103
The approach to the village is deserted: it is as if its inhabitants have simply dropped everything and left in a great hurry. A window shutter slams repeatedly in the breeze and a rusty sign, hanging by chains from a warehouse beam, squeaks like a hungry rat; they are the only sounds you hear as you advance cautiously along the narrow, cobbled wharf. As you reach the corner of the warehouse you stop your horse dead in its tracks. You can hear the harsh voices of Giak soldiers.
