Chapter 48: Hollow Pack
The road out of Ashmark went northeast. It started in low marsh, then gradually climbed into the rocky scrub that marked the Badlands’ drier middle ground. The convoy kept to cart speed, slow enough that Beorn could separate the sounds of iron rims striking stone, harness straps pulling under load, and the steady rhythm of fifty militia walking in formation.
He and Aestrith rode ahead of the main column, positioned between the forward scouts and the engine carts. The boiler sat secured on the first heavy cart, bound tight with chain to prevent shift.
The cylinder followed on the second. The beam assembly, broken into sections, filled the third cart to its limits. A man rode beside it, watching the lashings at every turn, ready to correct tension if anything slipped.
"Walk me through it again," Aestrith said.
"We set the engine at the shaft mouth," Beorn said.
He kept his tone direct. "The boiler goes on level ground, as close to the entrance as the carts can manage. The intake pipe runs down through the shaft opening into the water. The pump connects to the outlet pipe, and that runs along the surface to a drainage channel we cut beforehand."
"How long does the drainage take?"
"The shaft flooded to roughly sixty feet, based on records." He checked the numbers again as he spoke. "At the engine’s current output, two days of continuous operation. Possibly three, if flow resistance is worse than expected."
"And during those two days."
"We inspect the mine walls from the entrance before any of that starts." He kept it clear. "No one goes down until I have a clear understanding on the mine integrity from outside."
She shifted her attention to the terrain. The marsh was thinning. To the east, water still pooled in shallow patches. To the west, the ground had dried and cracked.
A crow called once somewhere in the northern scrub, then stopped. "And if the walls start to show stress during drainage."
"That’s why we prepare," he said. "We don’t begin drainage until we understand the condition."
"That’s not an answer," she said.
He considered that, then dismissed any attempt to speculate without data. "It’s the only answer I have until I’ve seen the shaft."
She returned her focus to the road. The convoy curved around a rock formation.
Behind them, the mine foreman, Osen, rode on the bench of the third cart. He was studying the terrain with focus.
A scout came back at a steady trot.
He reached Godric, leaned in, and delivered a quick report. Godric immediately redirected his horse toward Beorn.
"There’s a pack of Hollow Hounds, north side of the road," Godric said. "Two hundred yards ahead, low scrub. The scout counted at least sixty, possibly more. They’re moving parallel to us."
"Parallel?" Beorn repeated.
"Following the noise of the column."
Beorn shifted his attention to the northern scrub, even though the visibility was poor. The Badlands didn’t offer dense cover here, just scattered rock and low growth.
Anything visible at ground represented only a fraction of the total.
"Keep moving," Beorn said. "Close the formation around the carts. Have the squad leaders maintain position until hostile contact."
Godric turned and relayed the order in three clipped words.
The response was immediate. Militiamen moved inward from the road edges, reducing gaps. The workers adjusted without prompting, drifting toward the center where protection was strongest.
Osen stepped down from the cart bench and moved toward the workers clustered around the equipment.
"You stay inside the carts," Beorn heard him say, voice stern and with experience. "If it comes to it, get under the nearest one and stay flat. Don’t run. Ever."
One of the younger workers started to speak, likely to ask for clarification.
Osen stopped him with a hand on the arm. "Don’t run," he repeated.
The man understood and went quiet.
The forward crossbowmen raised and loaded their weapons.
The convoy continued moving. The dominant sounds of wheels, boots, harness remained.
Then those sounds became isolated, because everything else faded. Wind through scrub stopped. The insects went silent.
The absence was as a warning.
The front rank squad leader, Harr, turned his head once to the left. He said nothing, but the motion signaled confirmation.
No one spoke for thirty seconds.
Then the scrub on the northern end broke, and the pack appeared.
Eighty animals surged out at speed.
For a fraction of a second, Beorn’s mind classified them as wolves.
Then the discrepancies resolved. They were too large through the chest and shoulders. Their stride extended too far. If they were wolves in any sense, it’d be a monstrous version of the animal.
The formation spread as it advanced, flanks extending wider than the center. They moved silently, like the ground itself shifting.
"Front rank, volley!" Harr called.
The first volley released as a single action.
At that density, precision was secondary.
Eight animals in the lead went down cleanly or collapsed enough to disrupt those behind them.
The front edge split around the fallen and continued forward.
"Reload. Second rank-"
"Already up." The second rank leader responded immediately.
The second volley fired at closer range. The impact force increased, with bolts driving deeper. The monsters dropped in clusters across the center.
But the pack had adapted. The flanks had widened further, and the eastern flank was redirecting toward the convoy’s side.
"Left flank’s going wide!" someone in the third squad called.
"I see it." The left squad leader had already acted.
He repositioned more men to the road’s end without waiting for further instruction. They adjusted their aim and fired as soon as the flanking animals entered range.
The incoming line broke. Some animals dropped. Others diverted back into the scrub.
"They don’t stop," a young crossbowman near Harr said, voice low, almost to himself.
He was already reloading. "They just don’t stop-"
"Eyes on your sector," Harr said. His tone didn’t change. "Fire when you have a target."
Beorn tracked the numbers.
Roughly thirty animals down or slowed. That left fifty still advancing.
The distance closing fast, inside sixty yards.
The third volley began.
Some bolts struck clean. Others hit animals that kept moving, slowed but not stopped.
That was a key deviation. Wolves retreated when injured. These did not.
They operated under a different set of rules, ignoring wounds that should have forced retreat.
"Third rank, step forward," Godric called. "Fill the gaps."
"Mag, on my left!" Harr called.
"Here!" The man shifted position immediately, maintaining line integrity without looking away from the threat.
At the carts, drivers held their horses by the bridle, forcing their heads down.
The animals were trying to bolt, but restraint held them in place.
One driver leaned close to his horse, speaking quietly, maintaining control through familiarity.
Osen stood at the edge of the worker cluster, watching the pack with tension.
"There it is," he said, almost to himself, as the pack entered the range where the next volley would be the last before contact.
The front rank raised their crossbows again, preparing to fire at minimal distance.