### 314

As the current carries you towards the stone bridge, you row against the river's flow in order to slow your final approach to the log barrier. There are Drakkarim on the bridge and the noise of a hard collision would be sure to attract their unwanted attention. The prow grazes the muddy river bank, slowing you further, then the boat comes to an abrupt halt as it bumps against the barrier. Quickly, you leap on to the line of logs and make your way towards the bank as swiftly as the treacherously icy surface will allow.

A rickety flight of wooden steps ascends from the river to the top of the bridge. You climb them, then you crouch down and take cover behind the stone parapet. From here you observe the town's defences and try to assess how many Drakkarim are stationed within this stronghold. The town itself comprises a sorry collection of battle-damaged buildings, ringed by a perimeter wall of logs which is shored up in many places. Several long and bitter battles have been fought here over the past year, and everywhere you look the vivid scars of war are plain to see.

A rutted road crosses the bridge and leads directly to the town gates. You observe Drakkarim on guard at the bridge, and at the gate, yet you sense something is wrong. The town is strangely quiet and it appears to be weakly protected; the Drakkarim garrison is few in number, and those that you have seen so far appear to be either young, old, or walking wounded.

Night is beginning to draw in. The Drakkarim are lighting the torches which line the perimeter wall, and a change of guard is taking place at the main gate. A wagon laden with straw crosses the bridge and pulls to a halt nearby. Wearily the driver gets down from his seat, curses his aching back, then wanders off towards a nearby hovel, one of barely a dozen that are still standing outside the town's wall. While he is gone, you take the opportunity to climb into the cart and hide yourself beneath the foul-smelling straw. Soon you hear the driver's gruff voice and you feel the cart sway as he climbs back into his seat. There is the crack of a whip and, with a jolt, the cart trundles off towards the main gates.

Turn to 222.

Text copyright © 1991 Joe Dever.
Illustrations copyright © 1991 Brian Williams.