Night had swiftly closed in around Einar and his company by the time they'd reached the outskirts of Ahlderlen. Isolda held a small glowing orb of starlight in her palm to guide the way, but even it was proving insufficient against the claustrophobic darkness. Luckily, Ahlderlen was first established as a logging camp, and steadily grew into a small village when the workmen took local women as wives and started families in the camp. When the timber began to run out and loggers went off in search of more, a number of them stayed behind, and Ahlderlen flourished thanks to space and farmland cleared by logging.
It also meant that Einar's approach was unhindered by trees or brush, a double-edged sword in most cases because of the lack of cover to hide behind to to utilise for a stealthy approach, but the bright lights of the village ahead had put Einar's mind at ease. Somehow they had made it in only one-and-a-half days of marching. Enough, Einar hoped, to repel the impending beastmen assault. They wouldn't be expecting a hardened company of soldiers, not to mention a Warrior Priest and a Celestial mage.
What he certainly wasn't expecting, however, was to glance down before Isolda and see a large hoofprint firmly cut into the ground. He called a halt to the march with a raised hand, and bent low to inspect it, tracing its shape in the starlight. Isolda and Benedikt knelt beside him, the starlight casting sharp shadows across their faces,
'Can you tell what made it?' Isolda asked, her features hardening as she prepared to call upon the winds of magic.
'Yes.' Einar said.
'And?'
'If it was a beastman, would I still be playing around in the dirt?' Einar admonished.
'I suppose not.' Isolda kept her eyes on Einar as he continued to probe the print, 'So why are you still 'playing in the dirt'?'
Einar grunted, deep in thought, 'Want to figure out its weight. The deeper the print, the heavier the load. A light print could be anything, especially one made by a shoed horse like this. A deeper print could really only be a select few things. Worst case scenario, a mounted deserter passed through here, at best it could easily be a knight or even part of a patrol.'
'We could use the extra information if it's a patrol, not to mention the manpower.' Benedikt added.
Einar nodded his agreement, 'It would certainly help, but I don't think it's a patrol; there's only one horse from what I can see.'
Isolda shrugged, 'Perhaps there are more on foot?'
'I don't think so,' Einar said, shaking his head, 'The ground here is soft, and even a leather boot print would show up, a plate boot would easily be visible.'
Benedikt's eyebrows drew together, 'So what about our company's prints? Who's to say we aren't being tracked right now?'
'Nobody, but even the beastmen wouldn't throw themselves at a company this large. A patrol or even just a reinforcement company, perhaps, but a main occupational force? Not unless they had the manpower then and there, especially without cover.'
'What if they had a shaman?' Isolda suggested.
'If they had a shaman, then perhaps. …' Einar bit his sentence off, it was no use creating trouble where none yet existed, 'Let's get moving, we've wasted enough time here and we might as well use the lead we've built.'
Pink-tinted clouds floated in the brightening sky when Einar's company marched into Ahlderlen. One or two people were already up and about, either leaving to tend nearby fields or to ready a shop or stall. They looked frightened and relieved in equal measure when they heard the steady thump of heavy footfalls, and saw the gleaming steel breastplates, oiled leather jerkins and chainmail of the Empire's military. Open mouths were quickly shut when people saw Isolda's deadly resplendence at the fore of the company, and they swiftly hurried along with their work.
There was no sign of any beastmen activity in the area whatsoever. In fact, the village looked surprisingly normal.
Einar leaned in towards Isolda, 'You and Coenor don't exactly see eye to eye, do you?'
Isolda grimaced, 'He's a foul, evil man, unworthy of even serving the cause of the Empire.'
'And yet you didn't challenge the claim that we'd be marching into beastmen territory.' It was more of a statement than a question.
'No, I didn't, did I.' Isolda looked down slightly, 'As much as it pains me to admit it, Coenor is one of the most proficient Grey Wizards the Empire has ever produced. He can utilise the shadows in ways that most could never dream of, and in ways that give others nightmares. I've never known his information to be anything but correct.'
'I see.' Einar's thoughts had been confirmed, there was no time to lose. He called to a man off by the side of the dusty dirt road, 'Have any horsemen stopped by here recently?'
The man paled and his legs looked as though they could barely support him. It was rare for a common person to be able to stare the leader of a company in the eye and give him a straight answer. He seemed to only be in his mid-twenties, but he 'ummed' and 'erred' like an old man trying desperately to recall the names of his grandchildren. In the end, he just pointed to a large stone building deeper into the village that rose up at least a storey taller than the simple plastered houses surrounding it. Einar dipped his head in thanks, half expecting the man to clutch his heart and drop dead, and told his company to take up defensive positions around the village before starting towards the building with Benedikt and Isolda in tow.
When he was closer, Einar could tell the building was the village barracks, housing the local militia and providing passing patrols, messengers and soldiers with a place to rest. What sent his hand to the hilt of his blade, however, was what stood in front of it. Several vertical pikes were haphazardly buried in the ground, and each carried atop it the head of a mighty bestgior. The wooden shafts of the pikes were still slighty damp with blood that couldn't be more than a few days old.
Einar weaved between the pikes towards the door of the barracks, when it was flung open by a plated arm. A tall armoured man wearing a tabard in the green and brown colours of Murstvig, stood in the doorway. Short brown hair topped his head, and his face was rugged and clean-shaven. He appraised the small group with brown eyes that looked as if they'd seen enough recent hardship to last them several lifetimes. He kept a hand on the hilt of a well-made longsword with a stylised crossguard, one Einar, to his amazement, recognised.
'Rieger.' Einar said. It took all he had to maintain his composure at meeting a man he had long assumed dead. Benedikt, and Isolda especially, looked equally stunned.
Rieger stared at them all for a minute, and then beckoned them inside, 'You're late.'
