The third line of barricades groaned under the relentless assault. There was already a breach, but Brenn filled it himself.

  He stood at the forefront, shield raised, sweat dripping down his brow. His arm ached, his lungs burned, but he held firm.

  The light of lanterns illuminated the trenches, where the bodies of the beasts lay tangled with broken wood. They still had a few layers to go back to - all was going quite well.

  A sharp, keening screech pierced the night, louder and more guttural than before.

  Brenn’s eyes flicked to the horizon. More shadowy figures surged from the darkness, clawed limbs gleaming as they charged.

  “Next wave incoming!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.

  His shield met the claws of a charging brute with a resounding clang. Beside him, a farmer jabbed with a pitchfork. Too deep. He got knocked to the ground by a swing from the side. Brenn lunged, his armored boot kicking in the brute’s knee before it could finish off the downed man.

  “Get up!” he snapped at the farmer, pulling him to his feet.

  The barricades, or what was left of them, trembled again as a group of brutes tried to pry them away, but they held.

  The villagers had fortified them well, layering wood and metal in a crude but effective defense.

  A younger boy screamed in panic, pointing at the field. Brenn turned just in time to see them—spiderlike creatures of varying sizes, some reaching waist-height.

  Their bodies glistened as they pushed through the horde and climbed the barricades. Is that… Predator’s spawn?

  Darryl, where are you!? Brenn clenched his jaw and forced the thoughts away. He had to trust the man.

  He slammed with his shield to crush a spider against the barricades. They had everything under control. If Darryl killed the predator, they would win.

  A scream from the archer’s platform—high and sharp—cut off too soon. Then another.

  Then hundreds more broke through the night. But those came… from behind?

  Brenn’s mind whirled. The spiders must have circled around them! They skittered into the backline where the wounded and resting had gathered, tearing into the unprepared.

  It instantly dawned on him. Their position was lost. But their mission was still the same.

  He turned to those standing beside him. Farmers. Old soldiers. “Those of you who’ve got someone waiting for you—go,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Fight with them. Protect them. For those of us who’ve got no one left... we’ll hold the line.”

  Brenn’s heart thundered in his chest as he barked a new order. “Turn around! Leave the barricades and fight your way to the square!” His voice was hoarse, but it carried above the noise. “Defend there until Darryl comes for you!”

  The defenders hesitated only briefly before shifting their formation, weapons raised as they pushed toward the backline.

  The barricades were left exposed, only a handful of figures stayed. Old man Raf stepped closer to Brenn. “Finally time came for us shriveled grapes?” He chuckled dryly.

  Their faces were set with grim determination.

  Brenn nodded once, gripping his shield tighter. “Let’s give one last gift to the youngsters.”

  The next wave of monsters crashed against the now-poorly defended barricades. Brenn roared as he raised his shield. Not enough spears to push the brutes away.

  The defenses were crumbling. He struck a monster with the edge of his shield, cutting its head open.

  They would buy every second they could, hoping that would be enough. The screams behind them grew louder, but Brenn didn’t look back. They were on their own now.

  The barricades loomed ahead, but the sound of screams drew Darryl’s attention towards the square. He cursed under his breath and signaled his remaining guards to follow. As they rounded the corner, the scene before them hit like a gut punch.

  A dense crowd of villagers, ragged and bloodied, was surrounded by swarming black shapes. The spiders moved erratically, their skittering legs and gnashing mandibles a nightmare come to life. The villagers were trying to fight their way out, but for every monster they struck down, another took its place.

  “Gods…” one of his men muttered, his voice trembling.

  Darryl didn’t hesitate. “We’re not done yet! Move in! Clear a path to the square, we’re regrouping!” he barked, raising his frostfire sword high. The guards, surged forward, cutting into the swarm.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Only 18 of them were left, but each of them a fighter who had survived hell.

  The frostfire blade sliced a spider in half, its body fell back into the swarm, bursting into flames and ice simultaneously. Darryl pressed forward, slashing with abandon, trusting to the elements to do the bulk of the damage.

  The villagers’ terrified faces turned to him, hope flickering in their eyes as they realized reinforcements had arrived. Untrained people had no hope to win on an open field.

  “Keep pushing!” Darryl shouted. “Get them to the square! We need chokepoints!”

  Guards formed a wedge, cutting a path through the creatures. Slowly, the villagers began to move, their panic giving way to desperate determination as they passed by the guards.

  The spiders hissed and shrieked, but their reckless attacks weren’t nearly as effective against a braced line of shields. Darryl swung again, the blade cleaving through two at once.

  He was using every spare moment to look around, but Brenn was nowhere in sight. That didn’t make sense. He had to be here. He had to—

  Then Darryl’s eyes locked onto the barricades. And his stomach plummeted.

  The commander had stayed behind, his armor soaked in blood. In front of him, were lines of corpses and shattered wood.

  Around him lay the bodies of those who had stayed behind—silent testimonies to their sacrifice. Brenn was the last man standing. His body alone blocked the entrance to the village.

  He could only block and kick. And yet he still pushed the monsters back, even if for just a moment.

  Darryl’s stomach twisted. “Brenn!” he roared, his voice carrying over the din.

  Brenn didn’t look back. His focus was entirely on the horde in front of him, his movements slower now, each strike more labored. A spider lunged, its mandibles aimed for his throat, and Brenn crushed it with his shield.

  Darryl gritted his teeth, slashing through another spider as he fought his way closer. “Damn it, Brenn, fall back! You’ve done enough!” But his voice could not reach. He carved on through the swarm. Fuck.

  If he rushed now, maybe he could extract Brenn. How many would die for it? His grip on his sword tightened. He forced himself to breathe. A scream rang out next to him—one of his men got bit. There was no time.

  You knew I hated leading. Darryl gave his friend one last wistful look – but Brenn would have preferred him to save the villagers.

  “Cover their retreat!” Darryl snarled at the people around him, forcing them toward the square. His blade burned bright as he pummeled the spiders.

  “Damn you, old man,” Darryl whispered, his voice tight. But he didn’t stop moving. He couldn’t. Either they make it to a defensible position, or it was all for naught.

  Brenn’s shield felt impossibly heavy, the weight of the battle and his exhaustion pressing down on him. He was too old for this. But he stood firm, blocking the path of the hulking brutes.

  Their growls and guttural cries filled the air, as they longed to charge into the mass of people moving away from them.

  A crude axe came in a wide arc. Brenn stepped away from the blow, deflecting it with his shield and driving his heavy boot into the creature’s knee.

  It howled, collapsing as Brenn crushed his shield into its head. Another charged him, and he shifted, letting the blow glance off before kicking into its gut, sending it reeling.

  He danced between them, a precise and deadly rhythm. He had to keep them staggered, separate.

  Each strike he deflected bought the villagers a few more steps toward safety.

  Each wound made the retreat a little more secure.

  A sharp pain pierced his calf.

  His leg buckled beneath him, and he dropped to one knee for just a second. His head snapped up, and he spotted the hobgoblin in the distance, its crude bowstring still quivering from the shot.

  The brutes saw their chance, attacking with twice the ferocity.

  Brenn felt the warmth of blood running down his leg, but instead of despair, a laugh bubbled up from his throat. Low at first, it grew louder, reverberating against the darkness.

  He parried a heavy strike, buying himself a second.

  “Well, you bastards,” Brenn said, his voice rasping but strong. “Let’s see how much you can take.” He taunted them.

  He tightened his grip on the shield, its surface pristine despite surviving countless battles. With a deliberate movement, he activated the engraving at its center—a rune that flared to life with an ethereal glow. Lineholder’s Sacrifice.

  The shield shimmered, faint at first.

  He was no longer redirecting the blows. Brenn braced himself. He caught the attacks dead-on, letting the full force crash through his old bones.

  With every strike, the glow of the artifact intensified, and his ribs rattled.

  Each axe, each club, each fist that crashed against the shield sent ripples of power through it, amplifying its light.

  His body screamed at him to move, to run, but he stayed.

  An overhead slam pounded him into the ground – He was on his knees, his ankles shattered from strain.

  Each impact drove him closer to the ground. His breaths ragged. He held on. A flurry of attacks. None reached his body. He had to endure.

  Brenn glanced over his shoulder, his vision blurring. Through the chaos, he saw them—flickers of fire and movement, the villagers retreating toward the square.

  They were making it. Darryl… good man. The sight filled him with a strange peace.

  The brutes surrounded him now, their strikes frenzied, their frustration mounting. They didn’t understand what was happening.

  Brenn grinned, blood staining his teeth. “Come on then,” he growled, his voice a taunt. “Hit me harder.” His body was giving out, he had only seconds left.

  The shield’s glow reached a blinding intensity, ringing with barely contained energy.

  Brenn felt the heat of it, the sheer power radiating through him. He had only heard the stories, but he finally got to use it himself.

  Not even death itself could stop him now. He did it. The villagers were safe. That was all that mattered. He left the rest to the young miscreant.

  His duty fulfilled, he allowed himself to think of something other than the village. His family, now so long gone. His legendary exploits now just faded ink on rotting pages.

  With a final, triumphant roar, Brenn slammed the edge of his shield into the ground. The energy released in an instant, a cataclysmic wave of light that engulfed the brutes and all the monsters around the barricades - and him.

  For Brenn, there was no pain. Only light.

  And silence.