ONCE UPON A TIME, in a land far, far away....
    "DIE, YOU FILTHY SON OF A SWAMP RAT!" screamed Shanrar, as he brought the head of his war hammer sweeping downwards.
    The quivering form beneath him raised it's arms in a vain effort to protect it's head.
    "Noooo-"
    CRUNCH!
    The hammer smashed into the goblin's skull. Bone splintered and blood was splashed in every conceivable direction.
    Shanrar lurched forward as another goblin pounced on to his back. There was a glint of steel as his attacker brought a knife around towards the warrior's chest. With lightning speed, he caught the creature by the wrist, in a cast-iron grip, then threw his head forward and sank his teeth into the fleshy hand.
    The small, green humanoid yelped with pain as it was tossed over the big man's shoulder.
    Still holding the goblin by the wrist, Shanrar brought his hammer downwards. Once, twice, three times, four, five.... Again and again he pounded the creature; each blow resounding with a sickening squelch..
    WHOOSH!
    An arrow shot past the warrior's face.
    "OW!" the big man cried, through gritted teeth.
    A trickle of blood ran down his cheek and across his mouth. The arrow had just nicked the bridge of his nose. He licked the blood from his lips, then turned around to see another goblin frantically trying to load a crossbow.
    "Take pot shots at me, will you?" the warrior roared. "I'll teach you a lesson, you gangrenous scum!"
    Stretching his arm back, the big man hurled his hammer towards the hapless target.
    THUD!
    The war hammer struck the goblin square in the chest, knocking it several feet through the air, before landing flat on it's back.
    "Ha, ha!" Shanrar laughed. "Bull's eye!"
    Clutching his chest, the little green man clambered to his knees, the wind knocked out of him. Suddenly he slid forward; his face grinding into the dirt as Shanrar's foot slammed into his rump.
    Grabbing the goblin by the hair, the big warrior jerked the smaller being back to it's knees. Slipping his hand into his boot, he pulled out a dagger and slid it across the creature's throat.  There was a spray of blood before the goblin's lifeless body slumped face-down into the mud.
    The tall warrior looked around; his teeth bared; goblin blood running from the edge of his mouth; his face contorted into a fearsome, insane snarl. All the goblins were dead - almost a score of them.
    Several feet away stood a coach - the two horses that pulled it now lay dead on the road, their bodies bristling with goblin arrows. On the ground by the vehicles wheels, were the bodies of Shanrar's travelling companions, and the coach driver.
    The big man walked over to them and studied the bodies for a moment: the coach driver was a rather portly old man, too out of shape to have put up much of a fight against so many attackers; a middle-aged woman and her young daughter, well dressed, most likely from a wealthy family; and finally, an expensively dressed young man, probably of noble blood, never done a hard day's work in his life. Shanrar recalled how the man had been bragging about how great a swordsman he was - trying to impress the girl, no doubt - but his jewelled-handled sword was stiill firmly sheathed at his belt.
    "I guess you couldn't live up to your boasts," scoffed Shanrar, prodding the man's corpse with his foot. "Didn't even draw your sword."
    The warrior knelt down by the body of the girl. She was at that strange age where she could no longer be described as a child, but was not yet a woman, and now she never would be. He stroked her cheek gently with his hand.
    "What a waste," he said, quietly. He moved his hands further down her body, and tore a strip from the bottom of her dress. Using the material, he wiped the blood from his dagger, before sliding the weapon back into his boot. He'd fought too many battles, and seen too many bodies to allow himself to be swayed by such a sight.
    The warrior rose to his feet and reached into the carriage to retrieve his belongings. Pulling out a large cloth bag, he slung it over his shoulder, picked up his war hammer, and headed on up the road.

"Please, stop!" cried the young woman, "you're going to kill him."
    Her brother lay curled up on the ground as the three ruffians kicked him, and stamped on his body.
    "That'll teach you to mess with us!" laughed one, stepping away from the others. He turned his attention towards the girl.
    "No! Please don't hurt me," she pleaded, backing up against a tree.
    "Hurt you?" said the man, in mock astonishment, "I'm not gonna hurt you, I'm gonna love you." He moved closer to her. "Now, let's see what delights you're hiding under them clothes," he sneered.
    "Please don't," she sobbed, turning away.
    Ignoring her cries, the thug reached out and grabbed the front of her dress-
    SCRUNCH!
    A splash of blood wet the girl's cheek as something pointed emerged from the man's face - a knife blade. His body slumped forward, falling against her. She quickly shoved it aside.
    The man's companions ceased beating the girl's brother and turned around to see why their friend had gone quiet.
    Before them stood a giant of a man - over six and a half feet of solid muscle, with a torso that looked as though it had been chiselled from rock. A mane of long, dark hair flowed down to his shoulders, and his hands rested upon a large war hammer.
    "That's no way to treat a lady," said Shanrar. "I can see that I'm going to have to teach you boys a lesson."
    "I don't know who you are, stranger," said one of the ruffians, drawing a sword, "but you just made a big mistake."
    "Not as big as the one you're about to make," the big man replied, with a smile.
    The thug charged forward, yelling and swinging his weapon, wildly.
    Shanrar raised his war hammer, and stood poised to defend himself.
    CRACK!
    The man dropped his sword and screamed with pain as the hammerhead struck his hand, shattering his fingers.
    THUD!
    The big man brought the shaft of his hammer up into the thug's jaw, sending him reeling to the ground. He stepped forward and placed his foot across the man's throat, then pressed down hard.
    Gasping and squirming, the thug began clawing at the warrior's boot, in a vain effort to shift the big man's weight.
    Wielding an axe, the last ruffian charged at Shanrar, but the warrior was too quick and easily side-stepped the attack. The man on the ground began taking in large gulps of air, with the pressure on his neck now gone.
    Shanrar turned; his eyes following the axe man closely. Quickly, he resumed his previous position, placing his foot back on the ruffian's throat.
    The axe-wielding thug came at him again. This time Shanrar stood his ground and, as the axe came swinging towards him, he thrust out his hand and caught it's shaft. Twisting it about, he turned the axe head upwards into the thug's stomach, cutting through his intestines, before embedding itself into his ribcage. The man managed a short, shrill cry before dropping to the ground.
    Shanrar looked down at the other ruffian beneath his foot. He had stopped moving - his faced had turned blue, and his eyees were rolled upward.... he was dead.
    Damn! thought Shanrar. I was just getting warmed up.
    The girl rushed over to her fallen brother, who lay in a crumpled heap on the ground.
    "Roderick?" she sobbed, trying to shake him into consciousness.
    The big man walked over and crouched down next to her. Reaching out, he placed his hand against the young man's neck, feeling for a pulse, then felt his chest to make sure that he was still breathing.
    "He'll live!" he exclaimed, calmly
    "Oh, thank you, sir!" said the girl, "thank you so much. My brother and I would surely have been killed if you hadn't come along. How can I ever repay you?"
    "Well," he replied, with a sly smile, "do you have any money on you?"
    The girl looked at him nervously - fearing that he was about to rob her.
    "Y-yes," she stuttered.
    "Good! Then you can buy me a hot meal and a flagon of ale, and we'll call it even."
    The girl let out a sigh of relief.
    "Done!" she said with a smile. "My village is just a mile up the road."
    "You'll have to carry my bag," he said, thrusting it into her arms. He slid his war hammer into the specially made sheath strapped to his back, then, bending down, he picked up the girl's unconscious brother and slung him over his shoulder. "Lead the way."

"Captain," said the goblin sergeant, talking to his superior, "one of our scouts has returned."
    "What does he have to report?" asked the captain, casually.
    Captain Graago was quite tall - at least by goblin standards, and from his appearance, it was apparent that he had seen many battles. A black cloth patch covered his left eye, and a deep scar ran from his right cheek down to his throat. Like the rest of his men, he wore dark brown, leather armour. Several medals were pinned upon his left breast.
    "His entire party were wiped out by a giant on the main road, three miles from here," said the sergeant, solemnly. "He says he was lucky to have got away to report back to us."
    "What?" replied Graago, shocked - he wasn't expecting that kind of news - then angry that he should lose so many troops to a single opponent. "Where did this giant come from?"
    "He was travelling in a coach which the scouting party intended to ambush and acquire for our purposes," the sergeant answered. "When they attacked, this giant leapt out and began to slaughter them."
    "And where is this giant now?" asked the captain, bitterly.
    "The scout saw him heading north, in the direction of Heartenville."
    "Heartenville?" Graago replied, growing angrier by the moment. "That's our target. If he gets there before us, he might warn them of our presence. Mobilise the men, quickly, we're moving out."

Shanrar was growing impatient - he'd been sat waiting at the Inn for sseveral hours. He and the girl had arrived in the village just before nightfall. After taking her brother to the local healer's house, they went onwards to the Inn. The girl had given the innkeeper a handful of coins to pay for the warrior's meal, before leaving to be with her brother.
    Before starting on his meal, Shanrar had told the innkeeper to fetch the local magistrate on a matter of great urgency. Since then he'd finished three square meals and five flagons of ale, and was still waiting. It was now getting late; he was tired, and his patience was growing thin.
    "Innkeeper," he roared, "go and find out what's keeping that damned magistrate. If he doesn't get here soon, it could be too late."
    The innkeeper was a short, plump man, who bore more than a passing resemblance to the barrel that rested behind the counter. With his receding hair line, he looked far older then his thirty years - probably due to the stress of running a busy inn.
    "I'm sorry sir," he said, his voice trembling, "but the magistrate is a very busy man. I'm sure that he'll be here as soon as he can."
    "Busy, my hide!" Shanrar bellowed. "Probably counting the gold in his fat purse, more like."
    A group of young men who had been sitting across the room, eyeing him all night, got up and approached the warrior.
    There were four of them; all of average height and build. Each wore a uniform and carried a sword at his belt. The  uniforms were pretty basic in design; black pants, black boots, green tunic, and a black waistcoat. There was a gold-coloured badge sewn onto the left breast of each waistcoat -  Shanrar couldn't make out the design.
    In addition to the uniform, the man at the head of the group also wore a gold-coloured sash about his waist, denoting him as the leader.
    "Easy there, friend!" said their leader, as he arrived at the warrior's table. He spoke softly, as though he were speaking to a child. "You're frightening the other customers."
    Shanrar was fed up with being kept waiting, and was in no mood to listen to this man's patronising tone.
    "And who would you be?" he asked. He already had a fair idea that these men were some kind of local law enforcement.
    "We're the local militia," said the young man, more harshly this time, "and if you don't quiet down and start showing some respect for the other customers, then we'll take you outside and teach you some manners."
    The big man laughed, and then rose to his feet. He was ready for a good fight.
    "You and who's army?" he mocked.
    The militia leader looked hesitantly to his comrades for a moment, and then-
    "GET HIM!" he yelled.
    All at once, the militiamen lunged forward and knocked the warrior off balance, sending him crashing to the floor. The wooden table he was sitting at split as the mens combined weight smashed against it.
    "AARGH!" screamed one of the men, quickly pulling himself from the struggle. Blood was gushing from what remained of his ear.
    A second man - the leader - was violently catapulted through the air, and landed against the bar with a crunch.
    Shanrar rolled to his knees, holding the two remaining men in headlocks. He increased the pressure, making them groan with pain.
    "I'll teach you not to pick fights with strangers," the big man laughed, rising to his feet, lifting the two men with him. Lack of air was causing them to lose consciousness. Once they'd stopped struggling, and their bodies had gone limp, he let them go. They slumped to the floor.
    Suddenly, the door of the inn swung open and two more militiamen stormed in. The first was a short, weak-looking man - little taller than a dwarf , but the second was a giant - even bigger than Shanrar.
    Grabbing hold of a chair, the small man swung it ahead of him as he approached the warrior. Shanrar responded with a hard punch which smashed the chair into a dozen pieces, and continued straight through the seat, stopping when it connected with the man's face; his nose shattered instantly under the force of the blow, sending a stream of blood from his nostrils before knocking him out.
    The second man lumbered forward. Shanrar quickly side-stepped him and sent him stumbling into a table with a hard forearm to the back. The table collapsed as the man landed on it, knocking the drinkers to the floor.
    Big, but slow, thought Shanrar.
    The giant militiaman hurried to his feet and let out a roar of rage as he charged at the warrior again. This time Shanrar stood his ground.
    There was a loud thud as the two men collided, and their arms embraced each other in powerful bear hugs which would have snapped lesser men in two. The inn was filled with grunts and groans as the two men wrestled and shoved each other about the room.
    Tables were upended, and onlookers who didn't shift quickly enough were trodden under foot. Neither man showed any sign of yielding to the other, in a fight were there were no holds barred. Biting, pinching, spitting, hair pulling, head butts, knees to the groin.... anything went.
    After what seemed like hours, the combatants tumbled to the floor, still keeping a firm grip of one another other.
    Eventually, Shanrar gained the upper hand and sat astride of his opponent's chest; his knees firmly planted across the man's arms, preventing him from moving. He grabbed the militiaman by the hair and began, repeatedly, to smash his head against the floor.
    THUD!
    "Got you!" growled the warrior, triumphantly.
    THUD!
    "Thought you could take me, did you?" he continued.
    THUD!
    "Well, you have to be tougher than that."
    THUD!
    "I've fought dozens of battles...."
    THUD!
    "taken on entire legions single-handed...."
    THUD!
    "it'll take more than a few lousy militiamen to-"
    CRACK!
    Shanrar's tirade was cut short by a swift blow to the back of his head.

Everything was dark.... dark and silent. It was like that for some time. Eventually, it began to get a little lighter; blurs of colour started to appear, and low, droning noises.
    Shanrar's head hurt. He lay still for a while on a cold, hard surface. After a few moments he was able to make out shapes, and movement, and voices, and.... something else. Black lines. Thick, vertical black lines. Bars. He was in a prison cell.
    The big man groaned as he forced himself up into a sitting position. His head was swimming.
    "Ah! The animal awakes!" came a sarcastic voice, cutting into his throbbing headache like a knife.
    Shanrar looked over at the man who had spoken. He looks familiar, he thought. It was the young rat's butt who'd started the fight at the inn.
    Groggily, the warrior hauled himself to his feet and looked around. His vision was beginning to clear, slightly. There were several other people in the room. One of them had a bandage wrapped about his head, with blood soaking through at the ear.
    "Where am I?" asked Shanrar, quietly.
    "You're in the village gaol," said the young militiaman, "behind bars where you belong.... where all wild animals belong, you savage!"
    The big man laughed.
    "There's no room for niceties and respect in a battle, boy," he said, mockingly. "You use whatever techniques you can to stay alive."
    The door to the gaol opened, letting in a shaft of light, as two more men entered the room - the first was the small man from the inn; the one who'd attacked him with a chair; his nose was badly swollen, and a large, black bruise was spread over most of his face. Behind him, strode a finely dressed, middle-aged man; he was of slim build, and his long, grey hair was tied back in a ponytail, held in place with a pale blue ribbon. He was dressed in rich purple and blue robes, with a gold medallion hanging about his neck. The medallion had some sort of crest upon it. What a ponce, thought Shanrar.
    "I am Lord Fulbridge," he spoke in a soft and effeminate voice, which aptly matched his appearance. "I am the village magistrate. I believe that you wished to speak with me, though I doubt that it was under these circumstances? I hope you realise how much trouble you are in? Firstly, there is the damage you have caused to our local inn, and then the matter of assaulting my militia, some of whom are sporting rather nasty inj-"
    "There's going to be a whole lot more trouble if you don't shut up and listen," the warrior cut in.
    "Well, I never!" said the magistrate, a little lost for words. "Don't you know that it is extremely bad manners to interrupt when one is speaki-"
    "There's a legion of goblins heading this way - if they aren't here already - and they aren't going to be bothered about such things as manners," said Shanrar, abruptly, once again interrupting the other man's speech.
    "Goblins?" said Lord Fulbridge, shocked at the thought.
    "I encountered an advance party on the road, a few miles south from here. They killed the people I was travelling with, but I made sure that none of them were able to report back."
    "Don't be ridiculous!" said the young militia leader. "A goblin army would never have got this far across the border; they'd have been spotted by border patrols days ago."
    "If you don't believe me," Shanrar replied, "why don't you send out a rider to check. I'm sure he'll come across the proof soon enough."
    "Not likely," said the militiaman. "I'm not sending one of my men off on a wild goose chase, just so that you can delay your punishment, and make fools out of us all." He turned to the magistrate. "I say we put him in the stocks and flog him 'til he begs for mercy, and then flog him some more."
    "Now, now, Jerrick!" said Fulbridge. "Perhaps you should send out a rider, just in case he is telling the truth."
    "But, father," the young man replied, "it'll be a waste of time, he's just trying to delay his punishment."
    "It won't take very long, son," said the magistrate, gently placing his hand on the young man's arm, trying to placate him, "and it would be best to be on the safe side."
    "Alright," said the young man, glaring at Shanrar. "But if he's lying, I'll flog him myself.... with a chain whip."
    The magistrate and militia leader turned and headed for the door. As they left, Jerrick barked an order to one of his men.
    "Keep a close eye on him, and don't, under any circumstances, open that cell door.... not even if he's dying. I don't want him to escape."
    He slammed the door closed behind him.

For the next few hours, Shanrar sat silently in his cell, watching his gaolers through the bars, with an unsettling smile upon his face. They eyed him nervously. He gathered that it was still quite early in the morning, as he listened to the sound of a horse and rider galloping away. They had sent a rider to check out his story after all, he thought. A while later the rider returned.
    Suddenly, there was a lot of commotion outside. He listened intently, and was able to pick out a few words from the frightened jumble of voices - 'goblins', 'woods', and 'surrounded' all featured prominently. Moments later the magistrate returned, bursting into the gaol; his son followed a few paces behind.
    "You were right," Fulbridge said to Shanrar, with an air of panic in his voice. "The woods are crawling with goblins; they're surrounding the village."
    "Hmm," murmured the big man, with a self-satisfied grin, "and what do you plan to do about it?"
    "Well, we.... er...." the magistrate hesitated.
    "We're going to evacuate the village," Jerrick stepped in. "My men are going to gather up all of the available wagons and horses, and then we'll head out on the north road."
    "Good luck to you then," laughed Shanrar, "you're going to need it, with a foolish plan like that."
    "What would you know, barbarian?" spat the young man, venomously.
    "I know that, by the time you've gathered all your people together, the goblins will have this place sewn up tighter than your breeches. They'll ambush you in the woods as soon as you try to leave, and slaughter you all, like a herd of cattle."
    "Oh, and what would you recommend?" Jerrick asked.
    "Well, first of all, I suggest you let me out of this cage, so that a real soldier can take charge. I can't very well mount a defence from in here."
    "You've got to be joking," the young man replied. "Do you think we're a bunch of idiots. You'll be away in the blink of an eye if we let you out of there."
    "Well, I don't see that you have many choices," the big man countered. "You could try your plan, and pray to the gods that the goblins are as stupid as you are; or you could try surrendering - but I'd best warn you, goblins don't usually take prisoners."
    "I think we ought to listen to him, Jerrick," said the magistrate. "He does appear to know what he's talking about."
    "You can't be serious, father!" screamed Jerrick, horrified at the thought. "You can't put this animal in command; I'm the head of the militia, I should be in charge."
    "I'm sorry, son," Fulbridge continued, "this gentleman does seem to be better qualified. Now, please release him."
    Grudgingly, the young man unhooked a small bunch of keys from his belt and proceeded to unlock the cell door.
    "He'll probably do a runner, or kill us all himself," he muttered.
    Shanrar rose to his feet and stepped out of his prison.
    "Right, first of all, I need to know what resources we have at our disposal - weapons, people, and skills. Then I need to know how many of those people can fight, or have had some form of military training."
    "We're a small, woodland village, a hundred miles from the nearest fort," Jerrick responded, sarcastically, "there are no fighters here.... just peasants, and farmers."
    "Well, what about you? You're the captain of the militia, surely you need some sort of military qualification to hold that position?" asked the big man.
    Jerrick was about to reply, but his father spoke first.
    "Not exactly," said Fulbridge. "As the local magistrate, it is left to my discretion to select the most suitable person for the job."
    "Then it looks like you're going to have to do," said Shanrar, looking at Jerrick. "Gather all the people together outside your village hall as quickly as you can; we still have most of the day to build some reasonable defences - the goblins haven't attacked yet, so iit's safe to assume that they won't attack 'til nightfall."
    "And,what makes you so sure of that?" asked Jerrick, unconvinced."
    "Because goblins are cave dwellers," the warrior replied. "They can see fair enough in the daylight, but even better in the dark; whereas we're the opposite - so they'll wait until nightfall to givve themselves the greatest advantage."
    "Alright then, I'll get the villagers rounded up," said the young man. He turned to the other militiamen, "come on, you lot, we've got work to do."
    A few moments later, the group had left, leaving Shanrar alone with the magistrate.
    "You must forgive my son's insolence, mister.... er, I'm sorry, I don't even know your name?" said Fulbridge.
    "Shanrar," replied the big man. "But, as this is now a military operation, and I'm in command, you can call me captain, or sir. Now, where did those fools put my hammer?"
    "Hammer?" asked Fulbridge, with a puzzled expression, not sure what the warrior was talking about.
    "No matter, I'll find it!"

It was mid-morning by the time Graago and his army reached Heartenville. His soldiers were tired and hungry - they'd been marching non-stop since the moment they'd decamped.
    "Morlok?" the captain called.
    Sergeant Morlok hurried up to his superior. "Yes sir?"
    "Have the men set up camp, and post two sentries every hundred yards, all the way around the village. We've already lost the element of surprise, so I'll be damned if I'm going to let any of them escape and bring reinforcements."
    Captain Graago was annoyed. Earlier that morning, a rider - presumably from Heartenville - had spotted them in the woods, and immmediately turned back to warn the village. He had hoped that this was going to be an easy victory for the goblin nation - slaughter the inhabitants of a small village deep in enemy territory, then burn it to the ground, and return home to a hero's welcome. Easy! But now everything was going wrong, and it was starting to get messy. The humans had been forewarned and, even now, were erecting barricades, and preparing for a fight. This wasn't how it was meant to happen.

It had been a long afternoon, and the sun was starting to retreat into the horizon. Shanrar stood upon the edge of  an upturned cart which formed part of the makeshift wall which had been hastily built about the village. He'd been surprised by the number of locals who could use a bow and arrow. Obviously, hunting was a favourite pastime for many of them. Proudly, he surveyed the defences that the people had constructed. Not bad for a bunch of yokels, he thought.
    Earlier that day, he had split the villagers - all one hundred and fifty of them - into five work parties. One group was put to work on building barricades and digging trenches around the outskirts of the village; another, smaller group, were placed as lookouts; a third group had the task of constructing more barricades and trenches toward the centre of the village; a fourth group was sent to gather up anything that could be used as weapons; and the last - mostly elderly men and women - were charged with providing refreshments to the others.
    The six youths who made up the local militia, under the guidance of their leader, Jerrick, were given the special task of setting up booby traps - both in the streets, and inside the houses.
    Once all the work was under way, Shanrar had managed to enter the woods and check out the enemy camp. It wasn't an easy task covering the open ground unnoticed, but he'd managed it. He estimated that there were approximately two hundred of them - all well armed. While doing this reconnaissance, he was able to get rid of a dozen of the goblin sentries and take there weapons. The villagers were still going to be outnumbered, but at least it would be by a dozen less.
    "We're going to need a lot of luck," he muttered to himself.
    "Pardon, sir?" asked Fulbridge, not quite catching what the big man had said. The magistrate was standing behind the cart. He had been appointed second in command, and seemed to have taken to the position easily.
    Shanrar stepped from the top of the barricade, landing on the dusty ground with a thud.
    "I hope the gods are smiling on us, because we're going to need all the help we can get."
    "I'm sure they are, sir," the magistrate replied. "Jerrick reports that all of the traps are in place, and have been set up precisely as you instructed."
    "Good!" the big man replied, "because we're not going to be able to hold them off out here for very  long.
    "Do you have a strategy, sir?" asked Fulbridge.
    "Of course!" he replied. "When the goblins attack, our archers will cut down as many as they can. It's not going to take the enemy long to reach the barricades once they leave the cover of the woods. Our people will probably have just enough time to fire two volleys, then we'll retreat back to the inner barricades, and let the traps do their work. We'll only enter into close combat when we have no other choice."
    "Excellent plan, sir!" said the magistrate. "Do you have any further orders for me, or may I take a rest?"
    "No," Shanrar replied. "Next you can go around the perimeter and make sure that all the archers are issued with pots of oil, rags, and torches. Have them soak the rags in the oil and wrap them around their arrows. On my signal, and not before, they are to light them, and fire them into the ground between the village and the woods. I want as much light out there as possible. But they're not to fire until my signal."
    "Understood, sir. And what will your signal be?" asked Fulbridge.
    "I'll fire a single, flaming arrow, straight up into the air. Once they see that, they're to light theirs and fire at will."
    "Will there be anything else after that sir?" said the magistrate. He was beginning to tire; he wasn't accustomed to such vigorous work.
    "After that," said Shanrar, "you can report back to me."

Over an hour had passed by the time Fulbridge returned. During that time Shanrar had been scanning the edge of the woods with his keen eyesight. The last of the daylight was almost gone; he could see very little, only flickers of movement in the shadows, but enough to see that the goblins were there, waiting to attack.
    "All the archers have been briefed, and are awaiting your signal," said Fulbridge, breathing heavily. Sweat was dripping from his brow; the exertion was starting to take its toll on him.
    "Now we wait," said Shanrar. He looked at the magistrate. The man looked as though he was about to collapse at any moment. "You'd better sit down and rest; gather your strength for the coming battle."
    "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" Fulbridge replied, slumping to the ground, with his back to the barricade.
    Moments later, Jerrick approached.
    "Right, I've got a dozen of our loudest citizens, and I've spread them out along the outer walls," he said, quite pleased with himself. "They shouldn't have any problems relaying our orders."
    "Are your men in position?" asked Shanrar.
    "They're behind the inner walls, manning the traps, like you instructed, and all of the elderly, and the women and children have been sent back to the village chapel; they should be safe in there, it's like a little fortress," Jerrick replied. "So, when are they going to attack?"
    "Don't be too eager for a battle, boy!" said the warrior. "You're outnumbered, and outclassed. If I was facing them alone, I'd have a better chance of success, with only myself to look out for.... but with you lot to worry about, it's going to be tough."
    "No need to worry about us!" exclaimed the young militia leader. "They're only goblins after all - small; weak. We've got size and strength on our side."
    "You may be bigger than they are, but goblins aren't as weak as you might think. They've also got the advantage of battle training - they're experienced fighters, which is more than can be said for this bunch of peasants and farmers. Half  of them are either too old or too young to be of any use in combat. Then there's that golden rule of battle - never underestimate your enemy."
    A look of annoyance passed over the younger man's face. He knew the big man was right, but he wasn't about to admit it, so he chose to remain silent instead.
    "Now that it's dark enough, the attack could come at any moment.... we'd best be ready," said Shanrar. "You there?" he shouted to a nearby archer. "Pass me your bow, and one of  those arrows."
    The man handed them over.
    Shanrar took a dozen steps back, to where a series of burning torches had been hammered into the ground. He placed the tip of the arrow into one of the flames. It ignited quickly. Notching the arrow, he leaned back and aimed the bow straight up.
    WHOOSH!
    The arrow shot into the air, glowing like a flare. Seconds later, other burning arrows followed suit, raining down on the open land surrounding the village. Small patches of illumination began to light up the darkness. Shanrar walked back to the barricade.
    "It's not perfect," he said, "but at least we'll see them coming."
    "A wonderful idea, sir!" said Fulbridge. "They'll not be able to creep up on us now."
    "Tell everyone to be alert," the warrior ordered, "they'll attack soon."
    "BE ALERT!" shouted Jerrick.
    The command was echoed along the barricade in a host of different voices.

"I've posted new sentries, sir!" said sergeant Morlok. "This time they're in groups of five, so they won't be overpowered again."
    Captain Graago stood quietly near the edge of the wood, looking out at the village, watching as burning arrows lit up the surrounding land.
    "Good!" he said, evenly. There was a long pause. "The humans are ready for us, waiting for us to attack; they know we're here, watching them; and now they have a good idea of how many of us there are."
    "It makes no difference, sir," the sergeant replied. "The battle might take longer, but the outcome will still be the same."
    Graago was lost deep in thought, contemplating the impending battle, not really listening to his subordinate.
    "Tell the men to rest," he said. "and have the sentries changed every four hours; we'll attack in the morning. Let the humans waste their energy, and their arrows."

Many hours passed, and an orange glow was beginning to appear on the horizon. The villagers had been on their guard all night, and now they could barely stay awake.
    Damn them! thought Shanrar. They've outwitted me.
    "What's happening?" yawned Fulbridge, rising to his feet after several uncomfortable hours sleep, propped up against the wagon. "Have they called off the attack?"
    "No," replied the warrior, bitterly. "They've turned the tables on us."
    "What do you mean, sir?" asked the magistrate.
    "I mean, they knew that we were ready for them and they've waited us out. While we've been awake all night, waiting for them to attack, they've been sleeping peacefully in their tents, saving their strength."
    "So they'll attack now, while our people are exhausted," Fulbridge offered.
    "Exactly!" said Shanrar.
    The sound of a horn cut the conversation short, and brought the weary villagers jumping to their senses.
    Shanrar focused his attention on the edge of the woods..
    "ARCHERS READY!" he roared.
    It was a few seconds before the command echoed around the village.
    The first group of goblins charged from the trees, they moved swiftly across the grass; their bodies low; shields and weapons raised in readiness.
    "FIRE!" shouted Shanrar.
    Again, the command was relayed around the perimeter, and a volley of arrows shot into the air. A score of goblins fell as the arrows rained down on them, but the rest managed to take shelter behind their shields. They stopped momentarily, until the danger had passed, then moved onwards as a second group emerged from the trees.
    "QUICK! RELOAD AND FIRE AGAIN!" bellowed the warrior, eager to take advantage of the enemy's brief pause.
    Another volley of arrows was launched, felling more goblins, although not as many as the first.
    "EVERYONE, BACK TO THE INNER BARRICADE!" the big man shouted, signalling the people to retreat.
    While the villagers quickly did as they were ordered, and headed back into the village, Shanrar grabbed one of the torches he had used on the previous night, then, with his war hammer firmly gripped in his other hand, he stepped over the barricade.
    Several goblins had already reached the edge of the village, and wasted no time in setting about the warrior.
    CRACK!
    The first was despatched with a heavy blow to the head.
    FIZZ!
    A second screamed as the burning torch was thrust into his face; in moments his head was engulfed in flames.
    THUMP!
    A swift kick to the chest sent another one sprawling.
    Shanrar tossed the torch into a trench that had been dug around the village. Their was a loud roar as a sheet of fire rose up from the ground. Painful screams followed as a handful of goblins were caught by the flames. The warrior leapt back over the barricade and headed toward the inner defences.
    A few goblins had already made it into the village. Some lay dead - killed by archers, while others were engaged in combat with groups of villagers. At the moment, the villagers had the advantage of numbers, but that would soon change as more of them broke through.
    Shanrar's keen hearing detected a faint, but familiar whistling sound, and he quickly dove for cover. An instant later, a hail of arrows fell upon the village, killing more than a dozen people - both humans and goblins.
    Moments afterwards, when the arrows had stopped, Shanrar jumped to his feet and continued on. Soon he was behind the second barricade with Lord Fulbridge and Jerrick by his side.
    "Light the trenches," he ordered.
    Jerrick relayed the command around the village, and oil-filled trenches that had been dug across all of the inward roads were set alight.
    "That should slow them down," said the big man, "and, with any luck, reduce their numbers by a good many more!"
    That was the first of several traps and defences that Shanrar had hastily devised. Behind each burning trench was a pit full of spikes and other sharp implements. Sheets had been laid over each pit, and lightly pegged in place to conceal them. A gentle covering of dust completed the camouflage.
    Standing atop of tables and wooden boxes, the archers were able to pick off a few more goblins as they approached the flaming pits. More villagers lost their lives when the enemy returned fire.
    All of the goblin forces were now in the village, regrouping behind the buildings, planning their next move.... and then it came.
    A stream of arrows came shooting through the flames, catching many of the villagers off guard, while others rushed for cover. Next, a horde of goblins came jumping through the flames. These hapless troops quickly disappeared into the spike-filled pits. Dozens died before the enemy realised what had happened and sounded a retreat.
    "Ha!" laughed Jerrick, triumphantly. "That showed them! We've got them on the run, now!"
    A cheer rose up from the people.
    "SILENCE!" snapped Shanrar, grabbing the young man by the tunic. "We haven't won yet. They'll be regrouping and revising their plan of attack."
    Jerrick pulled free of the big man's grip.
    "Well, maybe they'll decide that we're too much trouble, and clear out," he said.
    "I doubt that very much," said the warrior, "but it does give us a bit of breathing space. Go and find out how many casualties we've taken, and roughly how many they enemy have taken."
    The young militiaman grunted an indiscernible reply before heading off.
    "That boy of yours wouldn't last a week in a real army," Shanrar said to Fulbridge. "He's got no respect for his superiors."

The goblins waited behind the buildings, just outside of the inner barricades. Their forces were spread out in small groups, surrounding the centre of the village.
    Captain Graago was pondering his next course of action. The initial attack has cost him far too many men. Having seriously underestimated the humans, he'd been forced to retreat - he didn't intend to do so again.
    "Sir, he's here," said Sergeant Morlok, excitedly.
    "Who?" the captain replied.
    "The giant who killed our scouting party," Morlok continued. "He's here in the village. I think he's leading the humans."
    "Damn!" exclaimed Graago, angrily. "That explains why they were so well prepared; he's the one responsible for all this trouble; he must be a soldier of some kind."
    "He'll be a dead soldier by the time we've finished with him, sir," said the sergeant.
    "Yes, he will, but for the moment he's not our immediate problem. We need to break through their barricades. Now, I have got some ideas...."

It was over an hour before the goblins made their next move. During that time Shanrar had had time to evaluate the villagers position. The inner barricades were still holding strong, but the villagers themselves had fared less well - having suffered about thirty dead, and more than a dozen others were wounded, but Jerrick estimated that the goblins had lost twice that many, so that was some consolation.
    The warrior crouched in readiness, listening intently for any sound of activity beyond the makeshift walls.
    "THEY'RE COMING!" shouted a lookout. "THEY'RE ON THE ROOFTOPS!"
    Shanrar promptly scaled a ladder that had been set against a nearby building. Hauling himself onto the roof, he looked around to see what the enemy was up to.
    About forty goblins were slowly making their way across the tops of the adjacent houses. He had anticipated this action, and had prepared a few unpleasant surprises for them. A variety of furniture and other objects had been broken up and placed in heaps along the rooftops, making it more difficult for the enemy to cross.
    CRASH!
    A group of goblins disappeared in a cloud of dust as a section of roof gave way. More crashes followed, and more goblins vanished. Several of the roofs had been purposely weakened, and an assortment of sharp implements had been positioned beneath them.
    Despite these traps, the goblins were unperturbed and continued to advance. Shanrar dropped back down into the street.
    "They aren't retreating this time, but those traps should certainly slow them down," he said, talking to Fulbridge.
    A scream arose from one of the houses just beyond the barricade. The goblins had started to make their way through the buildings, smashing their way through the adjoining walls. It sounded as though one of them had stumbled into another booby trap.
    Numerous devices had been set up within the buildings - most of them were activated by trip wires, and involved spikes, crossbows, and an assortment of long, sharp blades.
    "Get some archers on those rooftops," the warrior commanded.
    "Right away, sir!" Fulbridge replied, before turning away.
    Shanrar reached out and grabbed the magistrate by the robe, yanking him back.
    "And while you're doing that, round up a dozen of your strongest men and bring them t-"
    WHIZZ! THUD!
    A burning arrow passed within inches of Shanrar's face, before embedding itself in a wooden door frame.
    "Hell!" the big man exclaimed, as more arrows shot by. "TAKE COVER!"
    Once more, everyone rushed for shelter. A few - those who were too slow, or just unlucky - were cut down by the flaming missiles.. Some were killed instantly, while others screamed in agony as the fire burned away at their innards.
    Suddenly, another cry filled the air. This time it was a battle cry, as the goblins launched another assault on the barricades.
    Shanrar looked toward the fire pit, but could see very little beyond the fiery wall. Soon he was able to detect some movement as a group of goblins approached, carrying something.
    A large wooden object was thrown through the fire and landed with a thud. It looked like the body of a cart, but now it acted as a bridge, spanning both the flames, and the spike pit. A horde of goblins quickly rushed across, and were soon clambering over the barricades.
    Villagers emerged from their cover and began fighting them off, but then more goblins began to drop down from the rooftops.
    The big man launched himself into the thick of the battle, with his trusty war hammer in hand. Skulls were smashed, and ribcages shattered, but still the enemy came forth. The villagers were being forced to retreat - assailed on all fronts, they were being backed further and further into the village, with no way to escape.
    "RETREAT TO THE CHAPEL!" yelled Shanrar.

The chapel was at the heart of the village, situated in the village square. It was a small, but sturdy building, with thick stone walls, and little battlements along it's roof.
    Shanrar fought his way through the goblin forces, leaving a trail of bodies, in an orgy of bloodlust and violence that would have shocked the devil himself. By the time he reached the refuge of the chapel, there were only seventy or so villagers still standing, and two thirds of those were children and elders. Fulbridge and Jerrick were among the survivors.
    "Bar the doors, quickly," he bellowed, "and shutter those windows."
    "Oh my lord, we're all going to be killed," blurted Fulbridge, pathetically. "There's nowhere else to run. We're trapped!"
    Shanrar grabbed the magistrate by the collar and lifted him off the ground.
    "Stop your whining, you pompous...." The warrior searched for a word, but could find none - he was too caught up in the excitement of battle, unable to focus his mind on such trivial things as insults. He looked around at the children, huddled next to their mothers and grandparents. "These children have more courage than you," he said, dropping Fulbridge to the floor. "Pull yourself together, man!"
    "Hey!" said Jerrick sharply, shoving the big man with his hand, "that's my father you're pushing around. If you want to fight him, then you're going to have to fight me first."
    "Don't tempt me, boy," laughed the warrior, "or I might just oblige you. Anyhow, we have more pressing matters at hand."
    "My father's right," said the young militia leader. "We're beaten. We can't escape from here, and there's an army of goblins waiting for us outside."
    "You people give up too easily. Things aren't always as bad as they first appear," Shanrar replied. "We can still win this battle."
    "How?" asked Jerrick, incredulously. "There are barely thirty of us who can still fight."
    "That's not good, but it might still be enough," said the warrior. "I did a quick head count while I was working my way back here, and I estimate that there are only about eighty of them left out there."
    "Eighty?"  said Jerrick. "They still outnumber us more than two to one."
    "Yes, but we don't have to defeat them all," the big man continued, "just inflict a few more casualties. They'll be ready to retreat soon; they've already lost half their army."
    "And what if you're wrong?" the young man replied.
    "I won't be wrong," said Shanrar.
    "Like you weren't wrong when you said the goblins would attack during the night?"
    The warrior fixed the young man in a glare that would have split a rock.
    "Anyhow," Jerrick continued, averting his eyes from the big man, "if we open those doors now, they'll pour in here and we won't stand a chance. There's barely enough room to move, yet alone fight."
    "Well, we'll have to clear them away from the doors before we open them," the big man went on. "How many archers do we have left?"
    Jerrick looked around.
    "Archers raise your hands," he said.
    Two hands rose into the air.
    "Hmm," mused Shanrar. "I was hoping for a few more than that - half a dozen at least. But, not to worry! I'll just have to revise my plan a little."
    "What is your plan?" the young militiaman asked.
    "I'll go up on the roof - I assume there's a hatch leading on to it?" explained Shanrar. Jerrick nodded. "The archers, and a handful of elders will come with me. We'll need all the small objects we can lay our hands on to use as missiles - the sharper the better. The archers will pick off as many of  the enemy as possible while the elders can pelt them with missiles."
    "And what then?" asked Jerrick.
    "That should send them running for cover. When they're spread out enough, I'll jump down into the square and clear any stragglers away from the doors and then, when I give you the all clear, you throw open the doors and lead the rest of our men out."
    "That's the most suicidal plan I've ever heard!" exclaimed the young man.
    THUMP!
    Something heavy smashed against the doors.
    "Perhaps," Shanrar replied, "but those doors aren't going to hold them off for very long. At least my way, we'll be taking the fight to them."
    "Alright," said Jerrick. "It's insane, but I'm with you."
    "Good," answered the big man, "then let's get started."
    "Right, everyone," the young militiaman called, turning to face the people, "grab anything that can be used as a missile and start passing them up to the roof."

"BREAK DOWN THOSE DOORS!" screamed Captain Graago, half crazed with rage.  "I want them all dead.... and I want that giant's head on a spike."
    The goblin captain was infuriated. He'd lost more then half of his men, in what should have been, a straight forward pillage and slaughter mission.
    "Morlok! Take a group of men, and go and find some ladders. Then get up on that roof and dig your way in," he said to his sergeant. "This battle's gone on long enough - it's going to end, and it's going to end now!"

Before long, Shanrar and a handful of villagers emerged onto the chapel roof, carrying buckets and sacks loaded with ammunition. The roof rose to an apex at the centre. Fortunately, the slope was quite shallow, so it wasn't too difficult to traverse; the mock battlements along the roof's edge provided them with further cover.
    The group crept carefully down the incline, and then crouched low behind the battlements, while more sacks of ammunition were gently lowered down to them from the hatch by rope.
    "Everyone spread out," whispered Shanrar, "and wait for my command."
    The villagers did as they were told, and a few moments later they were all in position.
    "NOW!" shouted the warrior.
    Rising to their knees, the archers loosed their arrows, while the elders began hurling their missiles at any goblin they could see.
    A few of the goblins - caught off guard - were killed by the arrows, while others bolted for cover from the hail of objects that were being rained down on them.
    "Keep it up, men," said Shanrar, standing upright, his hammer firmly gripped in his right hand, and a dagger in his left. Giving a fearsome cry he launched himself over the battlements.
    CRUNCH!
    The warrior landed with a thud, bringing the shaft of his hammer down onto a goblin's skull.
    SWISH!
    Another goblin went down, with Shanrar's dagger firmly embedded in it's chest.
    The big man roared defiantly as three more green-skinned enemies charged at him with their weapons drawn. Swinging his hammer outward, he easily knocked the sword from the first and  then, quickly side-stepping him, slipped his muscular arm around the goblin's neck.
    CRACK!
    The unfortunate creature slumped to it's knees with it's neck broken but, even before its lifeless body hit the ground, Shanrar had spun about and struck the second attacker.
    A jarring blow to the shoulder sent the small goblin crashing into the dirt, screaming in agony. Gripping his hammer in both hands, the big man brought it sweeping downward, ending the creatures pain with a sickening squelch.
    The third goblin stopped in his tracks after witnessing the merciless fury of his opponent. Shanrar glared at him; his teeth bared in an evil grimace, and the creature backed away nervously.
    SPLAT!
    An arrow shot downward from the chapel roof, piercing the goblin's throat. Blood gushed as the arrowhead emerged from the back of it's neck. It's eyes opened wide in a final moment of fear before it fell dead.
    Shanrar worked his way around to the chapel entrance, despatching the few enemy who hadn't fled for cover. When he reached the door there were six goblins waiting for him. Their makeshift battering ram lay on the ground, but they were close enough to the building to be shielded from the archers. They drew their swords and readied themselves for his attack.
    "CLEAR!" bellowed the warrior.
    At Shanrar's command the chapel doors were thrown open, and a score of villagers rushed outward.
    Taken by surprise, the goblins tried to flee. One was felled by an arrow; another two headed straight for Shanrar and were quickly disposed of; the other three moved too slowly, and were lanced with an assortment of farming tools before they could escape the chapel entrance.
    Shanrar quickly scanned the area. The goblins had scattered in several directions. He turned to Jerrick.
    "Take six men and guard this door. If the enemy returns, then hold them off for as long as you can, then retreat inside and bar the door again. The rest of you come with me."
    The big man headed in the direction of a nearby street, where, a few moments earlier, he'd seen a small group of goblins flee. More than a dozen villagers followed after him.
    They had no sooner rounded the corner when they came face to face with the waiting enemy. The ensuing battle was fierce and bloody, with the two forces roughly equal in numbers, and with Shanrar's battle fury more than compensating for the villagers weariness and lack of combat experience.
    Shanrar took on the bulk of the enemy, quickly despatching each one with his superior strength and speed, while the villagers attacked in groups in an effort to overpower their opponents.
    For a short while their tactics were working. The big warrior had taken out almost a dozen of the goblins single-handed, while the villagers had cut down several more. Four villagers were killed during the struggle, and a few others suffered serious wounds.
    Suddenly, another group of goblins came charging towards them from another street. They were only a small group, but there were enough of them to outfight the weary villagers.
    "FALL BACK!" Shanrar yelled.
    Not needing to be told twice, the villagers quickly retreated. Breaking away from the fight, they dragged their wounded back towards the chapel, while their leader stood his ground, buying them a little more time.
    The goblins rushed forward with their swords and shields raised.
    Shanrar leapt into the thick of them, bringing the shaft of his war hammer up to parry their attacks. Within seconds four of them were knocked to the ground.
    CRUNCH!
    The butt of the warriors hammer was thrust into a small green face, shattering it's nose and cheek bones, sending the creature staggering backwards, then a second blow put it face down in the dirt.
    Another goblin sprang on to Shanrar's back, pulling the warriors hair with one hand while trying to throttle him with the other.
    Incensed, the big man shook and jerked his body violently, intent on dislodging his attacker.
    "Get off me, scum!" he snarled through gritted teeth, as he crashed back-first into a nearby wall. The goblin gasped under the crushing impact. but still maintained it's grip.
    SWISH!
    A sword slashed the big man's arm, leaving behind a long, thin wound.
    Shanrar screamed with rage, swinging his hammer upwards.
    CRACK!
    The hammer connected with a goblins jaw, sending up a fountain of blood and teeth.
    "AARRGH!" Shanrar screamed again, this time in pain, as the goblin on his back began biting into his scalp. Throwing his hammer down in a fit of rage, he reached up with both hands, grabbing the creature by the head, and yanking it from his back. He slammed it hard into the ground.
    CRUNCH!
    The warrior brought his foot down on the goblin's face.
    "Trying to eat me, were you?" he snarled, stamping down again. "Well, no one eats Shanrar!"
    The big man stamped on his victims face several more times before retrieving his hammer, leaving the creature's head as little more than a bloody pulp.
    Shanrar looked about him - all had gone still. The goblins had fallen back and regrouped. They now stood in a line several yards away, facing him - a dozen of them. Moments later, a second group appeared behind him, blocking his escape. The warrior picked up a discarded sword and slipped it into his belt - it was a short sword, but then, goblins were short people - then he picked up another.
    With the sword in one hand and his hammer in the other, Shanrar backed up to a nearby wall. There was a window opposite him - its shutters were closed.
    "Come on then, you swamp dogs!" he mocked, "come and taste my steel!"
    From both sides the goblins edged forward, well aware of their opponents fighting prowess, and none of them wanting to be the first to engage him in combat.
    Spotting their reluctance to attack, Shanrar gave a malevolent grin. He glanced quickly over his enemies, trying to pick out their leader, and then, with lightning speed, he threw the sword.
    The blade embedded itself in the unlucky target's chest, with such force that the creature fell backwards, impaling a second goblin in the process.
    Raising his hammer, Shanrar charged at the enemy like a hurricane. Most of the goblins scattered as the big man lunged towards them, though a few of them were too slow.
    THWACK!
    A hammer blow to the throat lifted the first goblin off the ground, almost knocking it's head from it's shoulders.
    THUD!
    A swift kick to the stomach stopped a second one dead in it's tracks, leaving it lying in the road in a crumpled heap, gasping for breath.
    The other goblins came about, quickly closing in for the attack. Seeing them, Shanrar made a dash for the window. He held his hammer ahead of him, as he dived through the shutters, sending splinters of wood in all directions. Landing in a ball on the floor, he quickly rolled to his feet - just in time to catch a goblin following him through the window.
    Instantly, the warrior thrust his hammer into the creature's belly, lifting it into the air and hurling it overhead into the far wall of the room.
    Another goblin began climbing through the opening. Shanrar pulled the other sword from his belt and rammed it through the intruder's chest and into the wooden window frame.
    The goblin gave a sharp gasp as the blade was driven through it; it's lifeless body left blocking the window, making it difficult for it's comrades to gain entry.
    Shanrar quickly surveyed the room - it appeared to be a bedroom. There was a door to his left; he rushed through it, into an entrance hall.... through another door.... he was back outside, in a parallel street. He headed back in the direction of the chapel.
    Turning the corner, he beheld a scene of total chaos. The chapel doors were wide open, and many of the villagers were outside in street, battling with the goblins. There were many dead on both sides. Several goblins had made it onto the chapel roof.
    Damn it! thought Shanrar. I told them to get inside and bar the doors if the enemy got too strong.
    He ran forward, heading for the chapel entrance, lashing out with his war hammer at any goblin unfortunate enough to get in his path. Upon entering the building, he found that a handful of goblins had got inside as well.
    Jerrick was doing a reasonable job of holding the creatures at bay; keeping them away from the old women and children.
    He's not such a bad fighter after all, even if he can't follow orders, thought Shanrar, as he closed in behind the creatures, taking them by surprise. The fight was over in a matter of seconds.
    "Right, help me bar one of these doors," he said to Jerrick., "then we'll get our people back inside, where they should have stayed in the first place."
    "It wasn't my fault," Jerrick responded, picking up one end of a heavy wooden beam. "They sneaked up behind us while we were helping our wounded."
    "You shouldn't have left the doors unguarded," replied the big man, grabbing the other end of the beam.
    "Hey, my people were out there, struggling to bring our wounded to safety! We just went out to give them a hand. Is that such a crime?" said the young man.
    "That's very commendable," Shanrar continued, wedging the beam against one of the doors, "but not much good if it gets you all killed, though. You should never leave your back unguarded."
    "Well, I'll remember that next time," said Jerrick, sarcastically.
    "You will if you survive." Shanrar stepped outside. "FALL BACK!" he yelled.
    The villagers began to retreat slowly towards the chapel, but a few of them were cut off, unable to get away. The warrior rushed over to help them.
    Upon reaching them, he quickly set about despatching the goblins, but more were approaching.
    "Get back to the chapel!" he barked. "I'll deal with these."
    WHACK!
    He brought the butt of his hammer up, striking the first goblin on the temple.
    CRACK!
    He brought the hammer down again, on a second goblin's hand. It's fingers shattered under the impact, causing it to drop it's weapon.
    WHAM!
    Shanrar stepped forward, slamming his elbow into the creature's face, smashing it's nose and knocking it to the ground.
    SWISH!
    A sword swung at the warrior. He parried the strike with the shaft of his hammer, then instantly thrust his foot forward, landing a heavy kick to the attackers groin.
    The goblin dropped to it's knees, doubled over in pain, and vomiting as it went down.
    CRUNCH!
    A fatal blow to the top of it's head finished the creature off, crushing it's skull and shattering it's spine.
    More goblins attacked, and Shanrar met them face on, with the same savage fury. The remainder of the villagers had now made it back to the shelter of the chapel. Jerrick and a handful of others remained outside, valiantly defending the door, keeping it open for their leader to return. In the midst of battle, Shanrar could see them waiting. He called out to them.
    "GET BACK...."
    CRACK!
    A skull was splintered.
    "INSIDE AND...."
    CRUNCH!
    A ribcage was crushed.
    "BAR THAT...."
    SNAP!
    A neck was broken.
    "DAMNED DOOR!"
    WHAM!
    A spleen was ruptured.
    Jerrick was reluctant to close the doors while Shanrar was still outside - despite their differences, he actually respected the big ban. He was about to move inside the chapel when the sound of a bugle cut through the air, bringing the fighting to a sudden stop.
    The goblins broke off their attack and began looking around, nervously. Soon there was the thundering of horses hooves, and a dozen cavalrymen charged into the square, lancing and trampling goblins as they came. A horn sounded the goblin retreat, and the green-skinned creatures ran for their lives.
    One of the cavalrymen - an officer - stopped and dismounted in front of the chapel, while the rest of his men went in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. Lord Fulbridge rushed out of the building to meet him.
    "Thank you! Thank you!" he cried, pathetically. "You arrived not a moment too soon.... I thought we were all going to be killed. How did you know to come?"
    "Calm yourself, sir!" said the officer, firmly. "We're part of a contingent heading east, towards the border. The rest of our company has made camp about seven miles from here. One of our men spotted smoke billowing from the forest, so we came out to investigate."
    "Lucky for us that you did," the magistrate continued. "Those fiends were about to slaughter us."
    "I don't know about that," said the officer, casting an appreciative eye about the area. "Judging by those defences as we rode in, and the number of dead goblins, I would say you were doing pretty well."
    "We owe that to Shanrar," Jerrick cut in.
    "Shanrar?" asked the cavalryman.
    "Yes," the young man continued. "He arrived in our village yesterday. If it hadn't been for him, we'd have all been killed in our sleep. Those defences were all his idea."
    "Really? I'd like to meet this Shanrar, and congratulate him on a job well done."
    "Of course," replied Jerrick, "he's over -"
    He stopped in mid-sentence, and looked around. Where was he?
    "SHANRAR?" he called.
    There was no reply - the warrior had gone.

Graago had only narrowly escaped from the village with his life, and was working his way back through the woods, towards the border. He had no idea how he was going to face his superiors, and explain how he'd lost an entire legion to a village full of peasants. That giant - he was the reason for it, he was the one who'd butchered their scouting party; it was he who had organised the humans into a formidable fighting force, and set up a host of fiendish booby traps; he even killed Sergeant Morlok - the sergeant never stood a chance - with that sword streaking through the air like a bolt of lightning, tearing through his chest.
    Yes! Shanrar was responsible for their defeat - the goblin had heard one of the humans call his name during the battle - and one day, somehow, he'd make him pay....

It was almost nightfall by the time Shanrar was clear of the forest. He had walked more than twenty miles since leaving the village, at a pace which some horses would have struggled to keep up with.
    He had decided that there was no need for him to hang around. The cavalry would take care of the rest of the goblins, and he had already been delayed long enough. He'd have to walk all night if he was going to reach his destination by the next morning.
    Damned goblins! he thought. It was bad enough them ambushing my carriage and costing me my ride, but then to get stuck defending some village against them....
    He hated goblins.
    Leaving the forest behind him, he walked along the dusty road, toward the distant mountains. The sun had gone down, and the sky was growing dark.

By noon the following day, the warrior had finally reached his destination - a cottage at the base of the mountains. A small copse grew nearby and a stream trickled down from the mountainside.
    His feet hurt terribly, having walked all night and all morning; but at least he'd be able to rest soon.
    The cottage was quiet; just a few chickens pecking around in a small enclosure, and a couple of goats, happily chewing the leaves from a bush.
    Shanrar crouched behind a tree, several yards from the building. He looked around cautiously. It was unusual for it to be this quiet at this time of day, especially on this particular day.
    Quickly and silently, he crossed the ground between the tree and the cottage, moving like a panther stalking it's prey. He stopped by the door for a moment, readying his hammer, then, reaching for the handle, he flung it open and stepped inside....
    An old woman stood across the room, with her back to him - she appeared to be  baking. She turned around as the big man barged in.
    "Shanrar!" she cried, excitedly. Her face broke into a smile as she opened her arms to greet him.
    "Ma!" shouted the warrior, striding across the room. He flung his arms about her and lifted her off the floor, kissing her on the cheek. It was a peculiar sight to behold, as he was a clear foot and a half taller than her.
    "How was your journey?" she asked, as he put her down.
    "Oh, I ran into a couple of problems on the way, but nothing serious," he replied.
    "I was expecting you last night," she continued, "when you didn't arrive, I began to worry. I thought you may have forgotten."
    "Don't be so silly, ma! I said I'd be back," he laughed. "As if I would dare to forget your birthday!"
    The old woman gave a sigh as she wrapped her arms about his waist, resting her head against his chest. It was good to have him home.
 

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