The catkin rogue paused, her keen eyes scanning the discontent amongst the crowd. “They’re coming.” Pip wiped her damp fur. “A tide of goblins, bigger than any raid I’ve seen this far from the Wastes. There are war orcs and even trolls moving with them. They’ll be on us within three hours.”

  A gasp rippled through the crowd, grief twisting into pure, unrestrained fear. Women pulled their children closer, their faces pale, eyes wide with panic. Men gripped their spears until their knuckles turned white, as if the weapons alone could keep the fear at bay.

  “Only three hours?” William asked, stepping forward.

  She nodded. “No more.”

  “Were any of the orcs’ shamans?” Will asked.

  Pip’s tail flicked as she shook her head. “Couldn’t get close enough to see for sure. But the orcs are well-guarded. I saw goblin riders on worgs; there weren’t many, but you know how vicious they can be,”

  The elder struck his staff again. “Then the funeral ends here. Garrick’s soul will find its way to the underworld without us. Go, all of you. Hide the children, and prepare yourselves, for the night will test us.”

  Grumbling voices lingered, but the crowd began to disperse. Some of Garrick’s supporters remained kneeling by the pyre, their silhouettes bowed in mourning as the rest of the village surged into frantic motion. Garrick’s burning body was left alone with them, smoke curling into the sky while the first stars flickered awake.

  ***

  The village became a storm of noise and activity. Shouted orders clashed with the hammering of hasty, last-minute preparations of homes and food stores being boarded up. Dogs barked, carts rattled, and the clang of metal on wood rang as weapons were fetched from racks.

  The elder limped to the meeting hall with William and the adventurers at his side. Beneath the hall lay the only safe chamber they possessed: a half-forgotten store cellar now extended and reinforced into a crude bunker. The villagers crowded its entrance, desperate to push inside. Children wailed while old men clutched their wives’ hands in worry. Villagers and refugees begged for space.

  “There isn’t enough room.” The elder leaned on his staff. “Only the children, the infirm, and the helpless may be hidden here. The rest must stand with us. Stand with me.” The old man straightened his back the best he could. “I will not hide in the dark like a coward; I will fight and bleed with you. Who is with me?” The plan was to hide those who couldn’t fight, so even if Brindlecross fell, at least the children might survive.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Many villagers and refugees nodded in agreement and stepped back, but not all; a shout rose from the throng. “We were here before the rest. It’s our village and our cellar. Let the newcomers stay outside!”

  A chorus of agreement followed. “Aye. Our people first!”

  One of the refugees, a weather-worn man with hollow cheeks, cried back, “We bled on the road to reach this place and helped extend the bunker. Our children have just as much right to live as you!”

  The elder lifted his hand, but the crowd drowned him out. William stepped forward and raised his voice. “Enough of this cowardice!” His tone cut across the clamour. “There is no time for this. The goblins will not care who was born here and who wasn’t. If we fight amongst ourselves, then we are already dead.”

  Still, discontent simmered. Then came a sharp cry from the hall itself. “He’s trying to force his way in!”

  They turned to see a lanky young man scrambling at the cellar entrance, shoving past a mother with a babe in arms. He tried to duck inside before a few men pulled him back by the collar. The man kicked and cursed, his face wild with fear.

  “Please!” he screamed. “I don’t want to die out here. Let me in!”

  The mother he had shoved aside slapped him across the cheek. “You’d take my baby’s place, you filthy coward?”

  The young man collapsed to his knees, sobbing. “I just want to live. I-I’m not a fighter. I’m a scribe.”

  The elder’s staff struck the ground. “We will survive this night by standing with our kin and neighbours, side by side as men… and women.” He looked to the nervous crowd. “Not by hiding like mice, cowering in the dark while others bleed for us.” He stared at the young man, still on his knees, sobbing. “Be gone from the door.”

  The old man gestured towards a few men, who dragged the cowardly scribe through the crowd. The elder then looked at William and the adventurers. His voice trembled, yet he held it firm. “I need your help to settle this, my lord. These people will not listen to me alone. Stand with me, or the village will tear itself apart before the goblins even arrive.”

  William felt the weight of a hundred eyes upon them, some filled with hope, others with loathing. The fire from Garrick’s pyre still burned behind them, its smoke drifting into the night sky, mingling with the growing stench of fear.

  He raised his voice and stepped forward. “We have less than three hours to prepare, and those who shouldn’t be here are wasting our valuable time.” He drew his sword and rested its tip on the ground; the light caught the golden blade. “So anyone.” He took a few moments to scan the crowd. “And I do mean anyone who tries to enter the bunker who is able-bodied and capable of fighting, will feel my sword.” He stood tall. “There will be no trial. You will die at the end of my blade tonight.” He scanned the crowd again. For God’s sake, use your brains.

  A half dozen men who had supported Garrick clenched their fists around their weapons until they were white with anger and moved forward. At the same time, Fredric and the six adventurers stepped up beside William. Garrick’s supporters glanced at one another before taking a few steps back.

  Chapter 024 [Sir Bobby of Brindlecross, First of his Name]