A cold ripple passed through the defenders as those who’d fight from the palisades scrambled back to the walls. A wife kissed her husband on the brow and wished him luck before separating, her eyes wet, though her face stayed fierce. A boy no older than fourteen fumbled to restring his bow with trembling hands, while an older man murmured a prayer beneath his breath. Fredric’s father patted his eldest son on the shoulder before he rushed back to the wall.

  William flicked the mud from his gauntlets before staring into the darkness beyond the trees. His ears caught it first: the murmur of hundreds of feet, the guttural chant of goblin throats, the steady rhythm of war drums echoing through the forest. This was not the frenzied shrieking of the worg riders; it was ordered.

  This is how they behaved in the game. William recalled the final battles with the Goblin King’s huge army near the capital city. “It has to be shamans controlling them.”

  The elder stood near him, leaning on his staff. “Then we must fight all the harder. Protect what’s ours.” He gripped his staff so tightly his knuckles turned white. “If only I were younger,” the old man whispered.

  A stillness rippled through the defenders. Even the torches seemed to gutter lower as the sound of marching goblins grew louder. As the minutes passed, William strained his eyes against the gloom and saw the goblins’ torches first. It started with a few flashes of orange flame, but before long, the shadows were awash with torchlight. The warband edged towards the clearing and stopped out of range of the archers; their breath misting in the cold night air.

  “Gods above,” muttered a miller. His hands trembled on his bowstring. “There… there’s hundreds of them.”

  “Aye,” Sibrek growled, planting his axe on his shoulder. “And more behind ‘em, I’ll wager. But it don’t matter how many stand in the woods. They bleed, same as the ones we already cut down. Keep yer feet steady, lad.”

  At the edge of the clearing, taller shapes stood among the smaller goblins. Orcs with broad shoulders clad in hide and makeshift armour, their tusked faces grim beneath glowing ritual war paint. One of the smaller orcs raised a crooked staff, adorned with bone and wrapped with strips of bloodied cloth. When it struck the ground, a low vibration carried across the clearing. The goblins shivered as one, their eyes flaring, their bodies stiffening as though pulled by unseen strings.

  William’s gut twisted. Shamans. He’d seen their like before, twisting chaotic goblins into a cohesive fighting force. If my guild were here. He thought of how easy it would be for one of his level 200 guildmates—Deadeye Dan—to kill an orc shaman with a single arrow. He’d probably kill three with one shot and then laugh like a nutter about it. He smiled and looked to Amra, the elven huntress. She’d be the only one capable of picking them off. Perhaps, if they moved a hundred feet closer?

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  The elder thumped his staff against the ground. “Stand firm. Do not break before shadows. Brindlecross has stood for over a hundred winters, and it will not fall tonight.”

  Will forced his voice to rise, to cut through the dread pressing at his throat. “We’ve already driven back their riders and held without loss. Remember that. We can do it again. Hold your line and your courage.” He raised his blade high, the golden steel catching torchlight in a defiant gleam. “Brindlecross stands.”

  “Brindlecross stands!” the cry echoed back, shaky in places but strong enough to push back against the dread pressing in from the forest.

  Another orc shaman struck its staff, and from the tree line came the first wave of attackers. Many had an arm missing or limped on mangled legs. The goblins poured forward, a hundred at least, lean and ragged, some bare-chested, others carrying rusted blades or broken spears. Their eyes gleamed in unison, their screams rose as one voice as they hurtled into the clearing with a frenzy that seemed both wild and controlled.

  Before the goblin pack could fully exit the tree line, Grukk yelled, “Now!”

  There was a high-pitched chuckle from Nobby, followed by a series of loud explosions at the tree line. Chaos ensued as dozens of goblins were killed or injured in the explosions, along with an orc warrior who lost a leg and an orc shaman who was injured by shrapnel.

  “What the hell!” William looked back at the gnome runesmith who was holding a device in his hands. How did I not know about this? He’d been unaware that Nobby had set up a mined area within the tree line.

  The defenders cheered as the goblin warband reorganised. A few minutes passed before the orc shaman again commanded a little under a hundred goblins to attack. Many sported new injuries from Nobby’s mines.

  The dwarven adventurer spat into the dirt. “They’re testin’ us. Throwin’ fodder to see where we crack.”

  William gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, his knuckles whitening beneath his gauntlets. He knew this wave was only the beginning and would be easy to deal with, yet still he felt his chest tighten at the sight of it.

  “Archers!” Amra cried, her bow already drawn, her voice slicing through the night like a bell. “Take the front rank when they cross into the kill zone. Conserve your arrows and aim true.”

  A hush fell as bows were nocked, drawn, and raised. All around, leather, metal, and wood creaked as spears and swords were readied, every hand gripped tighter on steel or wood. The goblins were coming, and Brindlecross would stand or fall on whether they could weather this storm.

  Will’s hand tightened on his sword. He could feel the line trembling beside him, breaths quick, their feet shuffling in the dirt. He leaned close to Fredric. “They’re watching. Waiting to see where we start to buckle.”

  Fredric nodded. “Then we give ‘em nothing to see.”

  William patted his squire on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

  Chapter 029 [Game Notification: The Cowards Amongst the Heroes]