As William pulled Fredric onto a wagon, the boy looked up at him. “Do you think we’ll make it to the city?”
William glanced north again. The faint glow was spreading along the horizon, not sunrise, but the reflection of distant firelight. “Yes!” He took a steadying breath. “Even if we have to fight every step of the way.”
The weary column moved forward. Behind them, makeshift pyres were lit, and the flames rose into the night, carrying with them the smoke of the fallen goblins and the warning of the horde that was still to come.
The column moved at a punishing pace, a ragged line of soldiers and survivors straining against exhaustion as the cold night air whipped across the plains. Every few minutes came the shout of an officer urging them to keep formation and to move faster. Armour clinked, boots dragged, and the distant sob of a child rose and fell beneath the endless rhythm of marching feet.
They’d been walking for more than an hour since the last battle, their strength held together only by desperation. Thrymwall lay four hours ahead, though, despite the speed at which they were moving, few believed they’d reach it without another fight. The glow of torches on the horizon burned brighter with every passing minute, a slow, crawling wall of fire that marked the pursuit of over five thousand goblins.
William glanced back and saw it too. At least there won’t be any trolls. Trolls would struggle to keep pace. The orange light rippled across the plains like a second sunrise, the kind that promised only blood if they stopped. He adjusted the sleeping elf girl on his shoulder, careful not to wake her. Her silver hair brushed against his cheek, light as cobwebs.
Fredric walked at his side, his limp almost gone since the priests had healed his leg, though the boy’s face was strained with fatigue. Will couldn’t afford the mana to restore stamina with a horde not far behind them.
“Still no sign of the city?” Fredric asked, his voice hoarse.
“Not yet.” William gestured in the general direction of the city. “But we’ll see the walls soon. Have faith; we’ll make it.” He hoped the words sounded convincing; he was even beginning to believe them.
***
The air was cold and sharp, and every breath stung his throat. All around them, the convoy had stretched thin, breaking into uneven clusters of soldiers and villagers. The wagons creaked under the weight of the young, old, and the injured, their wheels biting deep into the rutted earth.
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Horses snorted and stumbled, foam streaking their muzzles. Most of the cavalry were now on foot, leading their mounts, each animal carrying two passengers or pulling a wagon heavy with the defenceless. Even Commander Veylan had surrendered his horse to two women, choosing to march with the men.
Every few hundred paces, a cry went up as someone fell behind. Soldiers doubled back, helping them up and leading them to a wagon where they’d replace someone who still had a little more to give. There was no time to rest or mourn those who had died in the last battle or on the trail.
William’s boots squelched through a small patch of mud as he kept pace with the rear guard. He was nowhere near as tired as the others; he felt guilt that he couldn’t give everyone a stamina boost through [Light’s Mercy]. The elf girl’s small hands clutched the rim of his pauldron in her sleep, the weight of responsibility somehow easing his growing guilt.
“Sir Draven,” one of the soldiers called as he passed, breathless and pale. “Scouts say the horde’s closing. Two hours behind us at best.”
William nodded. “Understood.”
When the man was gone, Fredric frowned. “Two hours isn’t enough, is it?”
“Maybe.” William tone made it clear he didn’t believe it. “If we keep this pace, and luck is on our side.”
Up ahead, a soldier collapsed to his knees, his armour scraping the dirt. Two young women, a little older than Fredric, threw the soldier’s arms over their shoulders and half-carried him forward without a word. Others stumbled and kept going. The sound of the column was a living thing now, a mix of panting breaths, the creak of leather, and the dull beat of boots striking earth.
The line stretched onward, a coil of firelight and shadow weaving across the plains. The faint shimmer of the city’s protective wards was still nowhere to be seen.
As another cry of panic rippled through the rear, William looked back. The glow of torches behind them had multiplied, perhaps hundreds more since the last glance, and they were moving faster now. He could almost imagine the shapes between them, the glint of eyes, and the sway of rusty weapons.
“Two hours,” he whispered to himself. “If we’re lucky.”
Fredric looked up at him. “What happens if we’re not?”
William didn’t answer. He shifted the girl’s weight on his shoulder and kept walking as the line pressed on through the night, the fire behind them growing brighter with every step.
Up ahead, the adventurers moved in grim silence. Sibrek’s heavy axe rested across his back, and Amra’s bow rested on her shoulder as she helped a limping woman walk a little further. Pip darted from wagon to wagon, checking on the children, while Marie, Carl, and Brian walked with a group of villagers from Brindlecross. Even now, none of them complained. They knew another fight was coming; it was only a matter of when.
Another hour passed, and the night had grown colder. The column marched, and the sound of boots striking hard ground had dulled into a rhythm of exhaustion.
Then came the horn. One sharp note, followed by a second. Moments later, a scout galloped in from the darkness, his horse slick with sweat and foam. “Riders!” he gasped. “At least two hundred goblins on worgs! Twenty minutes out!”
The column rippled with movement as the words spread. Commander Veylan barked orders from the centre, his voice carrying over the night air. “Form ranks as we keep moving! Protect the civilians! Rearguard, prepare to engage!”
Chapter 053 [Raid Warning: Worg Riders’ Detected]
