At dawn, William woke to find the gnome fast asleep and drooling on his sword. After breakfast and retrieving his sword from an unhappy Nobby, he continued with his plans.

  The work to fortify the village continued, and anyone able-bodied was training with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on.

  Late morning brought more survivors, including six wary adventurers. At their head strode a large, muscular woman in battered chain mail. Her blonde, cropped hair was plastered to her brow with blood and sweat; her limp was obvious, but her eyes scanned the palisade like she’d been judging fortifications her whole life.

  “I’m Marie.” Her hand rested ready on the pommel of her sword. “We were eight; now we are six.”

  William looked over her five companions who stood behind her. A scarred dwarf with a deep red, messy beard and an axe at his back. A white-haired elf clutching a bow with frayed string, beside her stood a young, female black-furred catkin dressed in leather rogue armour. The catkin glanced around, one hand on one of the twin daggers at her side.

  In the rear were two tall, grey-skinned males with long arms and large black eyes; one carried a sharpened staff, the other a mace. What are they? William had never seen their species in the game before. Are they aliens? He shook his head. They wouldn’t add aliens to the game… would they?

  “Goblins!” Marie clenched her fists. “Large packs between here and Wodnesbeorh.” She gestured towards the west. “We dodged two, but had to fight our way through the third. They’re well organised… Someone or something must be controlling them.”

  William inclined his head. “We suspect there are orc shamans controlling each goblin raiding party. We fought off a raid two nights ago, with minimal losses.” He thought of the grieving father, Garrick. “We could use your strength if Brindlecross is to survive.”

  Marie held his gaze for a long moment before giving a curt nod. “Better a wall to defend than ashes to scatter trying to reach Thrymwall. We’ll fight with you, knight.”

  ***

  That evening, Marie and her companions sharpened weapons by the fire, while children hovered close, staring at their armour and scars. One of the grey-skinned adventurers who carried a staff showed a boy how to balance a dagger on his finger, drawing startled laughter.

  But William also heard the mutters in the corners: “Why should strangers be eatin’ our bread? We’re already short of food from the goblin attack.” “Why are we following the cursed one? Nothing good can come of it.” Their fears and selfishness wove together like thorns.

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  Day Three: Drills

  At dawn, William shaved away the annoying blue stubble before prying his sword away from the unhappy runesmith. After breakfast, he and the six adventurers had the villagers assembled for training. Men with pitchforks, women with cleavers, the young clutched staves, their eyes filled with hope and determination.

  “You’ve built barns, felled timber, and tilled fields,” William called out, pacing before them. “That strength will serve you now. A spear is nothing more than a stick with a sharp point, and as long as you point it in the right direction…” He held a spear and jabbed it forward. “It’ll stop a goblin easily.”

  Marie rolled her eyes. “Great speech, Sir Knight,” she mocked while drawing her sword. “This is a sword, it has a pointy end, stick it in a goblin’s gut and it’ll fertilise your fields.”

  Most of the recruits chuckled while William groaned. My speech wasn’t that bad. Was it?

  Fredric handed out spears tipped with sharpened iron forged by Master Grukk. The boy puffed his chest out, his voice cracking as he barked, “Feet wide. Keep your arms straight!”

  Brian, the grey-skinned male adventurer with the sharpened staff, aided Fredric in spear and staff training while the other adventurers offered advice where they could.

  The villagers shuffled awkwardly. A farmer jabbed too high, nearly skewering his neighbour behind him as he pulled the spear back. Nervous laughter followed, until Brian silenced it by driving his sharpened staff clean through a straw dummy.

  “Start slow and steady until you get used to it.” Brian’s large black eyes reflected no light. “Goblin hides are thin. Trust the man beside you and don’t stab the man behind you.” He patted the farmer on the shoulder and made a high-pitched chuckle. “It just takes practice, friend.” The farmer offered an embarrassed smile.

  The dwarven adventurer showed a small group of lumberjacks how to use their axes in combat. “Not like that, ye fool.” Sibrek corrected a young man swinging his axe as if he were felling a tree. “Swing it like this, an’ gut ‘em good!” He swung his axe at an angle at a straw target. “And rip it frew, so it don’t get stuck…” Its straw stuffing was ripped out by the blow. “And follow frew for the kill.” He swung the axe back around and beheaded the target.

  Marie taught a small group carrying swords the correct sword forms and how to work together as a team, so they wouldn’t become isolated during a fight. “You’ll be tempted to move towards the goblins as you fight.” She showed them how the formation would break if they didn’t stay and work as one. “Once there are gaps, it only takes a few goblins to overwhelm a single sword.” She looked at one young man who had doubts in his eyes. “Don’t be a fool and try to fight on your own. You’ll get yourself and the others killed.”

  Pip, the catkin rogue, worked with a group of teenage girls who carried daggers, showing them how to kill without being killed. “Wait for an opportunity.” She grinned. “When a man…” She giggled like a mischievous cat. “I mean, a goblin has its back to you, stab him in the back or slit his throat before pulling back to safety. Then patiently wait for the next one. Don’t take risks, we are rogues, not grunting idiots.” She looked to those with swords; almost all of them were men.

  By midday, the awkward pokes gained rhythm. Crude shields thudded in unison, straw dummies were skewered, and a ragged cheer went up.

  That evening, a group of women carried timber to the palisade, their voices rising in an old marching song. The tune wove through the village, steadying hands and lifting spirits. William found himself humming along as he helped raise a support beam for one of the new watchtowers.

  For the moment, the village felt united, and Willian felt a spark of hope.

  Chapter 020 [Day Four: The Poisoned Tongue]