Fredric’s mother and siblings exited the bunker, their eyes searching for family. “Fredric!” one of the little girls yelled before running to hug her older brother. “Where’s pa?” she asked as her mother and siblings crowded around Fred for a hug.

  “Pa’s fine,” Fredric reassured them. “I saw him helping an injured soldier a few minutes ago.” The whole family broke into happy sobs.

  William’s chest tightened as he watched it all unfold. The numbers swam in his mind. Six hundred and twenty-five souls in Brindlecross before the battle. He wasn’t sure how many survived. It has to be over two hundred dead. He shook his head. A victory, yes, but the cost was written on every grieving face he looked at. Almost everyone had lost someone.

  The elder still lay unconscious, carried inside the hall and watched over by his granddaughter during the final battle. That left William and the six adventurers to meet the Commander of a detachment of the King’s army. The man had a salt-and-pepper beard and short hair; he wore polished silver armour, his blue cloak edged with gold thread, and his eyes showed fatigue.

  “I’m Commander Veylan. You did well here.” The man’s voice lowered, “Many of the villages in the region fell within hours. Most of those that survived the first raid fell during attacks similar to this one.” He swept his arm to encompass the village. “Even a town with stone walls and two dozen adventurers was overrun and razed. You held with farmers, children, and pitchforks. The King will hear of this victory.”

  Sibrek spat blood into the dirt and leaned on his axe. “We held ‘cos we had no choice. Aye, and ‘cosa this one.” He jerked a thumb at William. “He fought like a ‘undred good men.”

  Will forced a smile and gave Sibrek a nod. “It was a team effort. We all fought hard, but without you six, the village would’ve fallen.” He wasn’t lying; the six adventurers had been the backbone of the defence.

  Commander Veylan gave William a discerning look and nodded once. “Our scouts estimate there are more than thirty-five thousand goblins across this province alone, with more entering Mercia from the Western Wastes as we speak. They are led by orc shamans and warlords. We cannot garrison every hamlet and village. We are pulling survivors back to the cities until the threat is dealt with.”

  Murmurs spread through the listening villagers. Many nodded in agreement, but others shook their heads in defiance.

  “You want us to leave?” shouted a broad-shouldered man with Garrick’s features. His kin stood behind him, their faces twisted with grief and bitterness. “We’ve buried our families here. Paid with blood. And now you tell us to run like cowards?”

  Veylan shook his head. “No one will be forced to leave, but I will not be wasting the King’s soldiers on a lost cause. The choice is yours.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A handful of others muttered agreement. “This is our land.” One farmer said. “We won’t leave our homes. We’ve fought them off once; we can do it again!”

  William stepped forward, planting his sword in the churned earth. He noticed the farmer’s hands were clean of blood, and Garrick’s kin bore no wounds. “I don’t recall seeing you amongst the defenders. How many goblins did you face?” He locked eyes with Garrick’s relative. “And where were you when the trolls came?”

  The farmer looked away in shame, but Garrick’s kin spat in the dirt. “I was defending my home, devil!”

  A ripple of disapproval spread through the crowd. The words ‘coward’ and ‘liar’ hissed under the breath of many who had shed blood for Brindlecross.

  Will frowned. “I’m sure you were.” He turned away from them and addressed the growing crowd. “To the true defenders of Brindlecross… hear me. Brindlecross is not the fields, nor the timbers of your homes.” He raised his voice further, “It is the people. Your wives, husbands, and your beautiful children.” He paused and glanced towards a farmer he’d saved who was hugging his young child. The father gave him a nod.

  William returned a smile and continued, “You’ve seen what a troll does to a man. You’ve seen neighbours crushed into the mud and devoured like cattle. Do you want your children to see it again? Do you want their names to end here, in the ashes and blood?”

  Will raised his sword and drove its tip into the churned earth. “The goblins will return, stronger and in greater numbers. If you stay, there will be no one left to tell your story. But you can build new walls, plough new fields, and raise new barns. But you cannot raise the dead, and you cannot bring back a child once they are gone.” He looked to the little elf girl with the pink streak in her hair who had brought him a drink a few days earlier. Her eyes were red from crying. He didn’t know her story, but at least she was alive.

  Will looked at a few members of Garrick’s kin who appeared to be grieving. “Your families paid dearly, yes?” An old woman nodded. “Honour them by surviving. By seeing the children safe, they can carry those names forward. That is Brindlecross.”

  For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the crackle of dying fires. Then, the villagers began to nod; a farmer clasped his wife’s hand. An old woman with a nasty cut down her face wiped her eyes and gathered her grandchildren close. The weight shifted; most understood and would leave.

  Yet some of Garrick’s supporters scowled and muttered curses. “He’s a devil,” one of them spat. “No man cuts through trolls like that unless he’s in league with evil gods.”

  No one answered. The accusation hung in the air for a moment, then withered as the villagers turned away.

  William shook his head. Superstitious fools. He knew the lore better than any of them; he’d lived it for over a decade. In Realm of the Fallen Gods Online, the dark pantheon had fallen silent at the same time as the so-called good gods. There had even been an entire expansion centred on a fanatical cult clawing for their return. He and his guild had been the first to bring down the raid’s final horror, carving their names into the server’s history.

  Will gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. They would whisper, he knew, but it did not matter. The survivors had chosen life, and Brindlecross would endure… though not here, not today.

  Chapter 038 [Questline Updated: Escort the Survivors of Brindlecross to Safety]