Goblins surged forward as the defenders braced for impact.

  “Continue preparing the wagons,” Veylan ordered.

  “Archers,” an officer ordered. “Loose!”

  The result was predictable; dozens of goblins fell. The rest continued their attack.

  “Brace for impact!” a sergeant warned. “Hold the line.”

  A few moments later, the goblins were impaled on pikes and spears; another seventy or so died in the first clash. And like before, the fighting became more splintered.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” William said to himself as he cut down another goblin to a [XP: +1] notification. The fight continued until all the goblins were dead at the loss of a further dozen or so soldiers and defenders.

  [Quest Complete: Protect the Convoy of Survivors]

  [Reputation Increase for The Kingdom of Mercia +200]

  [XP: +40]

  Dismissing the notification, William lowered his sword, the divine flames petering out as he cancelled the skill. His breath came heavy and uneven. Fredric leaned on his weapon, pale and shaking.

  “They fought hard.” Marie wiped her sword blade clean. “Too many for a scouting band.”

  William frowned, scanning the field. The dead goblins were small, underfed, and poorly armed. None of the heavier brutes, no orcs or trolls. It felt wrong, and he realised the problem. “They weren’t trying to win,” he said. “They were trying to slow us down, and it worked!”

  Sibrek grunted, spitting into the dirt. “What?”

  “They came knowing they’d die.” William clenched his fists in annoyance at not realising sooner. “There are no orcs or trolls. Just goblins. They’re a distraction. They bled us to make us stop and to keep us tired.” He looked north towards Dunholme, where the horizon was still dark. “The horde behind us is the real army.”

  Fredric swallowed hard. “You think it’s the eight thousand you heard about?”

  William nodded. “They’ll be closer now.” He wiped his blade clean on a fallen goblin’s tunic, then turned towards the Commander.

  Veylan stood nearby, overseeing the wounded. His face was grim but composed, eyes scanning the carnage.

  “Commander.” William strode up to him. “Have you got a minute? It’s important.”

  Veylan nodded. “What is it?”

  “These goblins weren’t here to fight. They were here to slow us down.” Will gestured towards the hundreds of dead goblins. “The lack of trolls and orcs proves it. This was a sacrifice to delay us.”

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  Veylan gazed towards the northern horizon, his jaw tightening. “I’m aware; we are being pursued by at least two more warbands. The closest is over five thousand strong and around an hour away.”

  “They’ll be on us by morning.” William glanced at the tired soldiers. “We can’t stop again. Not for anything.”

  The Commander gave a slow nod. “That’s the plan.” He turned to one of his officers. “We march as soon as the injured are loaded onto wagons.” During the battle, the convoy had continued to prepare the horses and wagons for a fighting retreat; over half the convoy was ready to leave. “We don’t have time to burn all the bodies. Burn as many as you can, deny the horde their meal. Every moment we waste, they gain ground.”

  The officer saluted and began barking orders, “Rally the troops! Hitch the wagons! Double-time!” He turned back to Commander Veylan. “What do we do about our dead, sir?” In total, another thirty soldiers and villagers had died in the attack.

  “I’ll carry five in my personal storage. Choose those with families. Prioritise burning the rest, but we can’t delay.” Veylan shook his head. This wasn’t how fallen soldiers were meant to be treated.

  While the weary army stirred once more, William remembered his storage space. Could I store dead bodies? He shuddered at the thought. “Commander, I have a storage space; I haven’t tested it with the dead, though.”

  Veylan’s eyes widened. “How much space?”

  “Around ten metres cubed,” Will replied.

  “Really?” The Commander looked shocked. “Only the King has that sort of personal space.”

  William realised his error. Early in-game, only high-level NPCs would have large bag spaces; players started with a few bag slots, which increased in number and size as they levelled.

  It was too late now. He nodded.

  “Please carry as many of the fallen as you can; you’ll be rewarded when we reach safety.” Veylan inclined his head.

  William received a notification.

  [Optional Quest: Deliver the Fallen Soldiers to the Nearest City for Respectful Burial]

  Will winced as he dismissed the notification. Even though this was a game, gaining a reward for doing the right thing didn’t sit right with him.

  Soldiers dragged the dead goblins to makeshift pyres, their faces blank from exhaustion. The wounded, who were not already healed by a priest, were loaded onto wagons, and the exhausted column began to form again.

  William placed a hand on the first dead soldier; the corpse had already been wrapped in a plain sheet, and patches of blood stained the death shroud. As he willed the body into storage, the air around his hand turned cold. A faint shimmer rippled through the air, followed by a low, drawn-out hum that made the hairs on his arms rise. Then the weight beneath his palm vanished.

  He staggered, shaken by how wrong it felt. It was as if the world had swallowed a soul instead of a body.

  “Hey!” a baldheaded soldier built like a siege tower yelled at him. “What are you doing?!” He stormed towards Will, with his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  William willed the corpse back onto the flattened grass, and the shimmer returned before the shrouded body reappeared with a soft thump. “Commander’s orders. I’m to store the dead for a proper funeral in the city.”

  The soldier’s hand and shoulders relaxed. “Good man. How many can you store?”

  Will glanced at the lines of dead, all respectfully wrapped in death shrouds. “All of them, I think.” Other than a book on runes from Master Nobby, a few weapons, a small amount of water, the single delicious [Slice of Strawberry Cake], and his vanity mirror, the storage space was empty. I’m such an idiot. I could’ve filled this with supplies.

  The soldier watched as Will stored almost three dozen dead. Each one vanished the same way, a shiver in the air, a whisper that only he seemed to hear, as though the act itself offended the natural order.

  “I’m Sergeant Wilson.” He shook Will’s hand with enthusiasm. “Find me when we reach Thrymwall; and thank you.”