Chapter 12: The Siege Begins
Night crept into its third cycle since the scouts' deaths. The fires had changed position, no longer content to linger at the forest's edge. They now crawled forward, establishing footholds among the outer ruins. The goblins had abandoned their distant observation posts, instead probing and testing his defenses from increasingly bold positions.
Mike's eyelids felt like sandpaper. Sleep had become a luxury he couldn't afford—no more than sixty minutes at a stretch since discovering the dead scouts. His muscles ached from constant vigilance, eyes burning from scanning the darkness for any hint of movement. Every shadow triggered a jolt of adrenaline, every rustle of wind through ruins demanded his attention.
"They know what they're doing," he muttered, rubbing his face with calloused hands. Grit and sweat mixed under his fingers. "Wearing me down before they even attack."
The strategy was brutally effective. Mike had seen similar tactics during a camping trip in Yellowstone—wolves isolating an elk from its herd, denying it rest, following at a distance until exhaustion made the prey vulnerable to a final rush. The goblins employed the same patient cruelty, understanding that a tired defender made mistakes.
He'd established a rotation between three observation points, creating brief windows for rest that never satisfied his body's desperate need for recovery. The wooden ring helped somewhat, its strange energy providing periods of enhanced clarity when his natural alertness flagged. But even magic—or whatever powered the ring—couldn't replace the fundamental need for sleep. Each hour added to the sleep deficit weighing on his limbs and thoughts.
Tonight's fire pattern formed a rough semi-circle, hemming in his compound from the forest. The flames highlighted hunched silhouettes that moved with increasing confidence, occasionally stepping fully into the light as if daring him to waste arrows on targets just beyond effective range.
Mike's hands tightened around his bow. The temptation to loose a few shots grew with each deliberate display, but experience had taught him to conserve ammunition. Wait for the real attack, not these provocations.
"They want me watching the fires," he whispered, forcing his gaze away from the obvious threat.
His eyes swept the darker spaces between and beyond the flickering lights. The most dangerous predators rarely announced themselves—a lesson from his first day in this world, watching the Void Ripper materialize silently before slaughtering the elf and dwarf.
A faint scrape of foot against stone reached him from the south side of his compound—quick, then deliberately silent. Mike held perfectly still, giving no indication he'd heard, but his muscles tensed in readiness. Another piece moved on this deadly game board.
Hours dragged by in this strange, silent confrontation. Occasionally, a goblin would approach one of his outer traps, studying it with careful eyes but never triggering the mechanism before retreating to the fire line. Others tossed small projectiles—stones or crude arrows—just within his perimeter, trying to provoke a reaction that would reveal his position or state of readiness.
Mike gave them nothing. No movement, no counter-attack, no visible concern. Let them believe their tactics worked, that fatigue dulled his awareness. The appearance of weakness might lure them into a fatal mistake.
As deepest night yielded to pre-dawn gray, Mike descended from the rooftop to check his inner defenses. His knees cracked as he stood, back stiff from hours in one position. Age or exhaustion—perhaps both—making themselves known with each movement.
Sap bombs waited at strategic points around his shelter, their explosive potential hidden by innocent-looking coverings. The deadfalls and spring traps had been meticulously verified the previous afternoon, each mechanism checked and ready. The path from outer wall to inner sanctum had become a killing field designed to funnel attackers into overlapping zones of lethality.
He paused at his workbench, fingers running over the special arrows he'd crafted during the past two days. Using the woodworking ring, he'd hollowed out several arrow shafts and packed them with small amounts of explosive sap, fitting each with crude impact triggers fashioned from metal scraps. Not elegant work, but deadly enough for what lay ahead.
While refilling his water skin at the well, a faint scratching sound reached his ears from below—so subtle it might have been mistaken for a rodent. But Mike knew every sound in his domain after weeks of occupation. This was something new—something deliberate. Tools working against stone, deep below ground.
He lowered the water skin slowly, listening more intently. The sound repeated—scraping, methodical, purposeful. They were tunneling in, bypassing his carefully planned surface defenses with an underground assault.
Moving with practiced silence despite his exhaustion, Mike retrieved his ancient hammer and gathered a satchel of the smaller sap bombs. The trapdoor to the underground chambers had been reinforced and concealed beneath a workbench, accessible only by moving several heavy items. He shifted these carefully, making as little noise as possible, then lifted the trapdoor and descended the stone stairs into darkness.
The cool air below ground brushed against his skin, a stark contrast to the humid night air above. Mike waited at the bottom of the stairs, allowing his eyes to adjust to the near-complete darkness. The scratching grew louder here, steady and rhythmic, coming from the direction of the circular chamber with its seven pedestals.
He moved from memory, trailing one hand along the wall for guidance, the stone cool and slightly damp beneath his fingertips. Each step carefully placed to avoid loose stones or debris that might betray his presence. The scratching intensified, punctuated by muffled voices speaking that harsh goblin language, the guttural consonants carrying even through stone barriers.
At the entrance to the circular chamber, Mike finally risked a small light, striking his Zippo and shielding the flame with his cupped hand. The brief illumination confirmed his suspicions—a section of the far wall showed fresh tool marks, the ancient stone being systematically removed. Small piles of rock dust and fragments littered the floor beneath the working area.
He extinguished the flame, returning to the main storage chamber to formulate a plan. Their progress suggested they might break through within hours, possibly before dawn. When they did, they would emerge directly into the heart of his underground complex, bypassing all his carefully planned surface defenses.
The solution was obvious but risky. His sap bombs could collapse the tunneling effort, potentially killing or trapping the diggers, but the explosion in this confined space might also damage the structural integrity of the chambers he relied upon for storage and emergency escape.
"No choice," Mike whispered, weighing one of the bombs in his calloused hand. The alternative—goblins pouring into his defensive line from behind—would mean certain death.
Working with methodical precision, he arranged several bombs in a semicircle against the wall where the digging sounds were strongest. He connected them with fuses cut to identical lengths, ensuring simultaneous detonation when ignited. Large stone fragments positioned around the bombs would direct the blast force toward the tunnel rather than back into the chamber, minimizing damage to his own infrastructure.
With the trap set, Mike retreated behind a massive storage shelf, one sturdy enough to shield him from the blast. The coiled fuse lay in his hand, extending twenty feet to the bombs. Now came the waiting—timing was critical. He needed enough diggers in the tunnel to make the collapse worthwhile, but couldn't allow them to establish a secure passage.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the scratching occasionally interrupted by what sounded like discussion or argument among the diggers. Mike's fatigue-clouded mind began distorting sounds, manufacturing movements in the darkness that weren't there. Only rigid discipline kept him alert, focused on the immediate threat rather than imagined dangers.
A chunk of stone fell from the wall with a distinctive clatter. The breakthrough had begun. Mike tensed, Zippo in one hand, fuse in the other, waiting for the optimal moment.
More stone fragments fell, creating a small hole that widened steadily under the goblins' efforts. A dim light appeared from the other side—some kind of lantern or torch illuminating the tunnel they'd created. Chittering voices grew excited as the opening expanded, now large enough for a goblin to potentially squeeze through.
Mike waited, heart hammering against his ribs but hands steady as stone. One goblin wouldn't justify the bombs. Even two or three wouldn't be worth the risk to his underground chambers. He needed more commitment from their side, needed them to believe the breakthrough was succeeding.
A leathery hand emerged through the opening, pushing aside stone fragments to widen the hole further. A face followed—yellow eyes blinking as they peered into the chamber. The goblin barked something to those behind it, the tone suggesting satisfaction with their progress.
More hands appeared, more workers joining the effort to enlarge the opening. The hole now gaped wide enough for a goblin to pass through with minimal difficulty. One began to do just that, squeezing its shoulders through the gap while others continued clearing debris.
Mike struck his Zippo, the sharp *click* and sudden flame causing the lead goblin's head to snap in his direction. Its eyes widened in alarm, mouth opening to shout a warning. Mike touched the flame to the fuse, which caught with a bright spark and began to burn rapidly toward the bombs.
The goblin scrambled to retreat, barking urgent commands to its companions. Those still in the tunnel began to withdraw, but the fuse, treated with quick-burning sap, gave them only seconds.
Mike ducked behind the shelf, pressing his hands tight against his ears, body curled to present the smallest possible target to the coming blast.
The explosion hit like a physical force rather than a sound, compressing the air into a weapon that struck every surface simultaneously. The storage shelf rocked violently but held firm, protecting Mike from the worst effects. Even with his ears covered, the sound overwhelmed his senses, a thunderclap magnified tenfold by the enclosed space.
When the initial shock subsided, Mike found himself in a world of muffled silence. His ears rang painfully, all other sounds reduced to distant, indistinct murmurs. Dust filled the chamber, reducing visibility to arm's length even with the Zippo's flame. The air tasted of chemicals and stone dust, burning his throat with each gasping breath.
Staggering to his feet, Mike approached the site of the breakthrough. Where the hole had been, a smoking crater now dominated the wall, rubble filling whatever tunnel had existed beyond. The bombs had performed beyond expectation, collapsing a significant portion of the goblins' excavation.
Muffled screams and panicked shouting echoed faintly from beyond the collapsed tunnel, suggesting at least some of the diggers had survived. They wouldn't be breaking through again soon—the explosion had driven home the cost of that approach.
But the noise would signal the beginning of the main assault. The goblins at the surface would know their surprise had failed, would now commit to a frontal attack while Mike was potentially disoriented from the underground blast.
Shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear the ringing, Mike gathered his hammer and the remaining bombs in his satchel. He needed to reach the surface, to man his defenses before the goblins could capitalize on the situation. The stairs seemed to shift beneath his feet as he climbed, vertigo and aftereffects from the blast making movement challenging.
Emerging through the trapdoor into his living area, Mike immediately noticed the change in light—dawn had broken while he was below, early morning sun casting long shadows through his eastern windows. The timing wasn't ideal—he'd hoped to force a night attack when his knowledge of the trap placements would give him greater advantage—but the goblins had forced his hand with their tunneling attempt.
Moving to his primary observation position, Mike saw the fires at the forest edge had been extinguished. The small parties that had been probing his outer defenses were gone, retreated to the tree line. For a moment, he dared to hope the explosion had deterred them completely, sent them scurrying back to whatever warren they called home.
Then movement caught his eye—organized, deliberate, emerging from the forest in formation. Not the small groups of earlier nights, but a substantial force. Mike counted quickly—at least forty goblins in the first wave, with more visible among the trees behind them. Some carried crude spears or clubs, others bows like the scouts had used. Most wore the same dark leather armor he'd seen on the scouts, adorned with those blood-painted symbols.
More concerning were the larger objects being rolled forward—what appeared to be wooden shields or barriers, clearly designed to protect groups of attackers as they approached his trap lines. The goblins had anticipated his defenses, had prepared countermeasures. This was no haphazard raid but a coordinated assault planned by someone with tactical understanding.
Mike positioned himself at a protected firing point, nocking an arrow on one of the goblin bows. His archery skills had improved with practice, but the extreme distance and his still-ringing ears would make accurate shooting difficult. Still, even the threat of arrow fire might slow their advance, might force them to be more cautious in their approach.
The first wave reached the outermost ruins, pausing in the cover provided by crumbling walls. Goblin archers began loosing arrows toward Mike's position—most falling well short, but a few striking his shelter with solid *thunks*. The wooden shields were positioned to provide cover for small groups that began working their way forward, moving from cover to cover in coordinated rushes.
Mike held his fire, waiting for a clearer target. The distance was still too great for reliable accuracy, and he had limited arrows. Patience might force the goblins to commit further, to expose themselves to his more lethal traps.
The strategy paid off as the first group reached the outer trap line. A goblin moving ahead of a shield team stepped directly onto a concealed pressure plate. The mechanism triggered instantly—a spring-loaded assembly of sharpened stakes erupting from the ground to impale the unfortunate creature through torso and throat. Its dying screams echoed across the ruins.
Before the others could react, the death triggered a secondary mechanism—a hidden deadfall that crashed down on three more goblins huddled behind their shield, crushing them instantly. Blood sprayed across the stones as their bodies crumpled under the massive weight.
Chaos erupted in the goblin ranks. Their careful formation dissolved as panic spread, several breaking from cover and inadvertently triggering more traps. Two more died in a pit trap, falling onto sharpened stakes with sickening thuds. Another was caught by a whip-like branch Mike had bent back and secured with a tripwire, the release snapping the goblin's neck with such force its body was flung ten feet.
"That's it," Mike muttered, a grim smile forming despite the circumstances. "Keep running right into them."
The goblin commanders barked orders, attempting to restore discipline, but the damage was done. In less than a minute, eight goblins lay dead or dying, and the advance had broken into disorganized groups.
Mike seized the opportunity, reaching for a special arrow he'd prepared the previous day. The sap-packed hollow shaft felt lighter than its deadly potential suggested. Taking careful aim at a cluster of goblins trying to regroup behind a ruined wall, Mike drew the bowstring to his cheek, exhaled half a breath, and released.
The arrow arced through the morning air, striking the wall just above the goblins' position. The impact triggered the sap, and the resulting explosion wasn't large but proved powerful enough to shower the goblins with stone fragments and debris. Three more went down, clutching at injuries or lying ominously still.
The survivors scattered, abandoning any pretense of formation. Mike switched back to standard arrows, picking off two more as they fled between cover positions. His accuracy improved with each shot, muscle memory and the ring's subtle enhancement working together to guide his aim.
A horn sounded from the forest edge—a desperate attempt to rally the broken attack. It worked, to a degree. The goblins stopped retreating, gathering in the cover of the outer ruins. Their numbers had been nearly halved in minutes, with at least fifteen dead or severely wounded.
Fresh troops emerged from the forest, rushing forward to reinforce the battered first wave. Mike reached for another explosive arrow, waiting until they formed a concentrated group before loosing it into their midst. The detonation claimed three more, sending body parts and weapons flying in a gruesome display.
"Come on!" Mike shouted, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "Is that all you've got?"
The taunt seemed to enrage the goblins. With harsh cries, they surged forward again, abandoning caution for speed. It proved a fatal mistake. Traps triggered in rapid succession as they rushed across ground Mike had spent days preparing. A deadfall here, a spring-loaded spike array there, concealed pits and snares claiming victim after victim.
Mike contributed to the slaughter with methodical archery, targeting leaders and those who seemed to be directing others. Each arrow found its mark with increasing precision, his earlier practice translating into lethal efficiency in combat.
When the goblins finally reached the inner trap line, their numbers had been reduced by more than half. The ground between the forest and Mike's position was littered with bodies and triggered traps, a killing field that testified to his preparation and their desperation.
But still they came, driven by fear of their commanders or loyalty to their cause—Mike couldn't tell which. The survivors were more cautious now, probing carefully, communicating in harsh whispers as they identified safe paths.
Time for the sap bombs. Mike had positioned the largest ones at key approach points, their fuses extending to protected firing positions. As a particularly large group of goblins gathered behind a shield wall near the well, Mike struck his Zippo and touched it to the nearest fuse.
The bomb detonated with devastating effect, the concussion wave visibly rippling through the air before the sound reached him. The shield wall disappeared in a spray of splinters, and the goblins behind it were simply... gone, reduced to scattered remains that painted the surrounding stones in crimson. Those at the periphery of the blast staggered away, disoriented or wounded.
Mike didn't wait for them to recover. He triggered a second bomb as another group approached from the east side, the explosion claiming at least five more. A third bomb, smaller but no less deadly, detonated beneath a goblin commander who had been shouting orders from a relatively safe position. The creature vanished in a flash of fire and smoke, silenced permanently.
The explosions created momentary confusion in the goblin ranks, their advance halting as they assessed this new threat. Mike used the opportunity to target their remaining archers, bringing down three with well-placed shots before they could recover their formation.
Desperate now, the goblins attempted to rush his position, hoping speed would carry them through the killing field to his shelter. Mike met them with more explosive arrows, each detonation claiming multiple attackers. The conventional arrows he saved for precision kills, dropping goblin after goblin with shots to head or chest.
By mid-afternoon, the assault had been reduced to a scattered, disorganized effort by perhaps twenty surviving goblins. They huddled in whatever cover they could find, seemingly unwilling to advance further into what had become a slaughterhouse, yet equally unwilling to retreat and face whatever punishment awaited failure.
Mike had almost exhausted his supply of explosive arrows, and his conventional arrows were running low. His sap bombs were depleted except for the final one, concealed beneath the open ground directly in front of his main building. Still, he had done it—repelled a force that had outnumbered him many times over, using preparation, tactical advantage, and sheer determination.
The goblins conferred among themselves, chittering in their harsh language. Their glances toward the forest edge suggested they were considering retreat, cutting their losses after the devastating failure of their attack.
Then a new sound rose from the forest edge—a deep, rhythmic chanting unlike anything Mike had heard from the goblins before. The effect on the surviving attackers was immediate. They prostrated themselves, touching their foreheads to the ground in obvious reverence or fear.
Through the trees strode a figure that made Mike's blood run cold—taller than the goblins by at least two feet, with grayish-green skin and a face that he now recognized clearly.
The creature wore voluminous robes that concealed most of its body, but as it gestured to the goblins, Mike could see multiple limbs moving beneath the fabric—not just the two large arms visible at first glance, but what appeared to be four additional, smaller arms kept partially hidden within the robes.
Its robes were decorated with symbols similar to those on the goblins' armor, and it carried a gnarled staff topped with a glowing crystal in one of its primary hands.
The tryclops walked slowly among the dead goblins, occasionally prodding a body with its staff as if confirming the kill. When it reached the surviving goblins, they cowered lower, trembling visibly even from Mike's distance.
The tryclops raised its staff. The crystal flared brighter, and Mike felt a surge of something pass through the air—not physical, but a palpable wave of energy that made his skin prickle and his ring finger tingle uncomfortably.
The tryclops spoke—a deep, resonant voice carrying clearly across the distance:
"Builder. Your defiance ends. Submit to the will of Borgath and surrender the artifacts you have stolen, or be destroyed."
English. It was speaking English, or something the system translated as such—the first words Mike had fully understood since the elf's warning about the Void Ripper.
Mike stared in disbelief. Not only could this creature speak a language he understood, but it seemed to know what he was—a builder. The implications were staggering, suggesting a level of knowledge about his situation that Mike himself lacked.
But surrender? After all this? After the slaughter he'd just inflicted on the goblin force?
The memory of the goblin encampment flashed vividly in his mind—those human skulls mounted on stakes, eye sockets staring vacantly across the clearing, scraps of hair still clinging to bleached bone. He'd seen firsthand what the goblins did with humans they captured. Surrendering wasn't an option. The tryclops might speak of mere submission, but Mike knew what awaited him if he yielded—his own skull would soon join that grisly collection, another trophy staked at the village perimeter.
Instead of responding verbally, Mike reached for one of his few remaining explosive arrows. He nocked it, drew the bow to full extension, and took careful aim at the tryclops. The distance was considerable, the target moving, but the ring seemed to steady his hand, to guide his aim with subtle precision.
He loosed the arrow. It flew true initially, arcing toward the tryclops with deadly intent. But at the last moment, a sudden gust of wind—or perhaps something more deliberate—shifted its trajectory just enough. The arrow struck the ground a few feet from the tryclops, detonating with a sharp crack that sent dirt and stone fragments flying.
The tryclops didn't flinch. All three of its eyes focused on Mike's position with unnerving intensity, the staff in its hand glowing brighter as two of its hidden smaller arms momentarily emerged from its robes to make a complex gesture.
"I guess that's my answer," Mike muttered, already reaching for another arrow.
The battle was far from over.