The first goblin died before it finished screaming.
Arthur's sword took it from collarbone to hip in a single, practiced motion. The body hit the dirt already falling apart, blood steaming faintly in the cold air.
He didn't slow.
Because the brush exploded.
————±————±————±————
They poured out of the trees in numbers that stole breath.
Not five. Not ten.
Dozens.
Small bodies scrambling over roots and rocks, yellow eyes bright with hunger, blades raised high. The road vanished beneath them, swallowed by motion and noise.
Arthur planted his feet.
"Come," he muttered.
The first wave hit him like water against stone.
Arthur moved with precision, not haste. One step back, cut. Pivot, slash. A goblin leapt—Arthur caught it mid-air and threw it into another, both collapsing in a tangle of limbs.
Steel rose and fell.
Arms came off. Throats opened. Bodies dropped so fast they clogged the ground at his feet.
————±————±————±————
They didn't stop.
Arthur advanced through them instead.
He drove forward, forcing the mass to break around him. Every swing was deliberate. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Goblins died two, three at a time when they pressed too close.
A spear struck his shoulder.
It didn't pierce deep, but the impact burned. Arthur ripped it free and buried his sword through the wielder's chest without looking.
Another blade scraped his thigh. Another bit into his forearm.
None slowed him.
He waded.
————±————±————±————
The goblins learned quickly.
They stopped rushing.
They circled.
Some threw stones. Others waited for gaps. One crawled low through bodies and slashed at his calf before Arthur crushed its skull under his heel.
Breathing grew heavier.
Not from fear.
From time.
Arthur's arms burned. His grip slicked with blood—his and theirs. The pile of corpses rose ankle-high, then knee-high in places, making footing treacherous.
Still, he did not fall.
————±————±————±————
He roared then—not in fury, but command.
Arthur surged forward, breaking the circle, forcing them to scatter. He cut down three in a breath, shoulder-checking a fourth into a tree hard enough to crack bone.
One goblin lunged from behind.
Arthur spun and ran it through backward without looking.
Another jumped for his face.
Arthur caught it by the throat and slammed it into the ground until it stopped moving.
————±————±————±————
By the time the last of them broke, the road was unrecognizable.
Bodies lay everywhere—torn, broken, scattered into brush and mud. Blood soaked the earth so thoroughly it ran in thin lines downhill.
Arthur stood in the center of it.
Chest heaving. Sword lowered but steady.
He counted without meaning to.
Thirty.
Then more.
He stopped counting.
————±————±————±————
The survivors fled.
Shrieking. Tripping. Vanishing into the trees in a disorderly wave.
Arthur did not chase them.
He stood where he was, sword lowered, chest rising and falling hard now that the danger had passed. His arms trembled—not with fear, but fatigue finally allowed to surface. Blood ran freely down his leg, warm and sticky, soaking into his boot.
He exhaled slowly.
"It's done," he said, mostly to himself.
————±————±————±————
He cleaned his blade with care, hands less steady than he liked. The road around him was quiet again—too quiet, but he had learned not every silence meant danger.
Arthur bound his wounds. Crude, efficient. Enough to stop the bleeding.
His shoulders sagged a fraction.
Too many, he thought. Even for goblins.
————±————±————±————
Then he heard it.
Not movement.
A sound.
Low. Rough. Almost rhythmic.
Arthur froze.
It came from deeper in the forest—a guttural call, dragged from a throat too large for a goblin. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a cry for help.
It was a summons.
The sound rolled once.
Then again.
The trees answered with silence.
————±————±————±————
Arthur's fingers tightened around his sword.
"No…" he muttered.
Understanding settled heavy and cold.
They hadn't fled.
They had run to fetch something.
Branches snapped.
Something moved through the forest with weight—slow, confident, unconcerned with stealth. Each step pressed into the earth like a claim.
Arthur shifted his stance, despite the burn in his muscles. His breath came shorter now, not from fear—but from knowing he would not be allowed rest.
A shadow crossed the treeline.
Broad.
Too tall.
Arthur lifted his blade.
The figure stepped into view.
Green skin marked with old scars. Armor scavenged from bodies and beasts alike. A weapon dragged behind it, its edge darkened with old blood.
An orc.
It looked at the corpses.
Then at Arthur.
And smiled.
Arthur's grip tightened and said. "Oh, I can do this all day."