Siege of Sokh - An Oath to Depravity

The movement of an entire army through the forest did not pass unnoticed. Whilst their numbers were too great to be challenged from their course, the farther from Brass Keep they travelled, the more frequently they encountered attempts of defiance. Gunshots from lone hunters hidden deep in the forest, a well aimed arrow here and there, taking down an unwary Marauder. The futility of it was amusing. Were the weaklings trying to buy themselves some time? To slow the movement of the great host?

They were mistaken if this was their intent. The dead were left where they lay, to be trampled on by their brothers-in-arms, their churned corpses remaining in the mud, ignored and forgotten.

The ambushers were soon looked upon as entertainment - a game to amuse the passing of leagues through the forest. With the crack of a barbed whip, one was captured, the rope wrapped around his lower legs; dragged from the bushes towards a Marauder with the yank of a powerful arm. With callous disregard, the warrior lifted him close, striking him with a vicious head butt, before tossing his dazed body back to the ranks of Beastmen, who set upon him – the man’s cries of horror mingling with brays, snarls, and snorts, as he was torn to pieces, his flesh providing a welcome meal.

At the back of the column, siege towers and catapults trundled, the ground rumbling under their weight. Slaves groaned as their lines were beaten into keeping up with the invaders, straining to pull their ropes as the heavy wheels spun in the mud. It was a mercy for them that much of the way was downhill from the keep; although the steeper descents proved a challenge of their own – a number of the slaves already being crushed to death by the rolling war machines. Their inexperience and incompetence had been a swift lesson in working more efficiently. Quickly they adapted, to slow the wheels on their descent by looping ropes at the rear of the war machines and pulling, providing resistance. It was almost as if they were enjoying their work.

As the day passed, more signs of civilisation could be seen; taverns, sheep pens, lone houses. All were abandoned – word of the coming army spreading like fire through dry bracken. The forest had been cleared, its people fleeing to the safety of the walled town of Sokh, taking their livestock and all that they could carry with them, leaving only the sick and infirm behind. Such was the way, even with the “civilised” people of the Empire. Any building found was put to the torch, black smoke and the glow of flame marking the approach of the army as they closed in. Aasgeir wanted them to know they were coming. He wanted to taste their fear, their hopes, their... bravery. All the sweeter to savour once their ruin was brought about. The greater the challenge and maelstrom of emotion, the greater the tribute given.

A warhorn sounded from near the head of the column, and he looked ahead to see a wide meadow cleared around tall stone walls. Safe from range, the army setting itself up in the treeline; the town of Sokh lay behind these defences, crouching like a frightened animal, quaking in the presence of a pack of wolves – hoping not to be noticed, that they would go away, leave them alone, let them live...

Alas, those poor fools that had come here to save themselves. They had surely sealed their doom. The Serpent’s Host had come for them.