Outside the barn, the scrabbling and chittering of the hoarderscales intensified, their movements growing more frantic. The sound of claws scraping against wood sent a chill down Trulda’s spine.

  A barrage of stone projectiles hammered against the barn, rattling the wooden walls with dull, heavy thuds. Some stones splintered weaker planks, while others embedded themselves deep with shuddering cracks. The shutters groaned under the assault, the impact of hardened nuts and jagged rocks sending dust and splinters into the air.

  Then, the rain of stones stopped. Claws still scraped at the walls, testing the makeshift barricades the team had hastily thrown together. A stool had been wedged sideways and braced with a mound of earth, which the farmer frantically shoveled higher while Faya stomped it down. A board was nailed across a gap, using the only two nails they had managed to find in a hurry.

  Trulda surreptitiously filled a bowl with mana potion so Selvara could restore her reserves. In an unobserved moment she whispered: “How’s Ulmenglanz?”

  The raven just shook her head gravely. ”We were separated. The moment she saw the first hoarderscale, she went into a wilder berserker rage than you ever did. It was frightening. She lost all reason and started summoning nature spirits while bashing every monster she could find. I used Frost Breath to stop them from overwhelming her right away, but that drew the attention of all their ranged attackers.” She hesitated before adding, “I lost sight of her while dodging the next wave. Then one of the critters jumped and ate me.”

  Trulda sighed. “I’d like you to keep in reserve to defend the girls if we’re breached. Hide and regenerate as much as possible.”

  The dungeon-fairy nodded gravely.

  Trulda turned away and went back to checking the barn for loose boards. The dryad was old enough to look after herself. She was more concerned with all the kids in her care.

  Skorr was still being treated by Mirabelle. “Don’t be childish. The trousers have to go,” she chided. “I can’t even see the wound! I don’t have the mana to just blast you with a generic healing spell. You’ve got scrapes and cuts all over. I need to focus the spell directly on the worst one. And if the projectile is still inside, I have to get it out first. Otherwise, the wound won’t heal properly. Not with a level 1 healing spell.”

  Weylan finished wedging the last loose board closed and hurried to one of the highest shutters, peering outside. “They’ve stopped shooting rocks.” His voice was tight with unease. “I don’t like it.”

  Alina shot him an incredulous look. “You prefer to be shot at?”

  “I do, if the alternative is that they’re planning something worse.” He scanned the area through a cracked shutter and sighed. “And of course they are. They’re killing the spirit owls. Give them a few minutes, and they’ll be back for us.”

  The farmer slammed his shovel into the earthen mound one last time. “What about my family? Can you see if they’re attacking the farm?”

  Weylan shifted his position for a better view before shaking his head. “They seem fine. Good thing we moved the pantry to the barn. Otherwise, the hoarderscales would smell the food. Does anyone remember if these things attack humans?”

  Mirabelle answered while working, the remnants of Skorr’s trousers she had cut off still discarded beside her as she carefully removed a stone projectile from his wound. “According to historical records of past hoarderscale scourges, they’re herbivores until at least elder stage.” She hesitated, then added, “I think the one spitting burning wood is an adult at most. An elder would already have torn down the barn door and swallowed all of us whole. Most elders were described as frog-like with long sticky tongues they used to snatch prey up to fully armored knights.”

  Alina frowned. “So, they’re only attacking because we’re keeping them from the grain? Can’t we just leave? They won’t chase us, right?”

  Weylan surveyed the chaos outside, then the battered group huddled inside. They had neither the necessary spells nor the correct weapons to fight such tiny and fast creatures and no shields to protect against the ranged attackers. The priestesses were almost out of mana, and Ulmenglanz was still outside, alone. It was clear the hoarderscales were after the biggest local food source. After the fields had been harvested, there were few alternatives. The lower-levelled scourge-monsters couldn’t eat everything. Yet. Logically, the best option was retreat. But… he sighed. “If we run, the hoarderscales make off with a year’s harvest of grain. We’ve seen how hard they are to track. Maybe they’d even split up. Unless we find their nest before they can process their haul, their numbers will grow expor… expanen… very fast.”

  Mirabelle chuckled, despite the dire situation. “Exponentially.”

  Skorr looked like he might pass out at any moment, but still tried to push himself up. Mirabelle shot him a severe look and pressed him back down. He spoke from where he lay.

  “She’s right. We must wipe out this outbreak before they start spreading. As long as we hold, they’ll stay here. It would be a nightmare to find them all again if they scatter. Given time, every single one of them can level up to become an Elder-Brood-Mother, start laying eggs, and form the center of a new swarm.”

  He seemed like he wanted to say more but faltered, his face pale from blood loss. Mirabelle finished extracting the projectile and handed him a healing potion to replenish his strength, following it up with a focused healing spell to close the wound.

  Trulda turned toward the far end of the barn. “How long until we get reinforcements?”

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  Weylan’s forehead lit up as he read the questgiver interface. After a moment, he replied, “There’s an area quest notice, covering the whole forest, almost reaching Mulnirsheim. There should be plenty of revenants in range. Even if they don’t think of it themselves, some of the locals will send a runner to Mulnirsheim. This place will be swarming with fighters and mages.”

  Faya exhaled in relief, dropping onto the floor. “Whew. I almost feared we’d die here.”

  Skorr let out a sharp grunt. “There’s just one problem. How long until they get here?”

  Weylan glanced at Trulda, trusting in her knowledge of guild logistics and common sense.

  She tilted her head thoughtfully. “There aren’t any warriors out here. Just farmers. They won’t leave their homes while it’s still dark. Not with monsters prowling outside. Much less during an impending scourge. Adventurers will set out right away, and the city guard will follow, but the first reinforcements won’t get here until shortly after sunrise. The main group from the city will probably take another two hours after that.”

  Alina didn’t look convinced. “That’s if they can even find us. It’s not like they have some kind of magic compass guiding them to where the scourge is. I also didn’t see any mention of the exact location in the quest notice.”

  Weylan smirked, glancing outside. “With the beacon light still up, the noise of the fight, and all the screaming? Every farmer in the area will know by now where to point the arriving groups. We just have to hold the barn until they get here.” His smirk faded as his eyes narrowed. Something outside caught his attention. He leaned forward, pressing his face against the crack in the boards. “The owls are almost gone,” he muttered. “And still no sign of Ulmenglanz.”

  The party interface showed her status as alive but wounded. No critical condition, not unconscious, not bleeding.

  “Can dryads even bleed?” he wondered aloud.

  Mirabelle finished casting her spell and stood, brushing dirt off her robes. “Dryad blood is thicker than human blood. It also dries much faster. She’d have to lose an arm or a leg for blood loss to be an issue. She’ll tire much less while in a wooded area, but without direct sunlight, her wounds won’t heal any faster than ours.”

  Trulda gritted her teeth in annoyance. “Keep focused!”

  The ever-increasing chittering of the hoarderscales outside gnawed at their nerves. A maddening chorus of claws prying at the wood, stone projectiles again started hammering against the walls and shutters rattled with each impact.

  “They’re converging on the barn,” Weylan growled, peering through a gap in the boards. “They want the food.” He stared outside silently, then turned around to the farmer. “Say, how long did you have problems with these supposed squirrels?”

  The farmer stood at the middle of the barn, away from all the walls as far as he could manage. He still held his pitchfork in sweaty hands. “What? Oh… A few weeks? It wasn’t bad at first. A few mouthfuls of food missing here and there. It only became serious a week ago. Whole groups running around in the night. Chittering in the woods around the farm and stealing anything left outside. Then they started to attack the barn. We stood guard until two nights ago, then it sounded like a whole army of squirrels was active in the woods. We barred the barn and went to protect the farm. That’s when they got inside and took the grain.”

  “So, this infestation is active for weeks and they’ve gotten a major haul only two nights ago… Does anyone know how long they need to hatch new eggs?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  Mirabelle looked up. “I just remembered, there was a theory I once read about scourge monsters, that they can level up just by eating.”

  Skorr snapped his fingers. “Right! I remember learning that too. That’s probably how they got the juveniles and the adult.”

  Weylan groaned. “Just perfect. That means they probably have some hoarderscales munching away at the rest of the grain and leveling up. Or they already have a brood-mother that feasts on it to make more eggs.”

  A dull thud reverberated through the barn. Then another. Something heavier was moving outside now, pacing along the perimeter.

  Weylan hurried from one shutter to the next until he could spot the attacker. “It’s the adult. The one with the glowing pouches. It’s spitting burning wood piles against the barn. It’s just a matter of time until the wood catches fire.”

  Trulda pivoted as a hoarderscale forced its way inside a few feet from her. The moment its head breached the opening, she smashed her lute-club into its skull. The sickening crunch was barely satisfying. While she went looking around for more intruders, Faya hurriedly blocked the broken board by shoving a crate in front of it.

  Stones and wood pieces rained in through a breaking shutter, forcing the priestesses to duck behind overturned crates. Flaming twigs clattered across the floor, setting dry hay ablaze.

  “The barn’s going to catch!” Alina shouted.

  The farmer, pale-faced shoveled dirt over the embers. “Not if I can help it.

  Faya appeared besides Weylan, from his perspective seemingly out of nowhere. He had been too focused on trying to follow the adult-hoarderscales movements. But now, his attention was yanked elsewhere. Specifically, to the warmth pressing against his arm.

  She clung to him, eyes wide with innocence, her voice syrupy sweet. “You’ll protect me, won’t you?” She tilted her head just slightly, lashes fluttering. “Like one of those brave, noble knights from the old stories?”

  Weylan froze. His brain, sharp and calculating in battle, flatlined completely.

  He should say something, anything, but his mouth just opened and closed uselessly. His face burned, his pulse skipped a beat, and he suddenly felt like a cornered animal.

  A heavy impact hit the barn door, making the wooden beam securing it groan under the pressure. The assassin’s mind blinked back into action. Weylan weaved out of Faya’s grip and jumped down to the door. “We can’t sit here and wait for this thing to burn us out.”

  Trulda suppressed a grin. “Are you sure you don’t just want to rather flee outside?”

  As she saw faint smoke curl through the cracks in the wood and smelled the smoke, she got serious. “You’re right. We need to take the fight outside before the whole barn catches.”

  Alina’s eyes widened. “You want to go out there?”

  “I’d rather fight it in the open than get roasted alive in here.” Trulda kicked a flaming nut away before the straw-covered floor could catch on. “Weylan, you and I go outside and kill it. Skorr, you stay here with the priestesses. Keep them safe.”

  Skorr, still weak but determined, nodded. “We’ll hold. Just don’t die out there.”

  Trulda pointed at the trembling farmer: “You step outside after us to shovel the burning debris away that’s lying against the wall. Douse the fire if you can. Then get back inside before the hoarderscales notice the door is open. We will try to cover you, but as soon as the adult attacks, we strike and you’re on your own.”

  Trulda looked at the priestesses. “Alina, close the door as soon as he’s back inside. Watch out for when we come back and open it for us again. Faya, Mirabelle, you keep an eye on the walls and prevent any intrusions. Be prepared to heal us as we come in. And if we fall, you shut this damn door and barricade it again. If the barn falls, set the grain on fire and run.”

  Mirabelle’s lips tightened, but she nodded. “Understood.”

  Weylan was already unfastening the makeshift bar on the door, blade in hand. “Ready?”

  Trulda took a deep breath, then shoved the door open.