Ingvar shifted his weight and paced around in a small circle in his watch tower as he rubbed his hands together, and pulled the long collar of his jerkin tight around his neck. He hated the night watch during the warm seasons, let alone having to do it during the height of the cold season. The brazier at the back of the perch along the log wall that looked out over the mountain village did little to fend off winter's cold bite. Over the years he had learned a few tricks to help keep the blood flowing, and the cold out of his bones, but despite his pacing and wolf skin lined armor, boots and gloves, failed to do so this night. He coughed once to clear his throat as he jumped up and down on the spot a few times, the condensation from his breath collected and froze in clumps on the whiskers of his mustache as he did so. The end of his watch could not come soon enough.
A screech echoed over the rooftops of the city below, loud and shrill, coming from off in the distance to the south. What fool has gotten himself into trouble this time he thought as he retrieved his poleax from the weapon rack against one of the roof support beams. He looked out over the edge of the watch tower, straining to see anything in the moonlit darkness. Nothing but shadows cast across the snow covered streets. Not even a patrolling guard.
Ingvar grunted to himself and furled his brow.
"Lazy sodding buggers, probably snuck into the Inn for a drink near the fire while I'm stuck up here," he lamented to himself as he dismissed the situation with a forward wave of his free hand and turned back towards his vigilant watch of the north. "Probably just some drunkard slipping on the ice again anyways."
The landscape dropped sharply not more than ten feet from the north wall all the way to the coastline a hundred feet below. It was littered with tall fir, pine, and jagged rocks. On a good night like this one, visibility allowed him to see hundreds of meters out into the open waters of the bay. The water was relatively calm, and the only boats in sight were those moored at the fishing docks. A single lantern hung from the harbor master's cabin, and was lit, indicating that he was in for the night.
All was as it should be.
Moments later, a series of even shriller and louder screams echoed across the night behind him, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, and a shiver to race the length of his spine. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his gaze as he rushed to look out over the village once more.
Flames poured from the windows of the inn, and the smoke billowed up in a large, dark pillar slowly wafting out to the west with the light breeze.
"FIRE," he shouted as he reached for the warning bell's rope and tugged hard, repeatedly. "FIRE AT THE INN!"
His shout was echoed by the west and east towers, and soon the streets were filled with people racing towards the inn. Ingvar leaped from the ladder half way through his decent from the watch tower, landing in a run. He barely noticed the impact in his aging bones. He kicked up snow behind him as he raced through the streets, rapping each door he passed with the butt of his poleax and shouted his warning.
As he rounded the corner of a longhouse near the street the inn was on, he heard the distinctive clang of metal on metal off to his right, in one of the alleys beyond the inn, followed by a groan and a shout of defiance.
What is going on he thought to himself as he redirected to asses the situation.
Dark shadows washed over him as he entered the secluded, narrow alley between two shops, working his way around the back side of them, where the commotion continued. A dozen curses flitted through his mind as he edged up to the corner of the wall on his left, and snuck a peak around the corner. He was ready to deal with any number of types of miscreant the coastal mountain village had drawn in over the past few years due to favorable fishing seasons, and open trade with the colonies further to the south, but what he saw froze him in place. He felt his legs buckle slightly as he shrunk back towards the safety of his cover.
A giant bear faced behemoth was squared off against two militia men, swinging a massive two handed hammer over his head in an arch at them. They were barely able to fend off the heavy blow with their shields. One of the militia men lost his footing as the weight of the impact knocked him off balanced. He hit the ground awkwardly, and the sound of snapping bone was clear. He wailed in pain, dropping his axe as he rolled to the side and reached for his broken arm with his shield hand. The only thing that saved his life was the patterned, metal reinforced, wooden shield which was still strapped to his left arm that protected him from a down swing which followed the initial arching blow. Before the beast could attempt another swing, Ingvar collected himself and raced out of the darkness, poleax lowered in front of him like a battering ram. The giant spike on the tip connected with the creature, but only scraped along the side of its ribs. It snarled and roared at him with such ferocity that he could feel his blood running cold in his veins as the beast bared its teeth, drool hanging between upper and lower jaws. The beast was huge. It towered over Ingvar and the remaining militia man that stood yelling at it as he flailed wildly with his own axe, but none of the strikes seemed to penetrate its thick hide.
Ingvar circled the creature, trying to find an opening as it was distracted. The fallen militia man scrambled back from the encounter through the snow, moaning in agony. He heard a soft thump behind him, but before he could fully turn to see what the cause of the noise was, brilliant stars filled his vision as the snowy ground came up to meet him, then darkness.
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