Two goblins turned their beady eyes and far-too-wide smiles on Ryan as he made his way down the rampart. His focus was on the goblin just cresting the wall and making contact with the wooden platform that belonged to the defenders. This particular goblin was notable for its arms and armor. It wasn’t any bigger—or any less ugly—but it carried a rusty short sword in its dominant hand, an actual round shield in its off hand, and wore some sort of stitched together tattered hide or leather, making it look like it was, disturbingly, properly equipped.

  Its beady eyes settled on Ryan and his group, and it hissed. At the sound, the two goblins already on the platform—and the two more climbing over the ladder—fell into something resembling a line. Like the untrained spearman Ryan was, he rushed the goblin, stopping within stabbing range before thrusting his spear at the smaller creature. It batted the shaft aside with its shield almost casually. A sharp click from the armored goblin and the other four bolted forward at Ryan, forcing him to stumble back. Fortunately, the rest of the militia were there to interpose their shields and pointy sticks. The militia had numbers on their side this time. The four smaller goblins—and the ones scrambling up the ladder—were dealt with fairly quickly. The armored one went down only after a serious fight, injuring two men and destroying at least one spear before finally taking a sharp point through the eye socket. It didn’t fade away into ash like the rest, but collapsed to the deck and bled out.

  Again, nobody seemed to care—or even notice—the difference in how it died.

  As the militia surged forward, emboldened by their success, Ryan grabbed one man and held him back, telling him to keep an eye out for more ladders. The man nodded, his exhausted, wide-eyed expression turning to surprise and pain in an instant as an arrow sprouted from his throat. He fell backward, clutching at the shaft and pulling.

  Ryan stumbled back as well, landing hard and scrambling away from the man, who stared at him almost blankly—pleading with his eyes—while blood pulsed between his fingers with each heartbeat.

  Haroki’s brother. Some distant, unhelpful part of Ryan’s mind supplied the information as he stared at the man he had spoken to just yesterday, now bleeding out on the rampart. Ryan pushed himself farther back from the dying man and hauled himself into a crouch, interposing his shield between himself and the area beyond the wall. He forced himself to look around, trying to reorient to the battle and catch his breath.

  The militia had gathered into a mass on the ramparts, acting more like a formless mob. He couldn’t even see the fighting, but he could hear the screeching of goblins and the yells of men up ahead. Injuries were piling up, caused not by the enemy—at least not as far as Ryan could tell—but by people shoving one another off the edge of the rampart in the crush of bodies. Occasionally, arrows flew overhead, most of them missing. Every so often, one found its mark. One man took an arrow to the shoulder—a nonlethal wound—but the impact made him flinch hard enough to knock two others off the rampart. That, in turn, caused a steady stream of villagers to start climbing up from behind Ryan. He might have found the whole thing comical, if it weren’t life or death.

  “Shields up. Watch for archers,” Ryan told the two militiamen who had stopped to stare down at the body of Haroki’s brother. They raised their shields, interposing them between themselves and the exterior of the village, mirroring Ryan’s stance. That, in turn, caught the attention of the next man climbing up, who quickly did the same.

  “Get his body off the rampart,” Ryan said, nodding toward the dead man before turning his attention to the next person coming up. “You. Keep an eye out for ladders.”

  With those orders given, Ryan turned his attention to taming the mob. Physically pulling people out of the pileup and placing them against the wall with their shields up. It took a solid minute or two of work before he started dragging out the injured and dying, replacing them with fresh militiamen. He pulled one of the Reeve’s men out of the line, identifiable by his armor, axe, and full round shield. The man was battered and beaten, but still fighting. Ryan shoved him back against the wall to shield him from arrows and give him a moment to rest.

  Up ahead was a strange tableau. Between the shoulders of the villagers and over the heads of the goblins, Ryan could see Reeve Branson and another of his men fighting a larger, even better-armored goblin. The armored goblin was at least a head taller than his smaller brethren. His tattered hide armor was reinforced with metal plates, and his muscular frame wielded what looked like a Dane axe with brutal efficiency. The goblin kept a wide area clear around him, sweeping constant arcs with his Dane axe that forced Reeve Branson and his one remaining man to keep their distance.

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  The Reeve’s man tried to press the attack, then retreated in haste. As the Reeve attempted to capitalize on the opening, the axe whipped back and smashed his already-tattered shield. Left holding little more than the boss at an awkward angle, the Reeve simply hurled it at the goblin, who sidestepped the makeshift projectile with casual ease. The Reeve’s man tried to take advantage of the brief lull by charging. Arnold Goblinator swung his axe, shattering the man’s shield and somehow deflecting the thrust at the same time. He brought the axe around to block the follow-up blow as well, but the Reeve’s man was fully committed. He slammed into the goblin with everything he had, wrapping his arms around the creature and heaving him up into the air. They crashed down hard together. The man’s reward was a dozen smaller goblins piling onto him, his screams cutting off abruptly a moment later.

  Ryan kept working, cycling the militiamen, pulling out the wounded, and pushing the healthy forward until he’d effectively taken over the section of wall where Reeve Branson had been fighting. There were three of the much larger goblins. One was the brute Ryan had seen taken down, another—armed with sword and shield—had already been dead by the time the militia arrived, and a third wielded a shield and a spiked mace. This one was still very much alive.

  The smaller armored goblins formed up around the larger one, as though they were running their own shield wall. They clearly commanded the fodder goblins, which hurled themselves at the militiamen with no regard for their own safety. A line of three of the smaller armored goblins and the one with the mace held evenly against the militia until Ryan managed to get enough people off the rampart and around to flank the goblins from behind. Even then, the larger goblin was still holding out—pressed against the wall and somehow defending itself against a forest of pointed weapons. Someone got a lucky spear thrust in, wounding the goblin and forcing it to drop its mace. It surged forward with its shield raised, making several people stumble back—but instead of pressing the attack, it hurled itself over the wall. The drop wasn’t far enough to seriously injure something that knew the ground was coming.

  A horn sounded out from the trees. Ryan and several others leaned over the wall to look—then immediately recoiled, throwing their shields up as a hail of arrows rained down. In the distance were amorphous blobs of goblins—no doubt archers—and a lone figure much taller than any goblin Ryan had seen yet. The moon was high and cast a fair amount of light, though it was dark enough that there were no clear details. The larger goblinoid seemed to evaluate the situation before turning and walking back into the woods. The rest of the goblins followed, quitting the field in an unhurried retreat—save for the one that had gone over the wall, which sprinted to rejoin the others.

  Ryan stared after the goblins for several long moments, until a pained moan snapped his attention back to the men around him.

  “Okay. Show of hands—who’s injured?”

  A disturbing number of people raised their hands, but they were all still standing, so it couldn’t be too bad.

  “All right. You lot—help anyone you can get to the town square.” Ryan pointed at one of the uninjured men. “You. Head south and make sure we’re not being attacked somewhere else.” Ryan pointed at another random individual. “You—do the same thing, but head north.”

  “What do you want us to do with the bodies?” someone asked.

  “Just leave them there for now,” Ryan said—then paused, staring down at the dead goblin, which already seemed to be rapidly decomposing. “On second thought, throw them over the edge… You lot, you, and you. Go get some food, water, and rest. You’re going to be on watch in a couple of hours,” Ryan said. He swept a hand across the remaining militiamen. “The rest of you, spread out. Try to keep each other in view. We’re holding the wall until the others can rest.”

  “What about us?” came the voice of an older man from the village side of the rampart.

  “Food and water,” Ryan said. “Prioritize water. Make sure everybody on the walls gets a drink.”

  Most of the people nodded and got to work. As the crowd dispersed, Ryan leaned against the parapet and looked out over the wall into the darkness beyond. He let out a long, tired sigh.

  ***

  “Hail to you, fearless leader,” said Ping, pulling Ryan out of his daze. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring into the darkness—too tired to deal with his notifications, and too on edge to nod off. She handed him a cup of hot liquid and leaned over the parapet to squint into the darkness. An exploratory sip told him it was broth—not exactly what he would have wanted, but it soothed his sore throat and brought a welcome warmth to his chilled body.

  “Some people would like to know what your plan is.”

  “Is that not a better question for the Reeve?” Ryan replied after swallowing. “Actually— is he alive? I didn’t see him.”

  Ping nodded. “Yeah. He’s alive. You sent him to the square. The priestess patched him up.” She paused, then added, “And now Reeve Branson would like to know what your plan is.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, I plan to stand here and watch the wall for a few hours while the others get some sleep and we switch out. That’s about the extent of it.”

  Ping nodded. “All right. I’ll pass it on.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Well, all my blood’s still in my body,” Ryan replied, trying—and failing—to make a joke. “What about Tor? Is he okay?” Ryan asked.

  “Yeah. Tor’s fine.”

  That was a relief. Ryan took another sip and watched Ping head off to the next man along the wall. He let his gaze drift upward to the dark shape of the hill beyond the walls. “If it were me, I’d turn that thing into a fortress,” he said to no one, tracing the outline of the not-mountain with a raised finger. He lowered his hand quickly, lest someone see the gesture and think they were under attack from the northwest. He sighed, took another sip of broth, and stared back out into the dark—wondering if the shadows were truly moving, or if it was just him.

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