William woke early the next morning and scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, that’s new.” In the game, players didn’t grow stubble. He willed the hand mirror from his storage to appear. “For the love of all that’s holy. Why?”

  He stared at his reflection; his ridiculous blue goatee was growing back. “I need to buy a razor; I can’t be seen looking like this!”

  An hour later, a clean-shaven William and the elder had begun organising the villagers. The plan was to build a set of fortifications around the village to funnel most of the goblins into a single narrow kill zone.

  More wood was being cut from the edge of the forest to shore up the palisade surrounding Brindlecross and to allow archers to fire down at the attackers. One of the two openings to the village would be temporarily blocked by large logs, leaving only one access point.

  Concealed small and large spike traps were planned for the fields surrounding the village. Some were designed to maim feet, others would allow for a dozen goblins to run across them before collapsing into the spikes below. And if those failed, sharpened stakes would be placed strategically at natural choke points to slow any attackers and funnel them to the kill zone.

  Pits were already being dug around the outside of the village palisade; these would be filled with sharpened stakes, making for a nasty obstacle for any attackers who got that far. It wasn’t perfect, but with limited time and resources, it would at least give the defenders of Brindlecross a fighting chance.

  William paced the village square like a drill sergeant, assigning tasks and demonstrating to the farmers how to grip spears and work in teams. A lot of what he was showing them was tactics he’d recalled from guild wars he’d participated in during later game expansions; the rest was guessed or half-remembered from online videos.

  Grukk and the other crafters donated weapons and armour to the cause before working to produce more weapons. The plan was to equip every able-bodied man, woman, and teenager with a weapon.

  There were small victories. A teen boy who had never held more than a rake loosed an arrow that thudded true into a target post. A party of women carrying spears cheered as they managed to keep in formation while training. Yet resentment and blame festered.

  Garrick, the farmer whose son had fallen in the first raid, was the loudest voice of dissent. “It’s him,” he hissed to anyone who’d listen, jerking his chin in William’s direction. “Talk of shamans, cursed talismans. Mark my words, he’s calling the goblins down on us. The devil’s cursed us all!” He never confronted William, but his whispers spread like rot, making villagers hesitate when given orders.

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  By noon, the first survivors from other nearby villages stumbled into Brindlecross. A mule dragged a broken cart into the square, its eyes rolling with exhaustion. Men and women clung to the cart, their clothes caked with ash and dirt. Several orphaned children were bundled in the back, their small, tear-stained faces looked out with fear and apprehension.

  The villagers gathered in uneasy silence. William pushed forward and raised his hand. “You’re safe now,” his voice carrying across the square. “Brindlecross will shelter you. Food and water, quickly.”

  Some obeyed at once, bringing jugs of water and bread. Others hung back, glancing at William with suspicion.

  One of the new arrivals, an older woman, seized his gauntlet with surprising strength. “Bless you, Sir Knight. May the gods guide you.” Her gratitude warmed him for all of a heartbeat.

  Garrick shoved past; his eyes were red with fury. He spat at William’s boots. “Your cursed omens brought this down on us.” He stared at the old woman. “Keep your blessings, the old gods are gone, and in their place they’ve sent a cursed devil to trick us!” Garrick yelled as he melted back into the crowd.

  The words rippled through the onlookers. Some nodded while others looked away, unsure. Will stood still, his jaw tight. This isn’t going to end well. He could feel their grief and fear hunting for a target, and he made too easy a mark.

  By nightfall, the square was crowded with bedrolls, makeshift tents, and the hollow sounds of weeping. The stench of fear and sweat thickened the air. Brindlecross felt like a tinderbox of sparks just waiting for the right gust of wind.

  As William returned to the elder’s home for sleep, he found Master Nobby the runesmith fast asleep inside. He looked to the elder for an answer. The old man shrugged. “He insisted he had to speak with you, my lord.”

  At the noise, Nobby woke. “Finally.” He climbed down from the chair he’d been sleeping on. “I have to study the runes.” He put his hands out, expecting Will to hand the sword over.

  “What?” Will asked.

  “He truly is a slow one,” Nobby muttered, shaking his head. “Need. Sword. Study. Runes.”

  William shook his head. “You aren’t taking my sword anywhere.”

  The runesmith smiled. “That’s why I’m here. I’ll study the runes while you sleep. Here.” He pointed to the elder’s table.

  Will looked to the elder, who again shrugged. He took a minute to think about it. “I’ll agree… Under the conditions that you don’t damage the blade, and you’ll inform me of anything you find. I’d like to learn a little about runesmithing.”

  Nobby nodded and again put his hands out for the sword.

  “Are you alright with this?” Will asked the elder.

  The old man nodded. “Master Nobby is an important part of the village, my lord.”

  I guess a Master Runesmith is considered important. I wonder what his backstory is? Will unsheathed the blade and placed it on the table. “Don’t damage it. Don’t remove it from this room. Got it?”

  The runesmith was already examining the sword. “Yes. Yes.” He waved a dismissive hand. “We aren’t all simpletons who can’t understand simple instructions.” He drifted into his own world of runes while Will ate a delicious bowl of chicken soup before he got some much-needed rest.

  Chapter 019 [Day Two: The Adventurers]