Cheese stood as quickly as his ruined leg would allow, his balance shaky and uncertain. Beside him, Waff rose as well, the lumbering man holding his younger brother under the armpit to steady him.
The men rushed toward the square, a chaotic tide surging toward the walls. Yet, amidst the clamor, they instinctively left room for the bladesman and his imposing companion.
As they approached the wall, a second horn sounded, its twin blasts reverberating through the keep. The call was unmistakable in its meaning. Men to the walls, battle imminent. The armies of the Kingdom used a straightforward signaling pattern: one blast for a sighting, two for an approaching enemy, and three for friendly reinforcements.
Cheese strained to hear, silently praying for a third note to follow the first two. But it didn’t come. His heart sank as the cold stone steps came into view. He climbed slowly, each step a fresh reminder of his injury, while men hurried past him in a blur.
When he reached the top, he was met with a grim sight. Two blasts meant an attack—but not their own battle, not yet. Before the keep, some two hundred men fled the western horizon, their horses galloping in desperation. The riders wore the colors of the county seat, their flight a disorganized panic.
Behind them came the enemy. Large, misshapen creatures bounded forward on all fours, their grotesque forms illuminated by the moonlight. Their hind legs replaced their forepaws in an unnatural, rhythmic gait. They outpaced the horses with terrifying ease, and occasionally a rider fell, disappearing beneath a writhing mass of claws and teeth.
Cheese’s hand twitched as he raised it, ready to order the gates open. But before he could give the command, another horn sounded—a lone blast, this time from the eastern wall.
Then came the unmistakable thrum of arrows in flight, followed by the screams of men. Cheese turned sharply, his eyes scanning the eastern horizon, where dim torchlight flickered in the distance. Between Fairhaven's walls and their own, shadows moved with purpose.
"Open the gates," Cheese commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. Turning to the man beside him, he added, "Elder Thompson, the wall is yours. Save as many of those men as you can, then close the gate."
Thompson’s eyes widened, but he nodded. Cheese locked eyes with the older man and said, softer now, "Do not let the enemy inside, no matter the cost. If it means giving those riders the mercy of death outside the walls, so be it. If they near the gate, throw them ropes. But do not, under any circumstances, let the horde in."
Thompson swallowed hard but bellowed the command: "OPEN THE GATES! BY ORDER OF THE BLADESMAN, OPEN THE GATES!"
With a lumbering creak, the great doors began to swing outward. Cheese turned to Waff and said, "Brother, take me to the eastern wall."
Waff didn’t hesitate. With a grunt, he scooped Cheese up and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Cheese groaned but bit back any complaints. Time was too precious, and dignity could wait.
The journey was a tense blur of noise—the screams of dying men, the clash of steel, the thunder of hooves echoing off the stone walls. By the time Waff deposited Cheese onto the eastern battlements, the younger man’s heart was pounding with urgency.
Cheese looked out over the moonlit field. The enemy was gathering just beyond the reach of their largest war bows. Orcs and goblins milled about, forming a rough line under torchlight. They snarled and shouted as larger figures—hobgoblins and something bigger still—pushed them into order.
Beside him, Waff bellowed, "OFFICERS TO ME!" His voice carried down the line, cutting through the disarray.
The men on the wall, most unequipped with the large war bows of the Fairhaven Guard, scrambled to find cover behind crenelations. Some milled about aimlessly, unsure of their roles.
A familiar figure approached—Mauren, the foreman of Cheese's father's mill. Above his head, the System displayed his skill: [Leadership: 21].
Cheese greeted him with relief. "So, Mauren, you're in command here?"
Mauren nodded. "I was told to hold the walls until you arrived. When the horn blew from the west, the goblins started gathering. I've got our best archers picking off their officers and torchbearers to disrupt them."
Cheese nodded approvingly. "Good. Make sure the men conserve their arrows. If the enemy disperses, tell them to stop firing unless they’re certain of their shots. We can’t waste ammunition on an open field."
Mauren saluted. "Yes, Bladesman."
Cheese winced at the title but said nothing. He turned to Waff, who was clearly hiding a grin. Before Cheese could snap at him, his page, Nold, appeared, carrying a folded cloth.
"What in the devil are you doing here?" Cheese snapped, glaring at the boy. "This is no place for you! You’re unarmored and—"
Nold interrupted, unfazed. "I’m twelve, sir, and you said the youngest were to join the battle." He held up the cloth with a grin. "Look! It’s perfect."
Cheese took it, unfolding the crimson fabric. On it was a deep yellow sunrise. Nold explained, "They said it’s the standard of the merchant families who founded Fairhaven. Mistress Vanessa told me your family has no crest, so I thought..." He trailed off nervously.
Cheese stared at the flag, emotions swirling. Finally, he said, "Thank you. See it mounted and bring it back. And get yourself a spear, helm, and shield. It wouldn’t do for my page to die in his first battle."
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Nold beamed and dashed off, leaving Cheese to turn back to the field. The enemy was shifting, pulling back. A massive creature—likely their leader—shoved its subordinates into order. Even from this distance, Cheese could feel its gaze. Their eyes locked, and an icy dread crept over him.
The creature waved a hand and disappeared into the shadows.
"Prepare the men," Cheese told Mauren. "Keep them sharp. I’m going down."
Mauren nodded and saluted Cheese before shouting orders and running along the walls. Cheese began the agonizingly slow limp down the stairs, his battered body protesting every step. Waff hovered nearby, his massive hands twitching as if ready to hoist Cheese over his shoulder again. Cheese waved him off with a glare.
“I’m walking,” Cheese growled through clenched teeth, though his pace was little more than a shuffle.
The square below, once crowded with tents and crude wooden shelters, was now eerily clear. The structures had been torn down or abandoned in the chaos, and survivors huddled in the longhouse. A grim silence hung in the air, broken only by distant shouts from the walls.
As Cheese approached the gathering of horsemen, a sergeant, identifiable by the stripes on his sleeve, intercepted him. Without a word, the man guided Cheese toward a tall figure astride a great white horse. The rider bore the sash of a general’s office, and his weathered face was streaked with blood and soot. Cheese recognized him instantly.
The man’s sharp eyes fixed on Cheese as he neared. “You,” he barked, his voice a rough edge. “Where is the man in charge of this keep?”
Cheese halted, taking a moment to size up the man before him. He appeared to be in his fifties, his stark white hair and long beard lending him an almost mythical presence. His armor bore fresh dents, and blood spotted his deep green tunic beneath the plate. Yet his horse stood calm and unscathed, a sharp contrast to its rider’s battle-worn appearance.
Cheese squared his shoulders, speaking in a measured tone. “Who is it I address?” The formality in his voice carried no deference, only professionalism.
The man’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling slightly as he evaluated Cheese’s bloodied and soot-streaked face. The brands on Cheese’s forearms caught his attention, and his expression shifted. He swore softly under his breath.
“Apologies,” the rider said, his tone tempered with realization. “You’re the boy from the gods’ audience, aren’t you?”
Cheese inclined his head but said nothing.
“I am the Baron of Gabrio,” the man continued. “A fishing settlement to the north. My count and king sent me here with word, but we were ambushed on the way by those hound-like beasts. I know your father—Rook, is he in command here?”
Cheese’s stomach twisted at the mention of his father. He shook his head. “No, my father is... not here,” he replied, his voice low.
The name Gabrio sparked recognition. Cheese had heard of the baron—a renowned mercenary from the mainland who had achieved mastery in five skills and reached level 45 in swordsmanship before retiring to Gelia. His father had spoken of him with respect, especially after the baron had purchased large shipments of lumber during the founding of his hamlet.
“We are honored by your presence, Baron,” Cheese said carefully. “What word do you bring?”
The baron dismounted; his movements slow but deliberate. “Well,” he began, his tone grim, “I bring the king’s command: Fairhaven is to be taken. But I see now that’s... unlikely.” His gaze swept the ruins and the haggard faces of the soldiers. “The king’s plan is to stage an exodus from the surrounding lands to Fairhaven. Your father was to ensure this was possible. What’s happened here?”
Cheese recounted the ambush and the explosion within Fairhaven’s walls. The baron listened intently, his frown deepening with each word. Finally, he nodded.
“I see. That tracks with what I feared.” He reached into his saddlebag and withdrew a small scroll, its surface covered in intricate runes. “The creatures that attacked us—they’re connected to this. It might explain their origin.”
Cheese took the scroll gingerly, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar script. After a moment, he sighed. “I know my numbers and common letters, but this is beyond me.”
The baron studied him for a moment, then nodded. “It’s an old script—one your father would likely recognize. It speaks of summoning rites and binding magic. Those beasts... they’re not natural. Someone, or something, is bringing them here.”
Cheese tightened his grip on the scroll, a cold knot forming in his chest. The baron’s words hung heavy in the air, their implications clear: the enemy was not merely attacking—they were orchestrating.
"To what end" he asked the Baron.
The baron shrugged. “Goblins and orcs are ancient creatures. They dwell in the western wastes, under the control of the Yasian Horde.”
Cheese blinked, the word catching him off guard. “Goblins?”
The old man nodded. “Yes. That text was found on a goblin in the capital. One of the king’s men—an adventurer from the old days—could read it. It’s marching orders and a contract. Strangely, it coincides with the System-imposed Incursion quest. When the quest ends, so will the contract... unless it’s completed before then. The creatures in the capital were instructed to assassinate the king within the timeframe. If they succeed, the contract allows them to remain. If they fail, they’ll be banished back to the wastes.”
Cheese frowned, his expression darkening. “Do you have any idea who might have the power to create such magic?”
The baron shook his head. “That’s why I brought it here. Your father had a skill—Observe. It was powerful, and we hoped it could reveal details about this scroll and some other artifacts.”
Cheese swore softly, his shoulders tensing. “I don’t have that skill,” he admitted. “And my father... he’s dead. We lost him in the assault.”
The baron’s face fell, his tone shifting. “I’m sorry for your loss. Is this all that remains of your forces?”
Cheese nodded. “Yes. And the city holds a garrison numbering in the thousands.”
The baron was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the ruined fortifications. Finally, he spoke. “Very well. What is your rank?”
Cheese hesitated, opening his mouth and closing it again before answering, “My father named me Bladesman. I... don’t know if it’s official.”
The baron chuckled, his sharp eyes studying Cheese’s posture. “Bladesman, is it?” He raised a brow. “Was it for killing the Incursion leader?”
Cheese nodded, and the baron let out a short laugh. “And have you any formal training in the art of war, boy?”
“Only what the militia gets,” Cheese replied with a shrug.
“Then you’re in luck, Bladesman,” the baron said, a wry smile curling his lips. “ I now grant you formal command of this... fortress.” He glanced around at the sparse defenses, his disdain evident. “If one can even call it that.”
Cheese stiffened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
“I also name you a Commander in my retinue,” the baron added with finality. Without waiting for a response, he turned and began striding toward the longhouse. Cheese, limping badly, struggled to keep up.
As they walked, the baron’s tone shifted to conversational. “Your leg—will you keep it?”
“I don’t know,” Cheese admitted. “I was unconscious until today. I’ll know more in time.”
The baron nodded, his green tunic swaying with each step. “Very well. My men and I will stay the night. Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”
Cheese gave a brief nod, his mind reeling as the baron strode into the longhouse. Turning to Waff, who was hovering nearby, Cheese muttered, “I’m finding a bed. I need the rest.”
Waff nodded in understanding, his massive frame a comforting presence as Cheese hobbled away to seek what little solace sleep could provide.