Chapter 11: First Contact
The scream tore through the night like a physical thing, jerking Mike from deep sleep to instant alertness.
He sat bolt upright, ancient hammer already in hand, his mind still processing the sound when a second scream followed, then a third—each from different directions around the ruins.
"Traps," Mike whispered, recognition dawning. The deadfalls and spring-loaded spikes he'd positioned at the primary approaches to his compound had found targets.
Mike's heart hammered against his ribs. After weeks of solitude, something—or several somethings—had finally triggered his defenses. His fingers tightened around the hammer's worn handle, its weight comforting in his palm.
Moving silently, Mike pulled on his boots and slipped the woodworking ring onto his finger. The ring's presence sent warmth spreading up his arm—not just physical heat, but a subtle enhancement of his awareness of structures and spaces. After a week of constant wear, he'd begun removing it at night, finding that its effects sometimes made sleep difficult—his mind continuing to analyze and improve structures even as exhaustion demanded rest.
Outside, the night was clear and cold, stars piercing the darkness above like tiny holes punched through black fabric. No moon meant limited visibility, but Mike had prepared for this. At strategic points throughout his compound, he'd placed covered lanterns that could be quickly uncovered for light without telegraphing his position.
Mike crouched low, listening. The screams had stopped, replaced by an eerie silence. Whatever had triggered his traps wasn't making noise anymore, but that didn't mean the threat was over. Moving with practiced stealth—a skill honed by weeks of survival in this hostile world—he made his way to the nearest observation point, a reinforced platform built into the corner of his main building.
The rough stone scraped against his palms as he climbed. From this vantage, he could see the northern and eastern approaches to his compound. Mike squinted into the darkness, his eyes straining for any movement. The traps that had been triggered were too distant to view clearly, their victims hidden by night's embrace.
Cold air bit at his exposed skin as he considered his options. Venture out to investigate immediately, or wait until dawn provided better visibility? The decision wasn't just tactical—it was existential. In this world, one wrong choice could mean death.
Patience won out. If there were more intruders, blundering around in the dark would only make him vulnerable. Better to wait for light, when he could approach with full awareness of his surroundings.
Sleep, however, was no longer an option. Mike spent the remaining hours of darkness checking his defenses, ensuring each was ready for potential assault. His fingers traced the bamboo bombs—his most powerful weapons, but also the most volatile. The sap inside could explode with enough force to shatter stone, but one careless moment could trigger them prematurely. He confirmed their placement at key chokepoints, their fuses accessible but protected from accidental ignition.
His muscles ached with tension by the time the eastern sky began to lighten. The first gray hints of dawn brought no movement, no sound beyond the natural stirring of this alien forest. Mike flexed his stiff fingers, breath clouding in the morning chill.
"Time to see what we caught," he muttered to himself, climbing down from his post.
Mike moved with deliberate care, keeping to cover whenever possible, hammer ready in one hand, spear in the other. The nearest triggered trap lay about fifty yards out—one of his deadfalls, a heavy stone slab designed to crush anything beneath it. Approaching cautiously, Mike felt his pulse quicken as the outline of a body became visible in the growing light.
A goblin lay crushed beneath the slab, only its head and one arm visible. The creature was smaller than those he'd encountered by the stream, but unmistakably the same species—leathery greenish skin, pointed ears, yellow eyes now glazed in death. What caught Mike's attention was its equipment. Unlike the crude weapons carried by the goblins he'd fought before, this one wore dark leather armor adorned with symbols painted in what looked disturbingly like dried blood. A short bow lay splintered beside it, along with a quiver of black-fletched arrows.
"Scouts," Mike realized, kneeling to examine the equipment more closely. The bow suggested reconnaissance rather than direct assault. His fingers traced the intricate design carved into the bow's grip—too sophisticated for the chaotic goblin tribes he'd encountered previously. This goblin had been watching his compound, perhaps for days, judging the defenses.
The thought sent a chill down Mike's spine. Not random wanderers, then, but purposeful observers. Which meant others knew about his presence at Crafter's Haven.
Mike rose, eyes scanning the surrounding forest edge. Nothing moved, but the feeling of being observed lingered.
The second trap lay to the east—a spring-loaded stake array triggered by a tripwire. Mike approached more cautiously this time, aware that where one scout died, others might be watching. The mechanism had worked perfectly, spikes driving through the goblin's torso and neck with enough force to pin it upright against a tree trunk. Blood had dried in dark rivulets down the bark, attracting buzzing insects that scattered as Mike drew near.
This goblin's equipment matched the first: light armor, bow, quiver, plus a wicked-looking curved knife. The bow had survived intact, as had most of the arrows in its quiver. Mike tested the weapon's draw, finding it smaller than he'd prefer but functional. The arrows were masterfully crafted, their stone heads precisely knapped, their fletching uniform and aerodynamic.
"Professional work," Mike murmured, adding the bow to his collection. Whatever goblin force had sent these scouts was better equipped and organized than he'd anticipated.
The third goblin had met perhaps the most gruesome end, caught in one of Mike's pit traps. The creature had fallen onto upright spikes, then been further impaled by secondary mechanisms triggered by its weight. Little remained recognizable except the distinctive leathery skin and equipment similar to its companions. Blood had pooled and congealed at the bottom of the pit, filling the air with a sweet-metallic stench that made Mike's stomach turn. Remarkably, this goblin's bow and arrows had landed on the edge of the pit, completely undamaged.
Mike examined each scene meticulously, looking for clues about their purpose and origin. All three goblins wore identical medallions—flat stones etched with a symbol he'd seen before, on the goblins by the stream and later at their encampment. The familiarity confirmed his suspicions—these scouts shared allegiance with the larger goblin community he'd observed downstream weeks ago.
"Three scouts," Mike muttered, collecting their weapons and adding them to his growing pile. "That means something bigger's coming."
His eyes traced the forest edge, searching for movement, for any sign of additional observers. The stillness felt artificial now, as if the entire world held its breath, watching.
The morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the clearing as Mike considered his next steps. The dead goblins created a practical problem—what to do with the bodies. His experience with the wolf carcasses had shown how quickly predators and scavengers were drawn to dead flesh. Leaving the goblins where they fell would only attract unwanted attention.
Burning seemed the obvious solution—the cleansing power of fire reducing the corpses to ash. But Mike quickly dismissed the idea. The smoke would be visible for miles, potentially drawing the very forces these scouts had been reporting to. Instead, he would need to bury them, and quickly.
Mike returned to his shelter, gathering the shovel he'd crafted from salvaged metal and hardwood. The tool's weight felt reassuring in his hands—a reminder of his successful adaptation to this world's challenges. With each day, he became more capable, more resilient. But the arrival of these scouts suggested his relative peace had been temporary.
The task was grim but necessary. Using the shovel, Mike dug three graves at the far edge of the ruins, well away from his living area and water sources. The work was exhausting, sweat soaking his shirt despite the cool morning air. The rocky soil fought him with every scoop, as if reluctant to accept the alien bodies he sought to hide within it.
As he worked, part of Mike's mind grappled with the moral dimensions of what he was doing. These weren't animals but thinking creatures—enemies, yes, but still people of a sort. Should he say something over their graves? Offer some kind of acknowledgment?
In the end, practicality won out. These goblins would have killed him without hesitation. Their scouts' presence meant more would come, likely with the same intent. Mike filled in the graves without ceremony, marking them only with small piles of stones to avoid digging in the same place in the future.
By midday, the grim task was complete. Mike's muscles ached from the exertion, and fresh blisters had formed on his palms despite his calluses. He sat on a broken column, drinking deeply from his water skin, allowing himself a moment of rest before the next necessary task.
The gathered weapons lay beside him—three bows, dozens of arrows, several knives, and the medallions he'd taken from each scout. The bows were well-crafted despite their simple appearance, made from some kind of flexible dark wood with sinew strings that maintained tension perfectly. The arrows featured stone heads, carefully knapped to wicked points, with fletching from black feathers he didn't recognize.
"Never used a bow before," Mike admitted to himself, picking up one of the weapons and testing its weight. Construction work had given him strength and coordination, but archery required specific skills. Still, the advantage of ranged attacks couldn't be ignored. If more goblins came, the ability to target them from a distance might make the difference between survival and death.
Mike spent the next hour examining and sorting his new acquisitions, setting aside the best specimens for his own use. The knives would be particularly useful—their edges sharper than anything he'd been able to craft himself. One had a serrated back that would serve well for sawing through materials too tough for his existing tools.
With the immediate tasks completed, Mike returned to his shelter to plan his response. The scouts' presence confirmed what he'd feared since discovering the goblin encampment downstream—the creatures knew about this Haven and, for whatever reason, had decided Mike's presence required investigation and perhaps elimination.
Inside his shelter, Mike spread out a crude map he'd drawn of the surrounding area. His compound occupied a central position, with the forest extending to the north and east, hills rising to the west, and the stream flowing to the south. The goblin encampment lay several miles downstream, in territory he'd marked as dangerous after his initial reconnaissance. If they attacked, they would likely come from that direction, following the water route up to his position.
"Need to expand the defenses," Mike muttered, tracing potential approach routes with his finger.
The rest of the day passed in methodical preparation. First, Mike sketched a rough map of his compound and the surrounding ruins, marking existing traps and identifying vulnerable approaches. The most immediate need was to replace the triggered traps. The three that had killed the scouts were his most sophisticated designs, utilizing principles from the woodworking book's illustrations. Rebuilding them would take time, but with the ring enhancing his abilities, he could complete the work within a day or two.
Beyond replacement, Mike needed to expand his defensive perimeter. If the goblins attacked in force, the current ring of traps might slow them but wouldn't stop a determined assault. He sketched additional trap locations, focusing on creating overlapping fields that would funnel attackers into the most deadly zones.
The boom sap bombs would be crucial. Mike had accumulated a substantial supply of the explosive material, stored in bamboo tubes of various sizes. Some were designed as grenades—thrown weapons that would explode on impact. Others functioned more like mines, buried beneath thin layers of soil with pressure triggers. The largest were stationary bombs with fuses, positioned at key structural points where their detonation could bring down walls or create barriers.
"Need more," Mike calculated, estimating how many additional bombs he could create with his current sap supply. The answer was concerning—not enough for a sustained defense against multiple waves of attackers.
As dusk approached, Mike decided to test one of the goblin bows. He set up a target—a bundle of reeds against an earthen berm—and took position about twenty yards away. The bow was indeed small for his frame, requiring him to adjust his stance and draw to compensate.
His first few shots missed the target entirely, the arrows flying wild in unpredictable directions. The unfamiliar mechanics of drawing, aiming, and releasing proved more challenging than he'd anticipated. But Mike was nothing if not persistent. Arrow after arrow, he adjusted his technique, learning from each failure until the muscles in his shoulders burned with the repeated motion.
"Keep your elbow up," he reminded himself, recalling a fragment of advice from somewhere in his past. "Draw to the same point each time."
Gradually, his shots began to cluster closer to the center of the target. Not expertise by any standard, but improvement. By the time darkness made further practice impossible, Mike had progressed from completely missing the target to hitting it with some consistency.
"Not bad for a first try," he told himself, collecting the arrows for reuse. Sarah would have laughed to see him playing archer—she'd teased him once about his "caveman approach" to problems, preferring tools and force over finesse. The memory brought a smile despite the grim circumstances.
The thought of Sarah sent an unexpected pang through his chest—sharper than usual. He'd been so focused on immediate survival that he'd managed to push thoughts of home to the background most days. But in quiet moments like this, they surged forward, the pain of separation as fresh as the day he'd arrived in this world.
Mike returned to his shelter, securing the entrance behind him. By lamplight, he examined the goblin medallions more carefully. The symbols etched into their surfaces seemed vaguely familiar, reminiscent of the script that appeared in his notifications but more rigid, less flowing in form. Perhaps a simplified version used by the goblins, or an entirely different writing system that merely shared some characteristics.
Whatever their meaning, the medallions confirmed the scouts' organized nature. This hadn't been a random encounter but a deliberate action by the goblin community downstream. And if scouts had come today, fighters would surely follow.
The next morning, Mike divided his time between defensive preparations and continued archery practice. The ring's enhancement seemed to help somewhat with the latter, though not as dramatically as with building tasks. Perhaps its affinity was specifically for woodworking rather than wooden weapons. Still, by midday, his accuracy had improved further, and he could now hit a man-sized target reliably from thirty yards—not in any specific spot, but enough to cause injury.
The rest of the day was devoted to trap construction and sap collection. Mike replaced the triggered traps with designs of equal or greater sophistication, positioning them to cover the same approaches but with subtle differences that might catch repeat intruders by surprise. He added several new traps as well, expanding his defensive perimeter and creating layered zones of danger for any approaching force.
The sap collection yielded better results than expected, perhaps due to the warmer weather. The amber fluid flowed freely from the specialized trees at the perimeter of Crafter's Haven, filling his collection vessels at an encouraging rate. Mike processed it carefully, creating another dozen bombs of various sizes and designs. Some he positioned immediately at key points around his compound; others he kept in his workshop for emergency use.
By the fourth day after the scouts' deaths, Mike had transformed his compound from a comfortable living area to a fortress. Multiple layers of defenses surrounded his core buildings. Escape routes had been established and concealed. Weapons and supplies had been positioned for quick access during combat.
His archery skills had progressed to what he would consider "decent amateur" level—not enough to impress anyone with actual training, but sufficient to be genuinely useful in combat. More importantly, he'd developed a feel for the weapon's limitations and his own capabilities with it, knowledge that would be crucial in a real conflict.
As evening approached on that fourth day, Mike was checking a trap on the western perimeter when he noticed it—a small mark carved into a tree trunk, not far from where one of the scouts had died. The symbol matched those on the goblins' medallions, but it hadn't been there before. Someone had placed it recently, and deliberately.
Mike's blood ran cold. He scanned the surroundings, suddenly acutely aware of being watched. The forest edge, some hundred yards distant, revealed nothing obvious, but instinct told him eyes were upon him. Not just one pair, but many.
Moving casually, as if he hadn't noticed anything unusual, Mike completed his inspection of the trap and began walking back toward his compound. Each step measured, each movement deliberate. Only when he reached the first ring of defenses did he allow himself to look back.
At the forest edge, figures had appeared—dozens of them, small and hunched, their leathery skin visible even at this distance. Goblins, more than he'd seen at the encampment downstream. They made no move to approach, simply standing in a long line at the tree line, watching.
A message, then. Not an immediate attack, but a declaration of intent. *We see you. We know you killed our scouts. We are many, and we are coming.*
Mike's mouth went dry, but he refused to show fear. He stood his ground, meeting their distant gaze. After a moment, he deliberately turned his back on them and walked the rest of the way to his compound. Only when inside did he allow his calm façade to crack, hands trembling slightly as he reached for a water skin.
"They're here," he muttered, taking a long drink. "Just not attacking yet."
The question was why. What were they waiting for? More numbers? Better weapons? Some signal from a leader? The delay gave Mike more time to prepare, but it also stretched his nerves to the breaking point, the constant vigilance taking its toll.
As darkness fell, Mike positioned himself on his rooftop observation post, bow at his side and spear within easy reach. The woodworking ring remained on his finger, its subtle enhancement a constant presence. From this vantage, he had clear views of most approaches to his compound, though the deepening gloom limited visibility to only the closest perimeter traps.
For hours, nothing moved. The forest edge remained still and silent, no sign of the goblin force that had so boldly revealed itself earlier. Perhaps it had been a bluff, a feint designed to rattle him without committing to actual attack.
Then, just as the true darkness of midnight approached, pinpoints of light appeared at the forest edge—first one, then three, then a dozen, then more than he could quickly count. Small fires, deliberately lit and clearly visible.
Not an attempt at concealment, but another message: *We are still here. We are many. We see you, alone in your fortress. We can wait.*
The fires continued to burn through the night, occasionally stoked or reinforced by unseen hands. Mike maintained his vigil, grabbing brief moments of rest but never fully sleeping, always alert for any change in the pattern, any sign of advance.
None came. The psychological warfare continued—the goblins visible but non-aggressive, making their presence and numbers known without committing to battle. By dawn, the fires were extinguished, and the forest edge appeared empty once more. But Mike harbored no illusions. They remained, watching, waiting for whatever signal or moment they had chosen for their attack.
In the growing light, Mike assessed his situation with grim realism. The goblin force outnumbered him significantly—he'd counted at least fifty individual fires. His traps and defenses were impressive, but against those numbers, some would inevitably break through. The sap bombs might even the odds somewhat, but he had a limited supply and no easy way to create more quickly.
This wasn't a fight he could win through direct confrontation. He needed to be smarter, more strategic. The goblins might have numbers, but he had the home advantage—intimate knowledge of the ruins, the underground chambers, the traps and defenses he'd created.
Returning to his workshop, Mike began planning for a prolonged campaign rather than a single battle. He sketched fallback positions, escape routes, ambush points. He calculated how long his food and water would last under siege conditions. He assessed which parts of his compound could be abandoned if necessary, and which must be held at all costs.
As he worked, a notification appeared—floating symbols in that strange script that shifted as he tried to focus on them. Most remained incomprehensible, but the general impression was clear—warnings of danger, suggestions of preparation. The system that governed this world seemed aware of his predicament.
"Thanks for the heads-up," Mike muttered to the floating text, which pulsed once before fading away.
That night, the fires appeared again—more than before, spread in a wider arc along the forest edge. The message had escalated: *Our numbers grow. Your situation worsens.*
From his rooftop vigil, bow across his lap and ancient hammer at his side, Mike watched the distant fires with narrowed eyes. The game of patience had begun, a test of wills between a solitary builder and a goblin horde. Someone would eventually break, would make the first move that shifted this standoff into open conflict.
Mike was determined it wouldn't be him.
The night air carried the scent of smoke and the distant, guttural sounds of the goblin force. Occasionally, a louder cry would rise above the general murmur, perhaps a command or signal. Mike remained motionless, conserving energy, watching.
In the darkness beyond the goblin lines, something larger moved—a shadowy presence that Mike couldn't quite identify. It appeared briefly at the edge of his vision before disappearing back into the forest depths. Whatever it was, the goblins gave it wide berth, their fires forming a deliberate gap where it had appeared.
"What are you waiting for?" Mike whispered into the darkness, his fingers tightening around his bow.
The answer didn't come that night, nor the next day. The siege continued, the waiting game stretching nerves on both sides. Mike used the time to further reinforce his position, to check and recheck his defenses, to practice with his bow until his fingers blistered and his arms ached.
And still the goblins waited, their fires burning each night, their numbers visible but non-engaging. The psychological pressure built with each passing hour, the uncertainty of when the attack would come almost worse than the assault itself.
On the third night, something changed. The fires were closer now, creeping forward from the forest edge to positions among the outer ruins. The goblins no longer merely watched from a distance—they probed, tested, studied his defenses from increasingly advanced positions.
Mike knew then that the waiting game was approaching its conclusion. The encirclement was tightening, the pressure building toward inevitable conflict. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, the siege would become an assault. The time for preparation was nearly over.
The time for survival was about to begin.