The caravan in flames.

The evening wind beats cold against you as you make the ascent, but you hardly notice it. As you close on the caravan the air fills with the sounds of fire and battle, metal ringing on metal, distant screams and feral war cries that chill you more than the wind ever could.

Turning the last corner, you finally reach the rear of the column. The nearest cart is blackened and smouldering, whilst further up the road has become into a ribbon of flame. Pushing deeper, the path becomes littered with the dead and dying. Most had died with weapons in hand, but it had done them little good. Their wounds were numerous and vicious, deep cuts to the head and chest that shimmered against the roaring fire light. Several had been filled with arrows to the point that they resembled pin-cushions. You pick your way carefully, Sylvia slinks behind you like a grey shadow. Eventually you come upon the living. An old trader is pinned against a burning cart, fending off three assailants with wild thrusts from his long spear. The figures are massive slabs of muscle and furs with black iron barbutes topping their heads, each armed with an iron disc shield and short thrusting sword.

Sylvia steps past you, muttering a subtle chant. With a flick of her wrist you see the closest assailant burst into flames. A gut-wrenching scream escapes their lips as they wheel about, arms flailing madly, before plunging off the edge of the path. Charging in, you catch another figure from behind, cleaving a savage blow between neck and shoulder. Their legs give way and they fall at the trader's feet vomiting a stream of blood across the snow. Confused, the final figure spins to face you. They thrust a hasty blow at your head, which you easily duck beneath to plant your own through their sternum.

You stop briefly to catch your breath, a hand on the old trader's shoulder, but all too suddenly the world becomes chaos again. You hear a chorus of thwocks behind you accompanied by a wet, gargling cry. Turning, you see Sylvia, her chest bristling with arrow shafts and a look of horror across her face, as she stumbles over the edge. Then they are upon you, a stream of fur-clad furies, no doubt attracted by their fellow's screams. They close around you and the trader, shields raised. Each bears a unique design, some have fierce animals, others dioramas of battle, all are ornately wrought upon their metal bases. It takes you a moment to realise that none of them have made a move to attack you. There is a shout in some guttural, unfamiliar tongue and the battle lines part, through which steps a figure of monstrous proportions. At least seven foot tall and covered in thick furs and chain mail, they tower over even the tallest of their compatriots.

Throwing down his spear, the old trader falls prostrate on his knees begging mercy. The gargant turns to you and points to your weapon with their own cruel broad sword, barking an order that you can't understand.