Ibron stood over his old friend, Cheese, who knelt atop a mound of green and grey flesh and splintered bones. Blood and dirt streaked across Cheese’s scarred form, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Ibron’s chest tightened at the sight. He wanted nothing more than to let his friend rest, but he knew that wasn’t an option. Not now.

Elder Tompson approached slowly, his cane tapping softly against the blood-soaked ground. The chaos of battle still raged around them, but the elder seemed untouched, his focus sharp. Even so, the vigor Tompson had shown earlier was fading, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the day. Placing a firm hand on Ibron’s shoulder, he spoke in a low, urgent tone.

“Get him on his feet, lad. We’ve no time to waste.” His eyes flicked to the gates. “The work’s not done, and neither is he.”

Ibron hesitated, glancing at Cheese’s torn leg. The bone glinted through the ragged gash in his calf. How was the man even alive, let alone moving?

At Tompson’s signal, two boys rushed over, one of them Nold, the page assigned to Cheese. Together, they lifted the battered Bladesman to his feet. Cheese said nothing, though his face twisted into a grimace of pain. When he finally steadied himself, his bloodshot eyes locked onto the elder.

“You need tending,” Tompson said, his gaze dropping to Cheese’s mangled leg. “The enemy has pulled back for now, scouring the city. I’ve ordered the women and children to tend to the wounded. We must use this respite while we have it. Now, come.”

Without waiting for a response, Tompson turned and began walking briskly, his pace belying his age. Ibron and Nold supported Cheese as they followed, his weight heavy on their shoulders.

As they moved through the camp, the stench of blood and ash filled the air. People rushed past, their faces pale and weary. Ibron leaned closer to Cheese, his voice low.

“It was Captain Jean,” he muttered. “He ordered the fort abandoned. Left us open. I stayed behind with about half the town. Thought we’d hold what we could.”

Cheese grunted in acknowledgment, his focus elsewhere.

“We’ve lost a lot,” Ibron continued, his tone more somber now. “Maybe seventy good men left. Another forty if you count the elderly we can put on the walls. And fifty boys, young but willing.”

Cheese’s jaw tightened. “My mother—does she know?”

Ibron nodded. “She does. We’re taking you to her now. She’ll see to your leg, but you’ll be back on the wall before long.”

Cheese didn’t respond, just gave a weary shrug as they arrived at a large canvas tent. Inside, rows of makeshift tables stretched out, each one occupied by wounded men. The air was thick with the iron tang of blood, mingled with the sharp cries of the injured.

As Cheese entered, a hush fell over the tent. The women at the tables paused, their eyes fixed on him. For a brief moment, even the groans of the wounded seemed to fade. Then, as if shaken from a trance, the women returned to their work, the sounds of agony and frantic activity resuming.

Ibron tightened his grip on Cheese’s arm, guiding him forward. “She’ll fix you up,” he said quietly. “But after that… there’s no rest, friend. Not yet.”

Cheese nodded faintly, his gaze sweeping the room as he soaked in the death around him. So many had died today, it sickened him.

As Elder Tompson led Cheese to a table near the back of the tent, he gestured for Ibron and Nold to lay the injured man down. The table was hastily cleared, blood-stained cloth and tools swept aside to make room.

“Vanessa!” Tompson called, his voice cutting through the commotion.

A tall woman emerged from a cluster of workers, her presence commanding despite her simple, blood-smeared apron. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, revealing muscular forearms, and her dark hair was streaked with grey. She moved with urgency, but her face softened as her eyes met her son’s battered form.

“Cheese,” she said quietly, kneeling beside him. Her hand brushed his matted hair, and she leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I’m here, love. You’ve made it this far, but this will hurt.”

Cheese grunted, too exhausted to respond. Vanessa looked up, her tone turning sharp. “Hold him down. All of you.”

Ibron and Nold grabbed his arms, while another man from the tent stepped forward to press down on his uninjured leg. Vanessa’s fingers probed his knee, her jaw tightening as she examined the damage.

“Dislocated. Bone’s slipped out of place.” She glanced at Tompson, her expression grim. “I’ll set it, but it’ll bleed more when I do.”

“Do it quickly,” Tompson replied.

Vanessa nodded, her hands steady as she positioned herself. “Stay with me, Cheese,” she murmured before pulling hard and sharp on his leg.

There was a sickening pop, followed by a spray of blood. Cheese’s scream tore through the tent before his head slumped back, unconscious.

Vanessa worked quickly, her movements precise as she wrapped the leg in layers of bandages, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. By the time Cheese stirred, groaning as his eyes fluttered open, she was finishing her stitches.

“It’s done,” she said softly, her voice both relieved and firm. But her expression darkened as she turned to one of the women nearby. “Bring the iron.”

The assistant handed her a glowing metal rod, heated in a brazier near the center of the tent. Vanessa turned back to Cheese, who was watching her with bleary, pain-filled eyes.

“This will keep it from festering,” she said, her voice gentle but unyielding. “Bite down, son.”

Ibron pushed a thick piece of wood into Cheese’s mouth. He barely had time to brace himself before the iron was pressed against his leg.

The searing pain was immediate, a blinding agony that made Cheese convulse despite the men holding him down. He bit through the wood with a loud crack, the splinters cutting into his tongue as his scream turned into a choking sound. His body went limp, darkness swallowing him again.

When he woke, the tent was quieter, the chaos around him fading into the background hum of activity. His leg throbbed, the pain dulled by exhaustion. He could taste blood in his mouth. Vanessa was wiping his forehead with a damp cloth.

“You’re alive,” she said softly, her voice full of relief. “But you’ve done enough lying down.”

Elder Tompson stepped into view, his expression stern. “We must speak Bladesman. You’ve earned your rest, but there’s no time for it now.”

Cheese tried to sit up, his body screaming in protest. Vanessa placed a hand on his back helping lift him.

“Slowly,” she warned. “You’ll need your strength.”

Cheese nodded faintly, his head spinning as he rose. The battle wasn’t over—not for him, not for Timberbrook.

----------------------------------------

As they exited the tent, the crisp night air greeted them, heavy with the faint tang of smoke and blood. Cheese blinked, his vision adjusting to the darkness. The walls of the mill were ablaze with torchlight, their warm flicker casting long shadows over the town. He could hear the occasional shout from the guards stationed there, their vigilance palpable even from a distance.

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Elder Tompson led the way, his steps purposeful, while Ibron and Nold helped Cheese limp forward. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his body, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to falter.

“We’ve had about a hundred men filter back in throughout the day,” Tompson said quietly as they made their way up the path.

Cheese nodded faintly, though his mind was clouded with fatigue. His ears caught an eerie sound in the distance—low, rhythmic drumming, accompanied by faint, guttural singing. The direction was clear: Fairhaven was truly overrun.

“They’re celebrating,” Cheese muttered, his voice thick with disdain.

“Monsters,” Tompson said grimly. “Unnatural creatures. These… goblins, as you call them. I’ve heard of the orcs, brutish and savage. But these? They’re something else entirely. Not from the incursion—that much is certain.”

Cheese glanced at the elder, his brow furrowing. “Then where did they come from?”

“That, we don’t know. But we will find out.” Tompson’s tone brooked no argument, though his weariness was evident.

They reached the longhouse, its broad structure dark except for a faint glow spilling out through the cracks in the shutters. No guard was stationed at the entrance; every able-bodied man was on the walls. Tompson pushed the door open, and a wave of noise greeted them—voices raised in frantic conversation, mingled with the occasional wail of despair.

Inside, the longhouse was crowded with women, children, and the elderly, many of them refugees from Fairhaven. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the day pressing heavily on everyone. As Cheese was slowly guided to the front of the room, the noise subsided.

Then he saw him—Waff, his younger brother. The sight of him alive and whole hit Cheese like a blow to the chest, and he had to stop himself from breaking down.

“Waff,” he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The large man turned, his broad shoulders tense with exhaustion, and his face softened the moment he saw Cheese. Waff strode over and wrapped a strong arm around his brother, careful not to jostle him too much.

“You look like hell,” Waff said, a faint smile on his face despite the grief in his eyes.

Cheese managed a shaky chuckle. “Feel like it too.” He glanced around. “Where’s Char?”

Waff’s expression darkened, and his grip on Cheese tightened slightly. “We… we lost him. Pulled into the tide of goblins while we were fighting our way here.”

Cheese’s stomach sank, but something in Waff’s face gave him pause. Beneath the sorrow, there was a faint glimmer of hope—or denial.

“You think he’s gone,” Cheese said softly.

Waff looked away, his jaw clenched. “I don’t see how he could’ve made it. But…” He shook his head. “You know how Char is. If there’s a way, he’ll find it.”

Cheese nodded, though his chest felt hollow. Char was resourceful. He had to believe that.

The brothers sat together as Waff recounted the events. While he did a number of bedraggled men filtered into the seats, among them was a hangered Priest of the many gods. “After the blast, they came from the forest. Hundreds, maybe more. We fought as best we could, but there were too many. We had to fall back. When we reached the mill, the gates were under siege. We hit them from behind, smashed through, and fought our way inside. By the time we made it, you were already in the tent.”

Cheese listened intently, his mind piecing together the fragmented story.

“We need to strategize,” elder Tompson said. “Now.”

Cheese and Waff rose, then walked over and sank onto a bench at the head of the long table. Around them, men began to gather—some familiar, others strangers. Yet all bore the unmistakable signs of battle.

Tompson started listing their forces. “We have the original seventy men from Timberbrook, your five, Waff and his group—another hundred or so. That’s every able-bodied man we’ve got, just shy of 200. Then there are the elderly—forty, maybe fifty, who can stand guard if need be. And the boys—fifty or so between ten and fifteen. If we include everyone, even the wounded, we have, mayhap, 300 men.”

Cheese nodded, his mind already racing. The odds were slim, but Timberbrook wasn’t out yet.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, his voice steady despite the fatigue gnawing at him.

“Well,” said Tompson, his eyes fixed in the distance. “We have a watch. If you give the order to incorporate the men I listed, we’ll make three watches of 100 men each. They’ll work eight hours apiece, with eight hours of rest. A second hundred will remain on standby.”

Cheese nodded along. He wasn’t experienced in such matters, having never commanded before, so he simply agreed with the elder. Finally, he said, “Make it so.”

“And what,” asked Ibron, “is our plan? That’s the main issue. We need to decide what we’re going to do. We have food enough to last several months, perhaps a year. Are we simply to wait under siege until then?”

Cheese frowned. Gods, he was not meant for this. Luckily, Elder Tompson intervened. “It is simple. We do our duty. We failed in the assault; the city is not ours. That much is obvious. The King is on his way—your father saw to that, Bladesman. So we wait, and we ensure that when he arrives, we are here for him to command.”

Cheese nodded and asked, “When do we believe he’ll be here?”

Tompson’s face wrinkled as he said, “Mayhap a week or so. The roads should be clear, but it’s a long way from the capital. They were harassed, so if he and his guard come with haste, he might make it in slightly less.”

Cheese nodded and said loudly for all to hear, “It will fall not to the men to bear the worst of this, but to the women. I ask all of you to ensure, as you always have, that our men are prepared to fight.” He leveled his eyes on his mother, who stood beside the seamstress Vella. “To that task, I command you two. Mother, I ask that you take charge of the daily running of this fort. Master Vella, I ask that you ensure the men are roused on time for watch and that nothing impedes the quartermaster’s work.”

As he spoke, Cheese was astounded to see the two women actually curtsy to him—his own mother and a master of the weave.

He turned his eyes back to the table and the men seated there. “Elder,” he said simply to Tompson, “do we have a count of the enemy?”

Tompson’s expression darkened slightly as he nodded. “Yes. The guess is that they number some ten thousand. They appear to have left a token force inside the city after the assault—a thousand or so that didn’t escape.”

Cheese was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Ten thousand or a hundred thousand—it matters not. If they mean to take us, they’ll have a hard time of it. Do we know how they performed that magic?”

The elder shook his head, and as Cheese surveyed the men around him, he didn’t see even a flicker of an idea forming. Nevertheless, he pressed on. “It doesn’t matter. From what we’ve seen, they can’t use this skill at will. They need to prepare a trap, and we need to walk into it; otherwise, they wouldn’t have sacrificed their men.”

Nods of agreement spread around him as his words sank in. Cheese continued, “I’ll take the first watch. Elder Tompson, are you able to stand?”

The old man nodded. “Aye, I’m strong with a bow.”

Cheese clasped a hand on the old man’s shoulder with a smile, surprised by the feeling of coiled muscle beneath his touch. “Well then, you’ll take the mid-day watch into the early night. That leaves you, Waff, for the evening watch.”

Ibron cut in, “Bladesman, it isn’t his place. I’m the quartermaster; the responsibility falls to me.” Despite his words, Cheese could see the weight of responsibility pressing on his friend.

“Nay. Your duty as quartermaster is exactly that, Ibron. You must ensure the rations, weapons, and water keep flowing. I also task you with overseeing the training of the men.”

“Training?” Ibron asked skeptically.

“Yes, training. Just today, I gained more levels in my skills than I’ve ever known anyone to gain in a single day. The world has changed, and our men must grasp this power. If we intend to survive, we must grow stronger, my friend. So, when the men are on their downtime before their watch, if nothing presses them, I task you with overseeing their sparring and fitness. By the time the King arrives, I intend no man within these walls to have their main combat skill below 40.”

“Forty!” shouted Ibron incredulously. “Just a week ago, you were stuck at 14! How do you expect the men to attain such a level of expertise in so short a time? The ammunition alone for our bowmen makes such a thing impossible.”

Cheese nodded. “Aye, it’s true that not long ago I was at a wall, as were many of us. But that wall is gone, my friend. Before this quest is complete, I intend to be knocking on level 50—mark my words. Still, you’re correct. What are we to do about ammunition?”

At these words, a man stood up. He was older, similar in age to Elder Tompson, and raised a weary hand. “I may have a solution there, good sirs.”

Cheese nodded. “Speak.”

“My name is Floki. I am—or at least, in my youth, I was—a blacksmith. My son went out today, as did my grandsons. They won’t return. However, I still have some strength.” The man displayed his smithing stat, and Cheese let out a low whistle.

[Smithing: 37]

“My body has decayed in recent years, which is why I no longer tend the forge. Yet, recently, like many others, I’ve felt a return of strength. With one or two hands to help stoke the forge, I believe I can produce enough arrowheads to keep us going.”

Cheese nodded. “Very well, Floki. I’ve never seen you before. Where do you hail from?”

Floki smiled bitterly. “I was from Fairhaven, sire.”

Cheese paused, then asked, “Are there any other masters of Fairhaven who survived these events?”

Two women and a man came forward. Both women were seamstresses assisting with triage and stitching. The man, however, was exactly what they needed.

[Woodcarver: 37] His name was Green.

Cheese shook his head. “Green, why didn’t you present yourself?”

The middle-aged man looked confused. “What do you mean? I’m a master, or I was, but I’m a carver. My trade is trinkets. That’s hardly useful here.”

Cheese laughed. “No, man, you’re a woodcarver. You work with wood, and now you’re a fletcher. Have you ever made arrows before?”

“As a boy,” Green admitted. “But I’m no hand at it.”

“You’ll learn,” Cheese said with a smile. “You have plenty of material to practice on—this is a mill, after all.”

Laughter rippled through the room as Cheese brought the meeting to an end. Just then, a single blast from a horn echoed from the walls.