William, walking beside the wagons with Fredric and the six adventurers, looked up as voices rose across the plain. The soldiers began tossing crates, tools, and furniture into the grass. Civilians hesitated, clutching at bundles as if letting go would tear away what was left of their lives.

  “Dump it?” Fredric watched a soldier heave a chest of kitchenware into the pile. “We already lost everything once.”

  William’s jaw tightened. The echo of Veylan’s earlier words drifted back through his thoughts. It has to be eight thousand goblins. He looked around at the weary remnants of the army; fewer than two thousand soldiers remained. Add the survivors of Brindlecross and Dunholme, another two thousand at most, and even if every man, woman, and child took up arms, they’d still be outnumbered two to one.

  If that horde reaches us before the walls of the next city, we’re done. He pushed the thought aside, watching as soldiers tried to calm a group of villagers arguing near one of the larger wagons. It wasn’t going well.

  A Dunholme merchant stood beside his wagon, a thickset man with a ring of gold around his neck and a fine velvet coat still caked in soot. His wagon was piled high with furniture, chests, and rolled carpets, while his wife and two children sat atop the heap like nervous birds. Not a single other soul rode with them.

  “I won’t abandon my livelihood for a pack of filthy peasants!” the man shouted, voice trembling with fury. “These are my goods, my horses, my wagon! Let the beggars walk!” He looked at the survivors with disdain. “They’ve done it this far!”

  A soldier tried to reason with him, but the merchant waved him off with the air of a man who’d never been told no. “I’ve paid my taxes and serve my lord.” He prodded the soldier in the chest with a finger. “You’ve no right to steal from me!”

  The argument drew attention. Civilians muttered under their breath, and soldiers shifted uneasily. Then the crowd parted as Commander Veylan rode forward, his blue cloak snapping in the wind. He dismounted with the slow, deliberate weight of a man who had long since lost patience.

  “Name?” he asked.

  The merchant puffed himself up. “Tomas Alder. Merchant Guild of Dunholme. My family and I are under the protection of the crown.”

  “Not here, you’re not,” Commander Veylan replied. His tone remained calm, but there was an edge beneath it; the sort that made hardened soldiers straighten. “You’ve got two choices, Master Alder. One: You empty this wagon and make room for people.” There was excited chatter at the prospect of an uppity merchant being forced to abandon his goods like a commoner. One glance across the crowd from Veylan silenced them. He continued. “Or two: you and your fine goods stay behind and take your chances when the horde catches up.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  There were shocked gasps from the onlookers at the mention of the warband catching them.

  The merchant’s face reddened. “You can’t order me to…”

  “I can.” Veylan cut him off. His voice rose, carrying across the camp. “And I will! This is not a trading caravan. This is a march for survival. Every wagon that carries furniture instead of lives is one less family that reaches safety.”

  Veylan continued, “Make the wrong decision, and you will be at the back of the convoy, and at nightfall, you and your wagon filled with trinkets will be forced to stay a mile from camp.” He glared down at the merchant. “You have thirty seconds to decide, Master Alder. I’ve no time for selfish fools.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd. Soldiers exchanged grim looks, and one began counting under his breath.

  Alder’s wife whispered to him, clutching one of the children close. His hands trembled as he looked between the Commander, the crowd, and his wagon filled with goods. “You’ll regret this, soldier!” he snapped. “I have friends in the capital. Important friends! They’ll hear of your arrogance; you’ll swing for this insult!”

  “Tell them.” Veylan turned away. “If you make it that far.”

  When Alder still didn’t move, the Commander gestured to a nearby unit. “Strip the wagon. Leave him what he can carry. The rest goes to the flames.”

  The soldiers moved fast, tossing out chairs, crates, and even a gilded mirror that shattered on the ground. Alder shouted, lunging to grab at them, but two soldiers held him back. His curses turned to sobs as he clutched a single chest, the one he’d decided was most valuable. His wife and children climbed down, their eyes cast down.

  William watched it all in silence. Around him, others whispered approval or pity.

  Fredric looked pale. “That was harsh.”

  “Harsh,” William replied, “but necessary.” He pointed at an ornate chair fit for a noble’s behind. It was in a pile ready to burn. “That’s another child like Bobby saved.” He glanced back towards Dunholme. If it really is eight thousand goblins. There won’t be room for mercy.

  His young squire nodded.

  ***

  The column had been moving for five hours since Veylan’s order, and still the road stretched on like a cruel joke across the plain. The red sun hung low, like a coin bleeding its dull light across the horizon. Dust clung to every surface. Even the wind had turned against them, carrying the sour scent of sweat and fear.

  William and the adventurers had taken position at the rear, a deliberate choice. If the horde caught up, they’d be the first line of defence. None of them said it aloud, but the thought weighed on every step. Will’s mana had recovered a couple of hours earlier, and he’d found an opportunity to replenish the others’ stamina at the cost of his regenerated mana.

  Hooves drummed the packed earth as scouts thundered by every so often. Some slowed as they passed by, their faces drawn and pale. Fred nudged William’s side and gaped as one of the horses came back blood-spattered, its rider’s armour was cracked, and he gripped a torn shoulder. He didn’t stop or even look at them, only muttered to another scout before riding on towards the front of the convoy.

  Chapter 048 [Side Quest: Save One Elf Child]