid as he vomited all over the roadside ditch where he stood. How was any of this possible? Giants had not existed on Strathos for at least seven thousand years, and stories of them stated them to be too dumb to craft proper armour and weapons. The scene before him should not be possible, yet here he watched it all unfold right before his very eyes. His entire life he thought there was little for him to fear in this world, the sheltered life he had lived leaving few dangers and little to be desired. Yet now this filled him with a new fear more powerful than anything he had ever felt before; his own death.

With hastened steps he ran towards the cover of the trees behind him, with the hope of disappearing into the woods before he too was turned into minced meat underneath the giant's feet. As quickly as his short, stubby legs could carry his plump body he ran with little care for the men and belongings he had left behind, or what other dangers awaited him in the forests of Arvendon.

The ground was uneven, with roots and rocks eventually putting an end to his clumsy sprint. As he tripped he rolled forward, spraining his ankle as he landed on it with the full force of his own weight. His pained cries echoed throughout the desolate woods, yet only silence answered him. Bloodied and bruised he crawled forward until his arms gave in, sweat dripping from his hairline into his eyes, blurring his vision. His entire body ached from the minor injuries he had faced, as well as the strain he had put on his rarely used muscles. Each breath he took felt as though he had swallowed a cup of molten metal, with the fires spreading throughout his throat. Exhausted and lightheaded he laid there, breathing heavily until darkness claimed him as his consciousness faded.

*

One by one the men fell at the hands of the three armoured giants. Most of the mercenaries were quickly crushed or cut in half as blood and gore stained the dirt roads northwest of Padsbury. Before long, what little remained of the caravan was but a few horses and the now empty carriages and wagons, all surrounded by the corpses of twenty four armed men and a few carriage drivers.

Following the orders they had been given they picked up as many of the weapons they could and threw them onto the wagons. Each blade they collected the size of a toothpick in comparison to their hands. The few remaining horses were desperately pulling on the carriages, trying to free themselves from their restraints. Yet with so many of them now dead, the sheer weight was too much for them to move more than a few metres per minute.

With little effort the giants picked up the carriages, dragging them as well as the horses back towards the caverns which Erica now inhabited. In the back of one of the larger chambers there was a mechanism which allowed someone from the inside to open up a second entrance to the hideout, leading into a series of storage rooms and chambers intended to house a small undead army. It was there Dror’Khanik had instructed them to drop off these disposable resources. Silks, wines, weapons, gemstones, horses, wagons and gold. All things which could prove useful as they continued towards their goal.