William staggered, his chest heaving, the [Divine Fire] skill dimming as though weary from the struggle against the war orc. He planted it into the earth, leaning on the hilt. Around him, goblins hesitated, their charge faltering at the sight of one of their champions slain.

  He spat blood and lifted the sword again, pointing it towards the goblins. His voice rang out, raw but unbroken. “Your strongest falls, and still you dare? Come on then! Who else will die at my hand?”

  The defenders roared with renewed courage, their fear burning away in the blaze of his defiance.

  Will took a deep breath and regretted it. Damn! Cracked ribs. The System might consider the injury minor, but it still hurt like hell when he moved.

  The trolls reached the palisade. Their howls split the night as they swatted goblins aside like insects as they attacked the defenders on the wall. One swung a fist the size of a man’s chest into the palisade, and the sharpened stakes splintered. The defenders shrieked as the beast tore at the wood, ripping it up with raw strength.

  A troll tore a man from the palisade and ripped him in two like a loaf of bread before chomping down on his flailing arm. The defenders watched in horror as the troll’s wounds healed at a speed visible to the naked eye. Deep spear wounds closed in under fifteen seconds, leaving only scar tissue as a sign of the damage.

  Half a dozen defenders turned and ran towards the bunker, screaming that they didn’t want to die. A dozen older men and women too frail to fight on the frontlines, but with too much honour to hide with the children, defended the bunker entrance.

  “Move aside,” one of the fleeing defenders yelled. “We have to hide. Th-the trolls are unstoppable.”

  An eighty-plus-year-old man with a stooped back pointed a sharpened staff at the group. “No one enters. Return to the walls and defend your home.” He looked at those who would risk the children’s safety with disgust.

  One of the men pointed a spear at the octogenarian. “M-move.” His hand shook. “I-I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  An elderly woman stepped beside the old man. “My great-grandchildren are down there.” She lifted the cleaver she was carrying; it glinted in the torchlight. “You’ll have to kill us to pass.” She looked at the man with the spear, dead in the eye. “I’ll make sure you’ll be dying with me, Caleb. Your late grandmother, Joan, would be ashamed of you now.” She shook her head in disgust.

  The sounds of trolls and war orcs smashing the palisades continued. Defenders called for help while others only thought of themselves.

  Caleb looked at the others with him. They all looked afraid. “Just let us in. Th-there’s only six of us. Please, Florence.” He lowered his gaze in shame.

  Another old man stepped forward carrying a sharpened spade. “Move on, boy.” He jabbed the spade towards them. “We won’t tell you again.” The remaining old people stepped forward.

  One of the other cowards looked towards the palisades, where a troll had smashed a hole, and then back towards the bunker door before running away. The others soon followed.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Florence sighed. “I used to change that boy’s nappies.” She shook her head. “If I’d have known what a gods-forsaken coward he’d turn out to be, I’d have smothered the little pissant.”

  The others nodded in agreement before continuing their vigil, knowing that if the defenders failed, the goblins would tear through them in seconds. Still, the dozen old grandparents stood strong with no intentions of leaving.

  ***

  William’s gut lurched. They’d stood against riders and weak fodder, but this was a tide meant to drown them. “Steady!” he roared, even as despair whispered at the edges of his mind. His sword blazed brighter. “Fight for Brindlecross!”

  “For Brindlecross!” voices answered, cracked and desperate, but they did not break.

  The goblin warband surged on as fewer than a hundred and seventy of the original two hundred and fifty defenders, many of them injured and bloodied, fought for their survival.

  As the fighting and losses on both sides intensified, the palisade groaned like a dying beast, splintered where the trolls had battered it open. Their massive forms forced through the breaches, each step shaking the earth. Blood-slick claws tore defenders from the barricades, and the creatures’ guttural bellows drowned out the clash of steel.

  “Back! Fall back into the square!” Sibrek roared, his axe dripping gore as he tried to rally the line. Yet even the dwarf’s fury could not halt the tide. Goblins scrambled through the gaps, their shrieks filling the night as they broke into the village.

  With over half the defenders dead or too injured to fight, William staggered back to the hall steps. He’d gained a couple more [XP: +1] notifications from culling over two dozen weak goblins. His lungs were burning, and his sword was flickering low as if it too felt exhaustion.

  [Warning: Heavy Fatigue 25%]

  He could estimate the warband’s number now: six trolls, four war orcs, and nearly one hundred and fifty goblins driven on by the two surviving shaman’s magic. Against those stood no more than one hundred and fifty defenders—many were old people, too stubborn to hide with the children, but not strong enough to have fought on the frontlines.

  If nothing changed, Brindlecross would fall to the goblins. The elder, pale and hunched beneath his years, stepped forward from the hall. He leaned on his staff, his eyes clouded with fatigue yet burning with a spark that would not die. His voice cracked, but carried across the village square.

  “My sons, my daughters… my blood.” He glanced towards a teenage girl gripping a spear who had never left his side throughout the battle. “For a hundred winters, Brindlecross has stood. Our fathers and grandfathers built this village, our mothers tilled the fields.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “I was there as a child, and our children were born beneath this sky. Tonight, the enemy comes to tear it from us… but I say no!”

  The elder was interrupted as a troll smashed over one of the two watchtowers. The half a dozen archers fell, with only two managing to limp away; the others were killed on impact or swarmed by goblins.

  The old man’s hand trembled as he raised the staff, but his voice grew stronger. “Hear me, Brindlecross! The old gods may have abandoned us, yet I will not. You are my people, my kin, my heart. If this is the night we fall, then we fall together, as one. Let the trolls choke on our fury, let the orcs drown in our blood, let the goblins learn that even the old and the weak of Brindlecross fight harder than their strongest!”

  Runic symbols flared into being across the staff’s gnarled length, casting harsh light across the square. The elder drew himself to his full height, his shadow stretching long. “Take the last of my strength and power, take all that remains of me. Make it yours. And when the last of you stands, let the enemy remember Brindlecross…” he swept his eyes across the defenders and smiled “…Not as a village that died, but as a people who never stopped fighting!”

  With a cry, he slammed his staff to the ground. A blinding light burst outward in a ring, searing the air. As William cut down a goblin, power rushed into his veins like liquid fire. What the hell? His limbs no longer trembled, his lungs filled with fresh breath, and the pain in his ribs dulled to nothing as he felt them heal.

  [Notification: Archmage’s Last Buff]

  [All Stats Increased by 50% for 30 Minutes]

  Chapter 033 [Game Notification: Archmage’s Last Buff]