5.30 G (1/2)

In Liscor, Wall Lord Ilvriss stood at a table with Olesm, Watch Captain Zevara, and Wing Commander Embria. He had sheaves of reports on the Antinium spread out in front of him and he was talking into his personal scrying orb. At the same time, Olesm was furiously sorting through pieces of parchment while Watch Captain Zevara laboriously dictated messages to the other Walled Cities. Their topic was the Antinium and the recent suspicion of the Antinium’s motives in regards to Liscor’s dungeon had everyone’s tail curled up.

If Pisces could have observed the way his subtle blend of fact and suspicion had sent Drakes across Izril into a panic he would have been beside himself with glee. As it was, the Antinium problem once again dominated the discourse between the Drake cities, overriding lesser politics and infighting.

So many [Message] spells and higher-Tier communication spells were sent back and forth that the covert discussions were soon drawn to the attention of anyone of an ear for magic. The contents of the secret talks would soon find their way into reports read by individuals such as Magnolia Reinhart, the Archmages in Wistram, and so on. And the news of the Drakes’ concern would also pass through other channels to the Antinium, who would begin wondering exactly what the Drakes were concerned about.

Of course, all of this was second to the larger issue in the back of everyone’s minds. The Antinium were still not as pressing as the threat of the Goblin Lord. But as anyone with half a scale’s worth of sense would have pointed out, the Goblin Lord’s army was currently north of Liscor. In Human lands. There was little the Drakes could do about them at the moment.

Sending another army had been debated and then shot down. Moving any force past Liscor would be an act of war and there was no negotiating with the stubborn Humans. All they could do was wait and see what would happen, hence their focus on Liscor and the Antinium.

The Goblins were a Human problem now. But the group best-placed to deal with the growing threat had not risen to the occasion. And far, far north of Liscor, north of Invrisil, the gathering of nobles and leaders who had ridden to Lord Tyrion’s call were growing increasingly anxious.

Yitton Byres strode into the large pavilion and heard the loud voices arguing before he could wipe the water out of his eyes. The spring rains continued to soak the vast war camp of Lord Tyrion’s army and though the downpour was not nearly as harsh as it would have been in Liscor, it still made for an unpleasant walk. The rain and mud soured tempers and the assembly standing in the tent was already angry enough.

“When will we move? I did not ride eighty miles with my army to hide here like a coward while the Goblin Lord marches towards my lands!”

A large, roughly-dressed [Lord] in his early forties shouted as Yitton stepped into the gathering of his peers. Yitton recognized the man at once—the tattoo of a snarling dog on his cheek was enough of a hint, but if he had needed more proof, the smell of wet dog and the way the other nobles stayed well clear of him was another hint. Lord Gralton of Lycit was close to frothing at the mouth as he paced back and forth, his hands closing as if he wanted to throttle something.

“I answered Veltras’ call because I expected to take the battle to the damn Goblins rather than hide like a stinking Reinhart. But it was Magnolia Reinhart who took the fight to the Goblins while we sit here with three times as many men! If this is some joke I’m not laughing! What is Tyrion Veltras doing?”

As he raged, Lord Gralton snarled. He turned and Yitton saw his contorted face. It was no wonder many called Gralton the ‘Dog Lord’ behind his back in jest. Only, no one was laughing now. Gralton looked close to lashing out and a rabid dog was something to be feared. Moreover, he had a point.

“I agree with Lord Gralton. We have been sitting here far too long. Rains or not, we should be pushing south towards the Goblin Lord. How much food has this army consumed so far? A fortune, I should wager!”

A [Lady] fanned herself and pointedly glanced at the appetizers laid out behind the nobles. Some of those in the tent jumped guiltily and pretended not to be hovering around the rich treats. Yitton stood tall, ignoring the food, though he had had little more than cold bread, a bit of cheese and some meat himself. Byres didn’t have the funds to lavish themselves with supplies and he had elected to eat the same as his men to boost morale.

The other nobles murmured, most not openly agreeing with Lord Gralton, but expressing hesitant support. Lord Tyrion Veltras was one of the most powerful [Lords] in the realm, but his influence had limits. The nobles were sick of waiting to take a fight that they would easily win as they saw it. Still, no one wanted to be the first to say something and potentially make the Veltras family their enemy.

Gralton glared about, seemingly dissatisfied by the half-hearted support.

“Cowards. Why isn’t Veltras here himself? Let’s drag him out of his tent and have him explain himself now. No more excuses about the right moment! Does any man among you have the balls to join me?”

The [Lords] in the pavilion tent shifted and several flushed with outrage. But before Gralton’s words could lead to a fight, Yitton Byres spoke up.

“Do you intend to assault our field commander, Lord Gralton? If so, I would rather we come to blows here than suffer mutiny in the camp.”

Heads turned and the nobles made a path as Gralton spun. He eyed Yitton Byres without a shred of fear. Rather, he glanced at the longsword at Yitton’s side as an acknowledgement of what a battle would cost him in blood and flesh and judged it appropriate. He rolled his shoulders and growled at Yitton.

“If Veltras won’t come, what would you do, Byres?”

“Discuss. Object. Perhaps leave with my men, were he that sort of coward. But I suspect Lord Veltras would agree to meet with us candidly—were a delegation sent to persuade him of our discontent. If that is your objective I would be the first to join you, Lord Gralton.”

Yitton met the other man’s eyes without blinking. Yes, exactly like a rabid dog. Gralton bared his teeth, but he nodded with bare restraint. It was said that he trained the fiercest war hounds and the finest trackers in all of Izril. His lands were prosperous, a far cry from Byres’ modest holdings.

“In that case I would put forward my name as well.”

Another [Lord] stepped forwards. He had no sword. He was not a warrior. Yitton glanced at Lord Erill in surprise. Erill was a merchant-lord, a noble who had built his fortunes and amassed enough power and land to be considered true nobility. It seemed that Lord Erill was no stranger to boldness, despite his aversion to battle.

“Well then, I will join you three boys. Let us see if a unanimous front is enough to open Tyrion’s stubborn lips.”

The [Lady] who’d spoken fanned herself and then closed the fan with a snap. She swept past Yitton and only now did he place her face and voice. She had to be Lady Ieka, one of the few nobles capable of performing true magic. She had attended Wistram it was rumored, but had been expelled for reasons unknown after four years.

The four nobles didn’t wait for the other nobility to fall over each other volunteering. They strode out of the tent, Gralton in the lead. It was rainy but the rain only fell hard on Gralton and Yitton. Lord Erill and Lady Ieka were protected by enchantments that kept the rain from ever touching their clothes or skin.

Yitton walked after Gralton, hearing a dog bark as it recognized its master in the distance. He told himself this wasn’t rebellion. He had waited patiently for Tyrion to move after their last conversation. But several days later, he hadn’t seen any changes. Something had to be done. And Tyrion Veltras and this army was the force to do it. Why on earth was the man hesitating? It wasn’t like any of the tales about him.

—-

“Have our guest housed in our tents. Supply her with water, food—clothing. Send for a City Runner if she lacks any amenities. And send a [Message] spell to her family. I am sure they would welcome the good news.”

Lord Tyrion Veltras was instructing one of his retainers. The man bowed and hurried out of the tent. Tyrion turned and strode back towards the desk he had been sitting at. He glanced at the wet chair across from the table—his guest had stumbled in wet, dirty, and quite exhausted. He didn’t begrudge the mess. Rather, the information he had been given along with the latest report—he glanced down at the slip of paper in his hands and grinned.

Lord Gralton would have recognized the grin as that of a hunting wolf. Tyrion’s fingers smoothed the parchment. He had received the welcome news not ten minutes ago. And if he added that the covert [Message] spell he had received…Tyrion spread out a map on his table.

“‘Proceeding south, down Almest Road.’ Hmf. That puts them…here. Poor speed but they have endured a sea voyage. They can catch up. And here—”

His finger traced another route south-west, passing through a forest and marshy terrain, past a city labeled ‘Filk’. Lord Tyrion measured the distance with a bit of marked string, nodding to himself and jotting down notes. In his mind he ran another series of calculations, checking the figures with his internal sense of how fast a horse could run. Then he stepped back and looked at the map as a whole.

“From here to here—and the time is—”

Lord Tyrion glanced at a calendar and eyed the date he had marked. He smiled again. At last, he could see all the pieces falling together. More perfectly than before, in fact.

“Lord Veltras!”

Tyrion turned. His guard at the tent door should have kept anyone from entering, but a brief exclamation was all the warning he received before the guard was thrust aside. Tyrion saw Lord Gralton stride into the tent, followed by Lord Yitton, Lady Ieka, and Lord Erill. The four nobles stopped before his desk and Tyrion saw Erill and Ieka’s eyes dart to the dirty chair. Yitton stood with his hands behind his back and Gralton approached.

“Veltras! We’re done with waiting!”

The man was all savagery and no tact. Tyrion refrained from wrinkling his nose. Gralton had let his class take over too much of himself. The man slammed his hands on Tyrion’s desk and leaned forwards. He was taller and bigger than Tyrion.

“When in the hells are you going to move? That Goblin Lord is a nose away from reaching the mountain with the other Goblins! They could be there by the end of today! And here we sit! Enough talk! Tell us whether we’re moving or not or we’ll—”

“Take your hands off my desk.”

Lord Tyrion’s voice cut through Gralton’s fury. The other man choked and growled, and then looked down. His hands were wet and not exactly pristine to begin with. He was dripping on Tyrion’s expensive maps. He looked up and met Tyrion’s gaze.

The clash of wills in the tent made Yitton grimace. It was unpleasant being privy to a battle between powerful [Lords], even if you weren’t the target yourself. Lady Ieka fanned herself and Lord Erill sighed as Gralton and Tyrion locked gazes. Gralton snarled but then, slowly, took his hands off the desk. Lord Tyrion nodded cordially.

“I thank you. May I assume your objection is shared by the rest of the nobility?”

He glanced pointedly at the other three nobles. Lady Ieka nodded.

“We did not come here to be treated like ignorant children, Tyrion. We waited because we assumed you had a plan. But this idling about is ridiculous. Tell us what you intend or I fear that a good portion of your nobles will quickly desert your army.”

She met his gaze, telling him in no uncertain terms who would be the one to prompt that exodus. Lord Erill coughed delicately.

“I’m afraid I too must insist on some idea of our plan, Lord Veltras. Funding an army of this size becomes pointless if it is not employed to good use.”

Lord Tyrion nodded. He turned his attention to Yitton without betraying any emotion.

“And you, Lord Byres?”

“I have faith in your military expertise.”

The older man met Tyrion’s gaze without wavering. He looked around and bowed slightly to the more powerful nobles around him, all his junior, if only slightly in Gralton’s case.

“However, I agree with my peers. Loyalty is something that must be earned and continue to be earned. Blind faith is not something I demand of my men. The countryside burns.”

“And the Goblins are not just content to stay put as we are. I hear rumors of raiding parties assaulting towns, villages, and cities everywhere south of our position. Not even our nobility is safe—Lady Bevia Veniford has written to me with a request for aid. Apparently the Goblins have surrounded her location. Will you ride to her defense, and the defense of thirty peers of the realm, Tyrion?”

The [Mage Lady] closed her fan and gazed at Tyrion fiercely. He met her gaze. They had been childhood…friends. Acquaintances. It was still poor manners to use his name, but he had observed that [Ladies] bent the rules of etiquette more often than men in their own way. The four nobles waited tensely for Tyrion’s reply. They were all taken aback when he smiled.

“As it happens, Lady Ieka, I have just received the news I was waiting upon.”

“You have?”

She blinked at him. Lord Tyrion lifted the scrap of parchment in his hands. She stared at it with burning curiosity. Tyrion nodded as he passed it to her over the table.

“I have been waiting for a specialized group of reinforcements. They should be arriving at our position shortly. However, I intend to strike the camp before then.”

“Oh my.”

The instant Ieka read the note her brows shot up. Without another word she passed it to Lord Erill who scanned the note, nodded as if it all made sense and handed the message to Yitton.

“One group? We were waiting on one stinking—”

Again, Lord Gralton was about to rage but as Yitton tapped him on the shoulder he grudgingly read the parchment. It took him longer than the others but then his demeanor changed.

“Huh.”

Tyrion nodded decisively.

“Quite. As you can see, the time is now. I am able to put forwards my plan at last. To that end, I am ordering the camp struck. I want our forces moving within the hour. I will briefly inform our peers on our plan of action. However, we may well outpace a good portion of our foot and supply. I intend to move the army now and cover at least fifty miles within the first day. Lord Yitton, I will be taking some of your horse with me and several thousand [Knights], [Lancers], and other advanced rider classes in a scouting party. Lord Gralton, you may wish to prepare your hounds for travel. If they cannot keep up—”

The man strode around his desk, talking rapidly. The other nobles stared as he strode into the rain. Lord Tyrion snapped at the soldier on guard.

“Soldier. Strike the camp and summon my command to the war tent.”

“Sire!”

The man raced off, shouting orders. Instantly the camp buzzed to life. Lord Tyrion strode into the rain, too quick for the others to follow. It was time. He had waited patiently. Men like Gralton could not see the use of waiting. He was a dog, straightforward, refreshingly direct. But Lord Tyrion was the hunter. And his prey was in position.

—-

“Redfang. Redfang.”

Garen Redfang looked around blankly. He glanced up and saw Tremborag staring at him. The huge Hobgoblin was glaring and Garen realized he’d been called.

“What?”

He shifted impatiently on his Carn Wolf. The massive beast paced along, twice as large as any other Carn Wolf. It was still dwarfed by Tremborag. The massive Great Chieftain of the Mountain City tribe was a colossus and with every step the fat on his body jiggled obscenely. He clearly did not enjoy the rain gently showering them from above. Garen didn’t mind. They were on the outermost edges of the storm front and had only been drizzled on sporadically. Still, Tremborag was annoyed. Perhaps it was being outdoors that did it.

“What are you listening to?”

Tremborag’s rumbling voice was tinged with irritation. Garen shrugged. He turned his head, listening again. It was a faint sound he heard.

“Something. Distant sound. Howls.”

The huge Hobgoblin paused.

“The scouts heard nothing.”

Garen shrugged. Tremborag eyed him and grunted. He turned and another Redfang Warrior, one of the few that had stayed with Garen, dodged out of the way, his Carn Wolf yelping in alarm.

“Do you believe it is a trap?”

“Doesn’t matter. We go to meeting place. He goes. After…”

The Chieftain of the Redfang tribe tapped his sword meaningfully. Tremborag bared his teeth.

“True. He brought only a handful of his Goblins. So my scouts say.”

Garen nodded without a word. He ignored the faint howling and turned his attention to the road in front of him. Both he and Tremborag were walking through the forest that surrounded Dwarfhalls Rest, the mountain which Tremborag had made his lair. They had abandoned the safety of the mountain and come out this far with a minimal escort for one reason: to meet the Goblin Lord.

At last the Goblin Lord’s army had arrived at the mountain. His army had appeared in the distance, a winding trail of black armored bodies marching across the landscape. It had taken him far longer than either Garen or Tremborag had expected. The distance had not been that far from Invrisil, but the Goblin Lord must have taken that time to heal his soldiers naturally, without wasting healing potions. He would only have done that if he expected a battle. That was wise.

What wasn’t wise was what he had done the instant he’d drawn close to the mountain. Rather than draw closer and begin the siege at once, he had stopped his army and sent a messenger of all things. Tremborag had nearly killed the Goblin on the spot, but after some debate he had heard the Goblin out.

The Goblin Lord’s message was simple. He had arrived. He was a Goblin Lord. And he expected the other tribes to follow him. Since they had not, he demanded that they meet. Chieftain to Lord, as it were.

Garen’s teeth ground together as he recalled the Goblin boldly delivering the message in the heart of Tremborag’s mountain to the jeering Goblins of the Mountain City tribe. It was a command worthy of a Lord, but coming from him—Tremborag had threatened to crush the little Goblin until he had heard the terms.

“Come alone. Just we two Chieftains and six escorts. He will bring six too. Far too small a number for an ambush. And he would be a fool to try and hide Goblins from Goblins.”

Tremborag mused as he walked through the forest floor, snapping branches that threatened to strike his face. Garen nodded.

“Talk?”

“He must think he can persuade you or I. Fool.”

Tremborag grinned and his red eyes flashed. Garen nodded. His stomach clenched at the thought of meeting the Goblin Lord and his hand fell to the red blade at his side. Redfang, the enchanted artifact that was his greatest possession. His Carn Wolf growled, sensing its master’s mood.

“Take out small Goblins first?”

“You do that. I will rip his head off myself.”

The Great Chieftain flexed his massive claws. Garen nodded and focused on the trail ahead. Of course, the Goblin Lord had come to parley. Of course, it would be treacherous to slay him. But they were going to do it anyways. There was no better opportunity. Two Chieftains versus a single Lord? If it were any other Chieftains, it would have been suicidal. But Garen and Tremborag? They were far too powerful. The Goblin Lord had made a fatal error.

Garen wondered if his tribe would have considered the trap a betrayal. His teeth ground together as he thought of them, somewhere else. He wondered if they would have dared to protest this. And then he thought of Rags. What would she have done? Refused to join the ambush? Or laid a more cunning trap?

Such thoughts were a distraction. Garen shook himself. As he did, his Carn Wolf raised its head and sniffed the air. Tremborag halted.

“Here.”

The two Chieftains slowly entered a cleared space in the woods. The six Redfang Warriors spread out behind them, their Carn Wolves sniffing and growling as they sensed what was ahead. The Goblin Lord and his entourage.

He sat upon a Shield Spider, a massive example of the species. It was dead. Something had ripped its belly apart, and yet the Shield Spider still stood. The magic had reanimated it, given it second life and so it still served as the Goblin Lord’s mount. Next to him rode a Hobgoblin with metallic teeth and too large a head on a horse. Snapjaw, his fierce lieutenant.

On his other side, a Hob nearly as tall as Tremborag stood with folded arms. Eater of Spears was all muscle compared to Tremborag’s bulk and the Hob fearlessly met Tremborag’s eyes as both Goblin parties halted and stared at each other. Four more Hobs stood behind the Goblin Lord. But it was he that Garen looked at. He saw two black eyes with white pupils turn and felt the shock of hatred the instant their gazes met.

“You.”

The Goblins stared at each other in silence. Garen tensed as he leaned over his Carn Wolf. The Goblin Lord’s eyes flicked from him to Tremborag. Weighing. Judging. Assessing. This close, Garen felt the urge to kneel, to follow the Goblin in front of him. But he resisted with every fiber of his being.

There were no flowery speeches, no opening niceties. That was not the Goblin way. The Goblin Lord spoke abruptly, his voice educated, direct. Authority rang through it, commanding with every syllable.

“I am a Goblin Lord. I am Reiss. Your tribes will join my army.”

The two Chieftains looked at each other. They turned back to Reiss and laughed. They spoke as one.

“No.”

The word was as powerful as the Goblin Lord’s request. One of the Hobs behind Reiss actually took a step back before catching himself. Reiss did not move. He looked at Tremborag, and then at Garen. The question was meant more for Garen.

“Why?”

Garen held his tongue. His chest was burning. With betrayal. With hurt. With rage. He stared at the undead spider and it was Tremborag who answered with a booming laugh of contempt.

“You are arrogant, little brat of the south. Who do you think you are, coming to my home and challenging me? I am Tremborag! Great Chieftain of the Mountain! If you are wise you will turn and run. You will never take my tribe, little Goblin.”

His words made Reiss’ entourage shake with fury. Snapjaw glared up at Tremborag and shouted at him.

“Show respect! You speak to great Goblin Lord! Not Chieftain.”

She interjected as much contempt into her tone as she could. Neither Garen nor Tremborag seemed affected by the comparison, though. He glanced at Snapjaw dismissively.

“How the female barks for her master! I am no small Chieftain. I am old! I lived decades ago, when the Goblin King was an unborn seed! I heard his call and I refused him to his face. I am no small Chieftain with the lifespan of a fly! I was here when Velan the Kind gathered his armies. I was here when he fell. I remember the Goblin King’s face!”

“So do I.”

Silence. Reiss looked around the clearing. When he spoke, the past weighed on his words.

“I have seen Velan’s fall. I know his rage but not why. I know our history. And I will make sure it does not happen again. Look at my army. I defeated the Tidebreaker, hero of Drakes. I destroyed Drake and Human armies. Join me and I will make a kingdom for Goblins. I will bring us peace and make other species afraid to strike us! Do you not wish that?”

The Goblins behind him raised a cheer. Garen’s heart felt a twinge and his hand gripped his sword’s hilt. He stared at Reiss. The same words. Good words. But his eyes—

Again, Tremborag snorted. He looked down on Reiss with contempt in his red eyes.

“You speak of kingdoms and peace without knowing the truth, little slave. Grow as mighty as you want. The Humans and Drakes will never let you know peace. You will be hunted. And you will never be a King. A slave cannot lead others.”

And there it was. The hiss from the Redfang Warriors behind Garen said it all. Reiss’ Goblins shifted and Tremborag pointed down at the Goblin Lord.

“You are not Goblin. You are a pet. A thing. You cannot bring peace. You do not even deserve to be Chieftain. Let alone Lord.”

“Yet I am a Lord.”

Reiss met his gaze, unflinching. Tremborag laughed.

“A poor one. Your army is small. You bow to a master. You copy Humans! Humans! We are Goblins. We steal and take. We do not copy formations and armor and—this.”

His wave took in all that was Reiss. From the way he spoke to his eyes to everything else. Tremborag shook his head.

“Turn around little Lord. This is the last time I offer. The Goblin King himself could not unseat me from my home. What makes you think you can?”

The Goblin Lord sat calmly atop his Shield Spider and closed his eyes. When he opened them, his white pupils were unflinching as he met Tremborag’s gaze.

“The Goblin King was kind. He let those afraid to die run. He left your home and your tribe alone, Great Chieftain. But I am not kind. Your tribe is mine.”

Without waiting for Tremborag to respond, Reiss turned his head.

“The ‘Great Chieftain’ declines. But what of you, Redfang? You swore to follow me if I had the right idea. If I had a vision. Do you forget your promise of long ago?”

All eyes darted towards Garen. Tremborag’s expression changed to one of alarm and sudden paranoia. He took a slow step backwards as Garen rode forwards. He stared up at Reiss. The Goblin met his gaze with foreign eyes. Who was he now? Garen spat on the dead Shield Spider.

“Becoming a slave is not good idea.”

“Sometimes it is the only choice.”

Reiss whispered down to Garen. The Hob grinned mirthlessly.

“Better to die than be slave.”

“I disagree.”

The two stared at each other in silence. Garen’s Carn Wolf growled and he tensed, his hand on his sword. The Shield Spider’s dead face was right in front of him. Reiss sat far above.

There was no signal. Garen ripped his blade from his sheath and hacked at the Shield Spider’s head. He shouted as he did.

“[Deeper Cut]!”

It was a basic Skill. But it was all he needed. The enchanted blade sheared the front of the Shield Spider’s face off and it collapsed. The other Goblins around Reiss shouted in fury and alarm. Garen heard Carn Wolves howling as his warriors leapt to attack, Tremborag’s roar. His Carn Wolf leapt towards where Reiss had fallen. He swept his sword up.

“Traitor! Cowardly coward!”

Snapjaw lunged, biting, and Garen twisted to avoid her jaws as they bit for his neck. He twisted and his Carn Wolf snapped at her horse. They circled each other, trading blows.

Behind them, Tremborag had charged forwards and met Eater of Spears. The younger Hob was smaller, but he stopped Tremborag’s charge with ease. Tremborag cursed him and clawed at Eater of Spears’ arms but the Hob pushed Tremborag back. He was trying to pull the Chieftain’s arm off and Tremborag’s howl of pain echoed through the clearing. Eater of Spears felt Tremborag straining against him but knew he was stronger. Then he felt muscle and fat ripple under his claws. He stared at the Hob in shock as Tremborag’s form grew.

Something else grabbed Eater of Spears’ arm. It lifted the gigantic Hob up and something threw him as if he were a toy. It was not a Hob. Tremborag’s voice deepened into a roar as his body changed, grew larger. In a blink the fat became muscle and he turned and tore a head off of a Hob. He howled.

“Weak, brat! Decades too weak to face me!”

Then he charged at the Goblin Lord. Eater of Spears tried to stop him, but a single blow sent him reeling backwards. Tremborag raced forwards on all fours at where the Goblin Lord had fallen behind the Shield Spider. The Hob didn’t waste time circling the fallen undead spider—he picked it up and hurled the thing away, breaking it to pieces as it struck a tree. Tremborag turned, grinning, and saw Reiss pointing up at him.

“[Deathbolt].”

The black magic struck Tremborag in the face. He cried out and stumbled back. For a moment his face went grey, and then he roared and swiped at the Goblin Lord. But the Goblin had already dived for safety. And something burst through the ground as Eater of Spears once again charged Tremborag from the side. A huge hand shot out of the soil and a massive, hulking Human burst upwards. It grabbed Tremborag by the leg as a dozen undead burst out of the ground, surprising the Redfang Warriors.

“Draug!”

Garen snarled the instant he saw the huge hulking undead. He lunged to one side as the first Draug swung at him. They were deceptively quick! He parried a blow from Snapjaw and countered.

The edge of his sword slammed into her open mouth, sending her reeling backwards. It didn’t sear off the top of her head—the blade had struck her teeth! Garen saw several break, but the enchanted blade cut no further. Snapjaw spat blood and jumped at him.

He stabbed her horse. It went down, squealing, and his Carn Wolf lunged forwards and bit once. Snapjaw cursed but Garen leapt past her. He would have rushed at Reiss once more, but three Draug blocked his way. Garen snapped an order and his Carn Wolf bounded back. He cursed and saw another black bolt of light. He instantly leaned sideways and the death magic missed him by inches.

Reiss was standing in a circle of undead and his three remaining Hob warriors, aiming at him! Garen snarled as he cut at the Draugr around him. This was not what he had envisioned! Worse, he saw Tremborag besieged by the undead. The giant Goblin smashed them effortlessly, destroying the powerful undead with single blows, but between Eater of Spears and the Draug he couldn’t charge Reiss. And he was too large a target.

Another [Deathbolt] blasted from Reiss’ fingertip. Not at Garen, but at Tremborag who was unable to dodge. Twice more the spell struck Tremborag, blackness absorbing itself into his skin. The gigantic Goblin roared as if to defy the death magic. But he did retreat, shielding his body, running backwards as he ignored the Draugr battering his legs and stomach.

“Fall back! Back!”

Garen waved his blade and saw his Redfang Warriors retreat. Six—no, five of them fled, one on foot. One Goblin and two Carn Wolves lay dead and another Goblin fell as Reiss picked them off with another [Deathbolt] spell. Garen shouted his fury but fled as well. There were too many Draug! He raced through the forest, hearing Reiss shout an order. Now his entire army would be pursuing them in moments! Still, Garen didn’t fear being caught. Rather, he raced towards the huge shape lumbering through the forest, knocking over trees.

“Tremborag! Alright?”

He called up at the massive Goblin. Tremborag was still in his combat form, but he looked…tired. Three [Deathbolts] had struck him and the Goblin Chieftain was laboring for breath. He snarled as Garen rode next to him and swung at the Carn Wolf and its rider.

“I strong. Go!”

Garen hesitated, but Tremborag’s color was returning quickly and he was picking up the pace. He nodded and rode faster, grabbing at the Redfang Warrior on foot. He pulled the Goblin up and they raced back towards the mountain ahead of them. Behind, he could hear horns blaring. The Goblin Lord’s army was coming now. They would besiege the mountain.

Not what he had hoped for. But he was alive. And if he was alive, he’d get another shot at Reiss. That was his name now? He’d always wanted a name. Garen closed his eyes. His heart beat with betrayal and fury. He was bleeding. Had Snapjaw cut him? Or the Draug?

The air rushed around Garen as he rode. He turned his head up and heard a faint noise again. He could still hear it on the wind. A distant, far off sound. Garen could pick it out in his mind, in his heart. Not here. Somewhere farther away. Miles, tens or hundreds perhaps. It didn’t matter. He could still hear the howl, the howl of his warriors, his tribe.

He heard his warriors screaming, in rage and fury and grief. He longed to be with them. For a moment Garen listened, then he kicked his Carn Wolf in the side and it bounded towards the mountain as the Goblin Lord’s forces rushed through the forest after him. But the howling remained.

War was in the air.

—-

The Goblins rode across the countryside, screaming their fury. They rode terrifying wolves thrice as large as the normal, their fur rust-red, their teeth bared for blood. These were no ordinary Goblins. They were Redfang Warriors and they burned as they never had before with hatred.

Vengeance. Revenge for the fallen, those who had died to poison and steel in the night! They howled as they rode in small groups, in pairs, alone, to villages and farms. They carried torches and crossbows and set every building they came to alight. They burned fields where they could and where it was wet they did as much damage as they could, hounding the Humans, some laying traps before fleeing.

Because they were being pursued. Human [Riders] followed and [Trackers] and [Soldiers] laid deadly ambushes that took down each Goblin that passed. The Humans knew where the Redfang Warriors were, where they were going. So the Redfangs died. But they died hard.

—-

Look—

A Redfang Warrior named Fleetfur breaks off from the group. His friends call out to him, but he raises a hand holding his spear upright. His Carn Wolf is injured—struck by an arrow. He turns back and lifts his spear. Fifteen Humans pursue him, shouting. Fleetfur pats his wolf on the head and hears it whine once. He points and it bounds forward, ignoring the pain. He rides against fifteen, alone, laughing. He takes a horse and rider down and spears another Human before he falls to their blades.