Warlord 4th Edition CCG - the epic fantasy card game

by Laurence Sinclair

Of course the city is quiet. That’s part of their charm, the appeal that lures people in. What I’ve been longing for these last few months.

Those scouts that I’ve been running with, they wouldn’t understand. They could identify dozens of different animals in a forest from tracks alone, tell which fruits aren’t poisonous and move through the trees as if invisible. One day in a city and they’re lost, though.

‘Seems quiet enough,’ they’d said, as if that was all the information I needed. Well, maybe they’d been a little more descriptive than that, but still they provided all the excuse I needed to see this place for myself.

The rooftop beneath my feet - cold, ever so slightly curved - is alien, of a style I’ve never seen before, but as a smooth surface of human construction it’s comforting all the same. The glare of sunlight reflecting from the gilded buildings near city centre focuses my mind again, and I turn my sprint into a jump, down into the shadowed space of an alleyway.

There’s no guttering in this city. Very little decoration at all, in fact. My climbing gloves barely find purchase in the featureless wall, and I’ve slid over a storey down before my descent halts. Must be getting old.

A more leisurely drop back to ground level, and then I’m skulking through the darkness toward the main street, the sweet chatter of the crowds drawing me on. Just like home in so many ways, and I toy with the idea of getting a little honest thievery done while I’m here. Just to keep my hand in.

I don’t go too far, lest some of the people spot me. The scouts had insisted on visiting at night, to avoid just such a possibility, proving once more that they don’t understand cities. After dark is always the riskiest time to be abroad, civilisation or not. Learnt that in the Guild, the hard way. Hell, I taught that to the nothrog, back in Baraxton.

That doesn’t mean I should get cocky, though. Even a pleasant little market day like this one can turn ugly. I scan the crowds that move between the stalls, checking each one for weapons, possible threats of any sort. None. Each shuffles about their business and conducts trade with no time wasted in conversation.

The guards, then. But no matter how many times I turn my head back and forth, there are none to be seen. Not so much as a single warrior keeping an eye out for cutpurses. The government’s confidence would seem well-placed, as there’s no crime to be discouraged here. I know all the tells, and yet amongst the dozens of citizens each is keeping to him- or herself.

As I try to process this revelation, I’m grateful for the quiet. At least until I take the time to note just how quiet it is. It’s market day! There should be vendors noisily hawking their wares, rushed gossip spreading the latest news, parents trying to keep their children under control. Not this.

They’re all subdued, almost broken. Similar to the slaves of Baraxton, but these people don’t have a single lash mark on their skin.

What passes for a commotion breaks out as sellers and buyers alike move themselves aside, clearing the cobbles. I duck back further as a couple block the alley’s mouth, but I definitely want to catch a glimpse of whatever’s coming down the road…

Judging by all the pomp, the man’s an important one. Not everybody gets to be ferried into town on a palanquin borne by some of the most massive men I’ve ever seen. It’s saying something when I reckon Krun might have a little competition.

These four attendants are dressed much the same as the townsfolk - light clothes in both colour and weight - but bear weapons at their hips. Swords, but of a vicious cut I’ve not seen before. Maybe half a score more of these guards fan out about the bearers, not that the crowd seems to need any help in keeping away from the newcomers.

Even with all this though, it’s the face of the passenger that convinces me not all is well here. That golden mask is carved to resemble a creature I hope exists nowhere but in the artist’s imagination. The value of the dozen or so gems set in as eyes must be worth a small kingdom.

The fact that he’s wearing a mask at all tells me all I need to know, and I throw my hood up over my own head as I emerge from the alleyway. I hid my own face for a time, and no one would choose to do that unless they had a terrible secret or two to hide. And what could this guy have to keep from his devoted populace, eh? Bears investigating.

There’s a small procession of hangers-on trailing behind the palanquin, all somber despite their bright purple robes. Older men and women here, another rarity amongst the citizens so far witnessed. Is this some sort of religious festival I wonder, as I use the crowd for cover while I follow in its wake.

It’s downhill to the docks, but the troop doesn’t quicken its pace, keeping the same crawling pace as it advances, leaving the market place behind and forcing me to get creative in my tailing.

Even as I’m dashing from shadow to shadow, rooftop to doorway to herma, I feel I’m wasting my efforts. Not a single man among them turns his head from the direction of travel, sight fixed solidly on some invisible point in the distance. That doesn’t give me the right to relax, though. I continue to skulk.

The waters, when we near them, are a deep blue, flawless despite the many industrious buildings along the waterfront. There is no tide or breeze, but the surface does not remain still, sliding each time I make to look away from it.

Perhaps the locals are used to it, or perhaps they ignore it as they’ve ignored ever other object they’ve passed. The procession swings a tight turn to the right, the shadowy expanse of an open warehouse door swallowing them.

To follow them would be foolish. For all I know, they may be well aware of my presence and just leading me into a trap. No, best to wait out here until they leave again. While I’m at it, I’ll not look at the water.

With nothing to mark it, the time drags by me while I remain vigilant behind the dockyard paraphenalia. Rope crumbles at my touch, and the barrels are heavy with stench. No boats are tied up at the pier overlooked by boarded-up shops. A complete absense of sound, even from the monolithic building the procession disappeared into.

My own breathing is the only thing convincing me that I’m still here, and that this isn’t a dream of some sort. When it is drowned out by creaking and slicing, I look in the direction of these new sounds.

A ship is making its way into port, surprisingly close for something I only just heard approach. Oars cut into the water to propel it along, while the decks above seem to increase in size the nearer they get to the sky, radiating upwards in a manner that should seriously compromise its sea-worthiness. It’s not even the shape that contributes most to this theory, given the teeming mass of armed soldiers standing to attention, hundreds arrayed across the deck in readiness.

My first thought is that the city is under attack, but a quick glimpse through a farglass reveals the same blank expression on the faces of the warriors as on the townsfolk, and a masked figure somewhere to the rear of their formation.

This place is far from safe, and I have little time to get out of here to warn everyone…

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 18th, 2009 at 5:34 pm and is filed under Story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.