Cheese still hadn’t adjusted to the whirlwind that had become his life. Strapping on the bracers and settling the helm of his new station onto his head, he reflected on the staggering transformation of the past few days. He had been an axeman—a worker in a successful lumber mill, reliable but unremarkable. Now, he bore a noble title, elevated to the role of a Bladesman, a lord of war. The absurdity of it would have made him laugh if the weight of the moment weren’t pressing so heavily on his shoulders. Yet there was that nagging voice in the back of his head that he was beginning to embrace screaming that he had been chosen. Hadn’t he? True they called him a heretic, but the system and the gods had chosen him. With a smile he considered what that meant.
Beside him stood a boy, barely thirteen summers old, his earnest face betraying both nerves and pride. Nold, Elder Tompson’s great-grandson, had been assigned to Cheese as his page. The boy had thrown himself into his duties with wide-eyed determination, and now he looked up at Cheese apologetically.
"We weren’t able to get you a banner," Nold said, his voice tinged with regret. "I’m sorry, M’lord."
Cheese paused, taken aback by the formality. He shook his head with a small, reassuring smile. "Why would I need a banner?" he asked, his tone light.
As he spoke, he summoned his axe. The weapon appeared in his hand with a soft hum, its blade glowing a deep blue in the dim light of the room. The runes etched into its haft shimmered faintly, as though alive. The sight of it filled Cheese with a strange mix of comfort and dread. This weapon, a gift from his father, had become an extension of him in ways he was only beginning to understand.
He glanced down at his attire—deep blue garments that marked him as a militia officer of Fairhaven. They were finely made but old, pulled from a dusty trunk in the room his father had claimed for them on the second floor. The fabric smelled faintly of cedar and age, and it was clear these clothes had been stored for years, perhaps decades. Despite their age, they fit him surprisingly well, as though they had been waiting for someone like him to claim them.
Cheese adjusted the bracers, feeling the weight of the armor and the burden of responsibility they represented. For a moment, he met Nold’s eyes. The boy’s youthful earnestness reminded him of something he’d nearly forgotten in the chaos: hope.
"I think I’ll manage without a banner," Cheese said, his voice quiet but steady. The boy nodded solemnly, as if the words carried far more meaning than Cheese intended.
The axe glinted in the faint light, a reminder of both the power he now wielded and the battles yet to come. Cheese exhaled slowly, his mind bracing for the challenges ahead. He didn’t feel ready—not for the title, not for the war, not for the responsibility. But he would face it, one step at a time, after all if a giant couldn’t kill him what chance did some little men hiding in shadows have.
A familiar knock at the door broke his focus. He smiled faintly as Ibron stepped into the room; his usual confident stride tempered by the weight of their situation.
"Time to move, Bladesman," Ibron said, his voice steady but warm, the bond of friendship evident beneath the formality.
Cheese nodded, rising to his feet. "You could just call me Cheese, you know," he said, grinning slightly as he adjusted the helm resting on the table.
"Not today, my friend," Ibron replied with a wry smirk. "Today, you’re the Bladesman."
Cheese sighed but followed Ibron out of the room. Together, they descended the stairs to the main floor, their footsteps muffled on the worn wood. Outside the side door, the afternoon air was crisp, carrying the mingled scents of sawdust, leather, and smoke from the makeshift campfires scattered beyond the mill.
Ibron led Cheese through a narrow path alongside the mill's stone walls. As they passed through a small gate, Cheese caught sight of a group assembled on the leeward side of a hill. Many such groups were scattered about, taking cover from the city wall’s watchful eyes, but this one was his. About twenty men stood in a loose formation.
Fifteen were young, barely out of boyhood, their shields slung awkwardly on their arms. They wore uniforms dyed the same deep blue as Cheese's, their expressions a mix of determination and unease. Their displayed skills hovered between levels 10 and 14—solid, but not extraordinary.
Leading them was an older sergeant, his grizzled face partially obscured by an eyepatch. The man exuded a quiet authority, his stance sharp and unwavering despite the weight of years.
Ibron gestured toward him as they drew close. "That’s Hald," he said, his tone respectful. "One of the toughest bastards you’ll ever meet."
Standing beside Hald were five archers. Four were younger, their skills refined to level 14, while the fifth drew Cheese's attention immediately. It was the elderly officer from the gate earlier that morning, his warbow slung casually over his shoulder.
Hald turned as Cheese approached, his one good eye narrowing in a quick assessment. His voice was gruff but respectful. "Bladesman Switzler," he said, giving a curt nod. "These are your men."
Cheese scanned the faces of the young soldiers, the eager archers, and the weathered sergeant. For the first time, the weight of his new role pressed down on him with undeniable force.
Ibron excused himself with a quick pat on Cheese’s shoulder as the Bladesman addressed the officer and sergeant. "Hald, Bjorn," he said, gesturing for them to follow. The three climbed a slight rise that gave a clear view of the city’s ruined walls.
The walls were a wreck, yet Cheese could see small figures moving atop the shattered embankments. His stomach tightened as he studied the battleground.
"I’ll have the truth," Cheese said, his voice steady despite the tension. "What combat experience do you have?"
Hald answered first, his tone blunt. "Brigands here and there. I’ve served twenty years as a guard, but as you know, we’re a nation that sees little combat."
Cheese nodded, noting the man’s displayed skill: [Command: 18]—a level Cheese had never encountered before. He turned to Bjorn.
The archer shrugged, his voice calm. "Fifteen years as an adventurer when I was a boy, three as a mercenary on the mainland, and then twenty as an officer here in the Fairhaven guard."
Cheese regarded the archer with approval. "Well," he said, "until a week ago, I’d never killed anything bigger than a boar. I’m no grizzled veteran of campaigns like you two." Hald scoffed lightly, but Cheese pressed on. "Yet my father places his hopes in us. He tells me you’re the best he has, and I believe it. Do you know your men?"
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Both men nodded. Hald spoke again. "Yes, we know them, and we know each other. I’ve served with the old man here since he joined the guard. The boys are young, younger than even you, but they show promise. And they’ve seen..." He paused. "All of Fairhaven’s guard have seen things these past days. They didn’t run. They didn’t give in. They’ll do their duty, Bladesman."
Cheese nodded. For a moment, he considered telling Hald to call him by his name but thought better of it. Instead, he said, "Well, I’m no tactician, and I know almost nothing about what we face. I’ll be in your hands. Stay close, Hald. If I do anything foolish, either stop me before I can or make sure it works."
Hald cracked a faint smile. "Understood, Bladesman."
Cheese turned back to the ruined walls, his expression grim. "Now," he said, "what can you tell me about these little green men we’re going to kill today?
----------------------------------------
An hour later, they began their march.
Cheese crested the top of the hill at a brisk trot, his breath steady but his heart racing. To his left, his father’s unit of five hundred men sounded a loud series of blasts from their war horns. The deep, resonant calls echoed across the battlefield, stirring a sense of purpose and forewarning that rippled through the ranks.
To his right, about 150 meters away, Cheese could see his brothers alongside Elder Tompson and Ibron, at the head of a force of about 250 men from the city guard. Their movements were careful, measured—these men would enter the fray more slowly, preferring to hold back and react rather than charge headlong into danger. Similar formations were occurring along the city’s perimeter, as pockets of defenders took their positions in anticipation of the impending assault.
Before the incursions, Fairhaven had been a thriving city of some 20,000 souls. Five thousand of those had been part of the militia in some capacity, from combat-trained veterans to the newly enlisted. Now, only about 2,000 remained. Many had fallen to the giants and the swarm of little green men that had invaded the city with terrifying swiftness.
But it wasn’t the survivors who concerned Cheese. It was the raw numbers who lacked real combat experience. While he and his men—the elite fighters of Fairhaven—were trained and battle-tested, most of the militia had no true battlefield experience.
Fairhaven’s strength had never been in its fighters, but in its merchants, crafters, and governors. It had no history of defending against invasions. Unlike Timberbrook, where every man knew how to swing an axe or hold a shield, Fairhaven’s soldiers were glorified laborers, tradesmen, and farmers—men who could build or bargain but had never been asked to face the horrors of war.
The thought of them facing seasoned warriors made Cheese uneasy. Against an enemy like the one they now faced, men like him and his men would be forced to fight and survive, or perish trying. The rest—those who were little more than common townsfolk pressed into service—were more likely to flee than fight.
His men were different. Elite. Hand-picked. They had been drilled, sparred, and trained for this. They knew how to fight, and they knew how to die, if it came to that. Unlike the others, who wore shields more for protection than for prowess, Cheese’s men held their shields with confidence, their skill levels ranging from level 14 to 16. They were the sharp edge of Fairhaven’s defense, and Cheese was their leader.
Cheese’s eyes wandered briefly to the field where his men were forming up. Fifteen young soldiers—men barely out of boyhood—stood ready, their shields gripped tightly as they eyed the horizon. Their skill levels ranged from 10 to 14—solid but not yet seasoned. They would need his leadership, and the leadership of Hald and Bjorn, if they were to survive.
To the left, beyond his father’s unit, he could see the chaos of the larger, less organized militia. Those men weren’t the ones he would rely on—they would advance at a slower pace, lacking the fire and precision his unit could deliver. It would be up to him and his men to cut through the enemy lines and pave the way for those less prepared.
Cheese tightened his grip on his axe, the glowing blue runes along its haft casting a faint, ethereal light. The weight of it, both physical and metaphorical, was becoming more real with every passing second. His men were prepared, but the rest of the city’s defenders… they were something else entirely.
"Keep your heads, and stick with me," Cheese murmured to his unit, his voice calm but firm. "We’ll hold the line."
As the horns sounded again, the signal to move out, Cheese set his jaw and led his men down the hill. Their formation was tight, purposeful. They weren’t just militia—they were soldiers, elite and ready for the coming storm. Cheese didn’t know if it would be enough, but he would be damned if he didn’t give it everything.
The first shot came from Bjorn, hardly fifteen seconds after Cheese’s command. The older man loosed one of his great shafts with a practiced hand. It flew through the air with deadly precision, striking one of the enemy creatures. The impact sent the creature hurtling backward, knocking it off the wall. Another shot followed quickly, taking down a second foe in the same manner. With a resounding thud, both figures tumbled over the battlements.
The enemy’s response was swift, but it was already too late. The archers stationed atop the wall were silenced before they could even nock their arrows. Bjorn had cleared the area with deadly accuracy—none of the creatures could get a shot off at Cheese's unit.
"Their bows are weak!" Cheese shouted, his voice ringing out over the battlefield. The men behind him erupted in cheers. They continued their march, undeterred. Cheese led from the front, his soldiers following in two tight ranks. The first rank, composed of shields and spears, moved forward with determination. Behind them, the five archers moved in tandem, awaiting their turn.
Bjorn didn’t let up. He continued to fire, each arrow finding its mark, until his quiver ran empty. A shield-bearer passed him a fresh one, slung over his back. But by the time Bjorn was ready to resume his fire, the enemy archers had already ducked behind the battlements, too far out of sight for any further shots.
Bjorn had fired thirty arrows in total, and only three had missed their mark.
"Hold fire and watch for their heads!" Bjorn commanded. His fellow archers, armed with smaller bows, acknowledged his order. Their bows lacked the power of his warbow, but they were ready to act as soon as they saw an opportunity.
As the unit advanced, the sounds of arrows and slung stones echoed in the distance, but none of it was aimed at their small group. The enemy had no chance to retaliate in this section of the wall, their archers already dealt with. Cheese’s men advanced unmolested, steadily closing the gap between them and the enemy.
Cheese’s unit pressed on, each soldier climbing the broken stones with swift determination. They neared the base of the wall where the giant footprints had left an imprint in the stone, leaving a jagged slope up to the top. The wall itself was a fortress, towering above them, but one section had collapsed entirely, the rubble now serving as a makeshift ramp for the soldiers to ascend.
As they neared the base, a sharp crack of tension filled the air. Cheese’s eyes darted to the far side of the rubble, where a small figure appeared it was no taller than a child, moving swiftly from behind a pile of debris. The creature was quick, its movements erratic, but its purpose clear—it was aiming for them with a bow, drawing an arrow as it darted forward.
A flash of red words appeared above the creature's head as it took aim. [Goblin archer: apprentice], the interface read, glowing faintly. Cheese’s mind processed the label, instinctively noting the creature's rank and name.
The goblin released the arrow with a practiced motion, but before it could reach its target, Hald moved like a shadow. With a grunt, the older sergeant raised his broad shield, the massive surface meeting the arrow with a resounding thunk. The bolt was absorbed in the shield, rattling Hald but failing to harm him.
Cheese ducked instinctively as the arrow glanced off the shield, but Hald was already positioning himself to retaliate. The goblin, seemingly unfazed by its failed attack, retreated behind the rubble, but Bjorn’s warbow sang with deadly accuracy. The bolt struck the goblin in the chest, and it crumpled to the ground.
"Thank you, Hald," Cheese said quickly, his voice sincere. The old sergeant didn’t reply, offering only a grunt as he lowered his shield, his eyes already scanning for any other threats.
Cheese glanced back at the fallen goblin, its small form lying in the rubble. Above its lifeless body, the words [Goblin archer: apprentice] still lingered in his mind, but the interface quickly faded. What was a goblin? He wished he had time to think on it, but he knew they needed to act. So, cheese topped the walls and called for his men to follow him into the city.