The first bone-rattle came just after dawn.
I was half-awake, listening to the creak of wood in our huts, when the clink-clink-clink of Sylvara's noise traps echoed sharp across the clearing.
Borgu sat bolt upright, hair sticking out in every direction, tusks flashing. "Intruders!" he bellowed, before promptly tripping on his own boots as he leapt outside.
I grabbed my sword and followed, heart steady but sharp. Sylvara was already crouched by the edge of the wall, bow in hand, eyes narrowed. Lorian stumbled out of his hut still pulling his shirt over his head, tripped on a root, and landed flat on his face.
We were, in short, ready.
The noise came again—bones clattering on rope—and then, faint voices.
"…careful, you idiot!"
"I am careful!"
"Then why'd you kick the trap?"
I blinked. Enemies weren't usually this loud.
Sylvara gave me a look. "These can't be the clever ones."
I motioned for silence. We crept closer to the wall, listening.
A group of five men in tattered black cloaks shuffled through the underbrush beyond the stockade. Cultists—no mistaking it. But they weren't the silent, knife-in-the-dark sort I'd feared.
They were arguing.
"You said this camp would be undefended!"
"Well, I didn't expect a bloody fence!"
"That's not a fence, that's—what is that?!"
I almost laughed. They were staring at Borgu's handiwork: the wall of sharpened logs, reinforced with rough stakes, and draped in drying wolf hides because he thought it "looked scarier."
"Empire of spikes," Borgu whispered proudly at my side.
"Looks more like a butcher's yard," Sylvara muttered.
The cultists finally regrouped, huddling near the treeline.
"Alright," their leader hissed. "We climb. Get in, kill them quick, offerings for the master."
They nodded, muttering darkly, drawing rusty knives.
Then one of them put a hand on the stockade and promptly yelped as a hidden thorn pierced his palm.
"OW! BLOOD! It's in my hand!"
"Quiet, fool!"
"I am quiet!"
"You're not—"
The argument spiraled until another cultist tried climbing anyway. He got halfway up before one of Borgu's "bone-chime alarms" clattered, raining down pebbles and deer bones onto his head. Startled, he lost his grip, landed in a shallow pit we'd dug the day before, and shrieked.
Borgu slapped his knee, laughing so loud the whole forest heard. "Traps work! HA! Orc genius!"
I rubbed my temples. "Not the word I'd use."
Sylvara, though, smirked faintly. "Effective is effective."
The cultists tried again, this time attempting stealth.
They crept around the wall, whispering curses under their breath. One found a gap where logs hadn't been set as tightly, shoved his head through—
—and was promptly smacked by a hanging pot lid Lorian had strung as a makeshift alarm.
CLANG!
The noise rang through the clearing. Birds scattered from the trees. The poor fool staggered back, clutching his head.
"I told you not to push!" one of his comrades hissed.
"How was I supposed to know there'd be pots in the woods?!"
Lorian, still red-faced from earlier, grinned despite himself. "See? I told you it'd work!"
Sylvara raised a brow at him. "An alarm system made from cooking supplies."
"Resourceful," he said proudly.
I had to admit… it was.
When their stealth failed, the cultists resorted to brute force.
They rushed the wall, all five of them, knives out, shouting their nonsense chants.
"Blood for the—"
They didn't finish. Borgu tipped over one of his spiked barricades—basically a log bristling with sharpened stakes—and it rolled downhill straight into them.
The resulting chaos was less battle, more slapstick. Two cultists leapt aside, one tripped over the other, and a third got his cloak snagged on the spikes and spun in circles like a tangled sheep.
Sylvara loosed a single arrow into the dirt near their feet. The warning was clear enough: if she wanted them dead, they would be.
They froze, pale faces visible under their hoods.
Borgu leaned over the wall, grinning down at them. "You run now. Tell friends: orc wall hungry for more."
The tangled one squealed, tore his cloak free, and bolted into the trees. The others followed, tripping over roots, shrieking like frightened geese.
Within moments, the forest was quiet again.
We stood there a long moment, listening. Only the wind answered.
Finally, Sylvara lowered her bow. "That was… underwhelming."
"Entertaining," Borgu corrected, still laughing. "Weaklings bounce like rabbits."
Lorian, face flushed, turned to me. "We… we won, right?"
I sheathed my sword. "We held. That's enough."
But inside, I couldn't shake the thought: if these were their scouts, the real danger hadn't come yet.
Still, for now, laughter carried stronger than fear.
That evening, the four of us sat around the fire. Borgu roasted a rabbit whole, still crowing about his "empire of spikes." Sylvara cleaned her arrows, unimpressed.
Lorian kept miming the moment the pot lid rang out, laughing so hard he nearly spilled the stew.
And me? I sat back, watching them. A ragtag band, yes. But one that had turned an attack into farce.
For tonight, that was enough.