Dravak called the council from his stone seat. The great slab sat on a raised shelf of rock before the main fire pit, worn smooth by years of use. It had been carved by old hands long before the Irongfang tribe called this cave home, rough, uneven, and as solid as the mountain itself. From that seat, Dravak could see the entire cavern: the wolves resting near the entrance, the racks and bunks along the walls, and the faces of every goblin in the tribe gathered in a wide half circle before him.

  The Ironfangs watched in silence. When Dravak held council, only those he chose spoke.

  Throk stood to his right, broad and scarred, arms folded across his chest. Kesh stood to his left, her sharp green eyes catching the firelight. Rika waited among the crowd with the riders, alert and quiet. Grub stood a step back, small and steady, listening.

  Dravak raised a hand and the murmurs died. He spoke with the slow certainty of a leader who had endured winter and expected more from his people. “The snow melts. The rivers rise. The season of waiting is done. We hunt.”

  A low, eager ripple moved through the gathered goblins.

  Kesh was the first to speak, practical and measured. “I agree. We have endured the winter far better than most, and come out of it stronger than others. But, we should choose our opponent wisely. The Red Tusks to the north-west are too strong for us now. They have numbers and stores. They are not for us to face quite yet.”

  Throk spat a short laugh. “Then we take the softer game. The Duskroot tribe sits low and hungry. We should strike them before the thaw brings their numbers back.”

  Dravak’s gaze scanned the crowd and landed on the scout who had come back from the east ridge. "What can you tell us about the Duskroot tribe?" he rumbled. The scout stepped forward, narrow and spare, his furs still full of pine. He dipped a quick bow and spoke plainly. “The Duskroot camp sits two valleys east, tucked beneath old roots and cliff shelves. They number maybe twenty to twenty five after the rough winter. Their fires are small. Their den is not fortified. They are crafty, and rely on pits and snares in the gullies, traps hidden by brush. Their sentries are watchful at night, but their morale is thinned by hunger and sickness.”

  Dravak leaned forward. “How long to reach them if we push steady?”

  “A day and a half with hard pace,” the scout said. “Two days if you rest and carry food. There is a narrow creek crossing and a low gully on the last approach. From the last rise you can see their smoke when the air sits still.”

  Throk’s grin widened at that. “We hit them hard, straight down the middle. Make a loud line so they brace on the rim. When men dig in to defend, they fight the wrong way. We will break them.”

  Kesh inclined her head. “As shocking as this is to me, I agree with him. If we try to slip and outmaneuver them in the woods we hand them the ground they know best. A frontal push forces them to choose: stand and defend their den, or flee and scatter. We bring the wolves, hold the ridge, and pin them.”

  Dravak considered the plan, then turned his eyes toward Grub. “You have been quiet. I know that mind of yours is working on something. Speak.”

  Grub stepped forward, keeping his voice low and even. “We can take more than skins,” he said. “If we crush them, we get meat and hides, yes, but that's it. If we take them alive, we get hunters and hands to work, warriors to bolster our numbers. Traps and ambushes are their strength. If we come loud and straight, they will fall back to defend their home. When they are cornered, pride will do the rest.”

  There was a beat of silence. Throk huffed, interest and derision mixed on his face.

  "Go on," said Dravak, also plainly curious what new outlandish idea Grub had cooked up.

  Grub did not hurry. “I will bait their chief into a duel. I will make a scene so that he has to answer. If he comes out to prove himself, we will have a single fight in front of both sides. If I win, their will breaks and they surrender. If I lose, you take the field as originally planned. Pride will bring him into the open. Then, we end it quick with minimal losses.”

  Kesh’s head tilted. “A duel to settle it. So the rest will stay alive and we can take prisoners instead of corpses.”

  “Yes,” Grub said. “Pride brings a leader forward. He will not stand for a runt to shame him in front of his men. If and when he accepts, we limit bloodshed and bring more into our tribe.”

  Dravak watched him for a long moment, the flames from the hearth painting his face with slow, orange shadows. His iron teeth glinted softly in the firelight as he grinned. “You would put yourself forward to be bait.”

  Grub met his gaze. “I would make him show his courage.”

  Throk ground his teeth and spat. “If he falls for the bait, he is a fool. If he does not, and the duel doesn't happen, then we still charge and take them by force.” Grub nodded at that. "Fair."

  Dravak nodded once. “We will try for captives first. Kesh, Throk, lead the lines." He glanced through the crowd until he found the face he was searching for, then continued. "Rika, keep the wolves fresh and loud on the ridge. If the duel fails, we press. If it succeeds, we take them alive.” She nodded.

  The talk moved then to what to do with the prisoners. Dravak’s expression hardened. “When we win, we bring them back. We do as goblins have always done. Drag them by the ears, lock and beat them, and teach them their place until they submit.” He felt movement to his side, and internally rolled his eyes. "Here it comes," muttered Throk, although his tone was undercut by the amused grin he had plastered on his face.

  Grub stepped forward again, the room growing quiet at the edge of his words. “If you break them with fear and clubs, they learn only fear. Fear only makes them submit until they find the right moment to stab you in the back. It makes a tribe weak.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Throk snorted. “And your way is better?”

  Grub shook his head. “Not better, not necessarily. Just different. Here is what I propose: allow me to take responsibility for them. I will give them clean furs, food, and a place to sleep near a warm hearth. We will not demand or force them to work. Let them watch the tribe bustle and work while they sit comfortably and eat good food. Pride will do the work the club hopes to force. A captive who eats and sleeps while others toil cannot bear the shame. He will want to fix it. He will beg to help so he is not useless.”

  A few scoffs came from the gathered goblins. Kesh’s mouth softened just slightly as she considered it. “You seek to weaponize their shame.”

  “Yes,” Grub said. “Shame will cut deeper than bone. And we keep the sick and wounded separate so rot does not spread.”

  Dravak’s face changed into something like a smile. He looked at the Builders and then at Grub. “Strange thinking has kept us alive, warm and comfortable during winter. You speak odd, Grub, but your ideas have borne ripe fruit before." He looked over towards the group of three Builders standing together off to the side.

  "Builders, make three cages in the back. One for the sick, one for the wounded, and one for the healthy captives. Line them with good furs. If pride does not bend them, then our clubs will.”

  The Builders nodded and moved toward the rear of the cavern, their tools already in hand.

  Throk spat on the ground and grinned. “I will keep my club close, just in case.”

  Kesh inclined her head. “We try his way first. If it fails, we break them as we must.”

  Dravak turned back to the tactical plan. “When the trail softens, we move. Rika and the riders take the ridge, Throk the main line, Kesh the flank. Grub will show himself when the chief can be baited and step forward for his duel. If the chief accepts, end it quick. If he refuses, we burn the den and take by force.”

  Grub met Dravak’s eyes. “I will not stand alone. If the duel succeeds and we win the field, we take them prisoner. No cruelty, no threats. If it fails, you do as you please. It won't matter to me at that point," he continued, a small grin on his face, "I'll be dead."

  “Agreed,” Dravak said. He stood, the firelight throwing his shadow across the cavern and stirring the gathered tribe as he spoke to them all. “We take captives first, not corpses. We bring them home, without cruelty or threats. Treat the captives like an Ironfang that is being punished, not like slaves. We shall see if this idea works as well as Grub claims it will. Grub, you will watch their first days and tell us who will be given work. We move out at the first good light after the thaw softens the trail.”

  A low, hungry cheer rolled through the cavern, answered by the low growls of the wolves near the cave mouth. The Builders hammered in the rear, and the tribe broke apart to ready themselves. A low excited murmur permeated the cave.

  Grub lingered a moment longer, feeling the steadiness of the mountain beneath his feet, a constant reminder of patience. The Duskroot tribe sat in their gullies, thinned by hunger and wary, unaware of the looming threat that was headed their way. The Ironfangs had chosen their first test. Now, they would have to make it count.

  The tribe did not move at once. The council had set the purpose and the pace. For four days the cavern hummed with preparation, practice, and quiet sharpening of habits. The Builders finished the three cages at the rear, putting oak and stone into its place, bedding them with clean furs and stacking spare blankets in neat rolls. One cage sat apart for the sick, another for the wounded, and the third for the unbroken and healthy captives. Grub checked seams and hinges, pointed where a bar should be doubled, and watched the way the Builders worked with the steady, patient eye of someone who knew what a bad fit could mean later. The cages were arranged so they were all close to a roaring fire. Warmth mattered to Grub. He believed that comfort could do more to shape a captive than fear ever could.

  Outside, the Fangs of Winter drilled until their motions tightened. Rika had the riders practice mounting their wolves at a run and breaking into a canter, then loosing javelins and short bows from the saddle. The first attempts were awkward. Shafts spun and arrows veered wide, but by the second day a clean thunk followed many passes. Grub taught a waist twist that used the momentum of the wolf to aid their attacks instead of hinder. He showed the young goblins how to lean with the wolf so that a throw did not topple them.

  Throk ran the warriors through heavy spear drills in the cleared center of the cavern, teaching shields and ranks and how to close a gap without exposing a flank. Kesh moved between groups, tightening formations and marking where a man’s step should fall to meet another’s so the line would hold during battle.

  Grub did not ride Sable in the drills. He spent his time pacing a tamped circle in the cavern, shaping his hands around the small, precise motions that made mana answer. Stone Spear had grown sharper, but it still demanded seconds he could not waste in a duel. He shaped and launched stone until his arm felt like a machine and his vision blurred. By the end of the fourth day the motion felt less like magic and more like breathing. He gathered a handful of fist-sized rocks, tucking them into a leather pouch at his belt so he would not have to hunt for stones when the moment came.

  The tribe worked hard in those four days. When the time came to leave, the Builders stayed behind to finish the sleeping alcoves and keep the hearth warm for a return. In all, three builders, five pregnant females, and two other guards remained in the cave. That left ten to hold the home while the rest moved. The rest packed supplies and moved with purpose. The wolf riders checked harnesses and loaded bundles of food and other supplies onto their backs, tying them securely so they would not unbalance the wolves as they moved. That done, the riders checked their bowstrings and javelins, and the warriors checked spear points until every edge had been sniffed and tested. Grub made sure to bring medical supplies with him, strapping a bundle onto Sables back. When they set out in the thaw, the number of marching fighters came to twenty six. Ten riders, including Rika, walked near to their wolves, twelve warriors followed in neat lines of three, and Dravak, Grub, Throk, and Kesh made up the vanguard, leading the Ironfangs to their first real raid in a long time.

  They moved out at first light. The cave gave a quiet last look behind them and the line moved steadily into the forest. The wolves padded along, unbothered by their burdens, and Throk set a pace that pushed them but did not break them. Dravak checked every hour so no beast or goblin stumbled from exhaustion.

  Even with the worst case in mind Grub did the math in his head. The Duskroot tribe were twenty to twenty five strong according to the scout. Even if they met in open ground and every Duskroot fought without traps or tricks the Ironfangs still held a slight numerical advantage. That wasn't even counting the eleven full grown direwolves that ran with them into battle. A single dire wolf could smash a shield line; eleven made a different kind of enemy.

  They made the trip in only two days of travel. The first day the route kept the creek to their left and the low gullies under a curtain of pines. The second day the forest opened into the fold of the valley Dravak’s scout had described. Grub rode Sable, her shoulder a steady warm presence under his thigh. He found that riding calmed his hands but not the thing that tightened behind his ribs.

  The duel he planned to offer the Duskroot chief sat like cold stone in his gut. He ran the sequence over and over in his head. He checked the pouch of stones and the leather grips on his staff. He practiced the short breath that pulled mana into his fist and shaped the spear and then spat it away. The motion was there. The timing felt like something he could trust. Still he felt a small, sharp thread of nerves. This was not a sparring partner in the cavern. This was a man who would bet his pride and likely his life on one contest. If the chief accepted as Grub expected, he would need speed and a clean strike. If the chief refused the duel and the tribe bled, Grub needed to be ready to keep his people alive while Dravak and the others held the line.

  They made a light camp the first night, feeding the wolves salted meat and keeping smoke thin so they did not alert their opponents to their presence. At night, Grub lay awake longer than the others, counting the breath of Sable at his side, feeling the pulse of her heart against the flat of his palm. He reviewed the timing of Stone Spear until the motion became a muscle memory. He woke early and practiced once more before the march woke around him.

  On the morning of the second travel day the valley opened and the scent of other hearths walked on the wind. They slowed and moved by small fingers of cover so they would not announce themselves too soon. By mid afternoon, a scout slipped forward to the edge of a low ridge up ahead and crept back to report. The scout’s voice was low. The Duskroot tribe lay in a hollow near the river bend as the scout had said back in the cave. Their fires were small but steady. Sentries held the rim in numbers the scout had reported. Traps studded the gullies but many were half buried and poorly tended.

  Dravak gathered them where the pines thinned and the earth gave a wide view of the Duskroot’s den. He looked at each of the lieutenants in turn and then at Grub. His voice was the calm rock that always made the tribe listen. “We come loud at daybreak,” he said. “Throk will crash the center. Kesh will sweep the flank. Hold your lines tight. Grub, you stand hidden but ready to step forward and call the duel. Do not step before the chief answers the call.” Grub nodded, then said "We should begin by having the wolves announce their presence. To them, it would seem like a wolf attack on their home. It's likely to draw out most or all of them to defend." Dravak nodded once, "A good idea."

  Grub’s gut tightened but he nodded. He felt the leather pouch of stones at his belt weigh heavy. The wolves growled low and shifted their weight beneath them like coiled engines. Beyond the ridge the Duskroot den smoldered and a man moved to the rim in the pale light of dusk. Grub felt the breath leave him in a single tide. They would engage with the Duskroot tribe in the morning. They retreated a bit, made camp and stayed quiet in the cold, snowy forest, the anticipation of the morning rising throughout the night.