The last grip of winter clung to the wilds as the Ironfangs camped and waited for the moning. At first light they rose silently, and moved to look down at the hollow that held their target. Frost slicked the bark and silvered the pine needles, and the air carried that brittle chill that bit the lungs if drawn too deep. From the ridge above the Duskroot hollow, they waited in silence. Eleven wolves crouched among the trees, breath steaming in quiet rhythm, their riders dark shapes against snow and stone.

  Below, the Duskroot den slept in its pit of roots and clay. Two thin fires sent up pale threads of smoke. Half-starved goblins moved slow around weak flames. No hunters ranged beyond the rim. No patrols watched the gullies. What traps remained were half-buried and frozen.

  Kesh peered through the crooked arms of a pine. Her voice came soft and certain. “They are all home. There is no movement beyond the hollow. The traps we've found are all rotten and frozen. This is the time to strike.”

  Dravak stood behind her, the fur of his cloak stiff with frost. His eyes stayed fixed on the hollow. He nodded once, then looked to Grub. “You are sure this will work?”

  Grub stepped beside him, breath turning to smoke, voice even. “It will. A chief cannot ignore a challenge in front of his tribe.”

  Dravak did not look away. “And if it fails?” “Then we do it your way,” Grub said. “Throk breaks the line. Kesh sweeps the flank. The wolves take what is left.”

  Throk grunted behind them, arms crossed, shoulders half a wall of their own. “Now that is a plan I like.” Kesh cut him a look. “You like any plan that ends with something broken.” He flashed a grin. “And I am usually right.”

  Dravak’s attention flicked between them, then settled back on Grub. “You have thought this through.”

  “I have been thinking of little else for days,” Grub said. “He will step forward. When he does, I will end it quick.” Dravak studied him a long moment. “This is not sparring in the cavern. Do not hesitate.” “I know. I won't.” Grubs heart was hammering in his chest as he stared down the decline into the hollow, but he knew it was the right decision.

  Kesh shifted, eyes running the ridge and the wolves. “When we move, we move together.” Dravak gave a slow nod. “Aye. Make it count.” He turned and nodded to Grub. "On your mark."

  Grub turned toward Rika at the edge of the ridge and nodded to her. She grinned, then raised her arm and gave a short, sharp whistle.

  Ashpaw threw back his head and the first howl rolled out. Ten more voices joined, layered and deep, echoing off frozen cliffs until the valley trembled. It was not a frenzy. It was a measured wall of sound, hunger and strength braided tight.

  Below, the Duskroot sentries jolted awake. Shapes stumbled from the den mouth. Cries rose, thin with panic. Spears came up at the rim. Some tripped over half-buried snares. Twenty or so goblins stood outside the dens entrance, weapons raised, staring up at the howling wolves in fear.

  The wolves kept howling in a rolling cadence. The warriors gathered in a line struck spear shafts to shields in a steady rhythm, turning the noise into a ritual of fear that crawled into the hollow and settled there.

  Rika cut her arm down.

  Silence dropped like a blade, sudden and sharp.

  The forest stilled. Breath hung in the air. Even the wind held back. The Duskroot stood blinking into the sudden void.

  Dravak stepped forward from the trees to the ridge edge. His voice carried cleanly down into the hollow below. “Duskroot. You see what stands at your door. We could cut you down and lose little for it, but we would rather take prisoners than corpses. Lay down your weapons and live.”

  For a heartbeat, only the hiss of wind cutting through frost-stiff grass answered. Then a rough voice came back, angry, yet edged with fear.

  “You think we will bend because you bring beasts to our door?”

  A thick-bodied goblin stepped out from the half-ring below. Scars crossed his ribs. A piece of ear was missing. His furs were thin, but he stood straight. The goblins around him made way as he moved.

  “We fight for our home,” he shouted back up at Dravak. “We are ready to bleed for it. You think us afraid of fur and teeth?” The warriors behind him shifted slightly, stood taller. Pride burned bright in hungry eyes. Spears lifted a little higher.

  Dravak did not raise his voice. He chuckled into the silence before responding. “You have spirit, I will give you that.” He paused and let the moment pull tight. “So, I offer a choice. Defeat my weakest warrior in single combat and you live, and we shall leave, simple as that. Lose, and you and your tribe surrender. You have my word that the rest of your tribe will live either way.”

  The chief barked a laugh without mirth. “Your weakest warrior? You think I will fall for your tricks? You mean to strike when my back turns, or set a wolf on me the moment I step forward?”

  “No tricks. No wolves. One on one,” Dravak said. He turned his head. “Grub.”

  The small goblin stepped from the line and walked until he stood clear. Sable padded at his side, breath a faint cloud in the cold. From down below, the Duskroot could only see her faintly glowing yellow eyes staring down at them. She sat and waited.

  A murmur moved through both tribes. Grub lifted his chin. “Chief of the Duskroot. I challenge you to a duel. You and me. If you win, we leave. If I win, your tribe surrenders to us. No traps. No tricks. One life for dozens.”

  The chief looked him over, taking in the slight frame and the plain staff. His mouth curled. “You are small. Weak. You think I am fool enough to step into some game spun with pretty words?”

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

  Grub’s tone stayed quiet, but it carried into the hollow. “I think you are a coward hiding behind hungry boys.”

  Growls rolled along the Duskroot line, some anger, some laughter. The insult hit deep. The chief stiffened.

  “I will not even bring the wolf,” Grub said. He flicked two fingers. Sable padded back to Rika and sat, tail curled around her paws, eyes fixed on the chief.

  “Just me,” Grub said, hands open. “Or do you only find your courage with a ring of spears to hide behind?”

  Every gaze pressed on the chief. Pride would not let him back down now. He gritted his teeth and growled, “I accept. Clear the ground.”

  The gathered Duskroot moved to a rough ring of trampled snow and frozen earth. Across the clearing the Ironfangs spread into their own arc. Wolves sat or paced at the edge, tails low, heads high, silent.

  Dravak stepped forward just enough for both sides to hear. “No arrows. No blades thrown. Any hand that moves before this is done loses fingers.” No one argued. Even Throk’s grin went flat.

  The chief rolled his shoulders and set his spear as he paced back and forth across from Grub. He spat into the snow, eyes narrowed in anger. “You will die quick, runt. I will give your tribe your bones when Im done with you.”

  Grub didn't answer. He took a slow breath and let the world narrow to the space between them, the cold, the ring of watchers. Mana warmed under his skin, ready.

  Dravak lifted his hand. “Begin.”

  The air inside the ring felt close despite the cold. Leather creaked. Frost cracked under shifting feet. Somewhere a wolf’s claws scratched once and went still. Everyone's gaze was focused on the two figures in the ring.

  The chief moved first, his spear low, weight balanced. Grub did not answer agression with aggression. He set his stance, staff loose in his hands, and let the older goblin circle and close in until the opening showed itself.

  A feint jabbed in quick, aiming to draw a flinch. Grub did not bite. The true thrust came straight and fast for his chest. He slid a half step, turned his hips, and beat the shaft aside with a short snap of the staff. The wood buzzed under his palms. The chief flowed into a low sweep for Grub’s legs. Grub hopped lightly over the spear and angled off.

  The chief pressed, teeth bare. A brutal chop came down for Grub’s head. Grub set his feet and pulled a thin thread of mana across his skin. Earthen Skin roughened his forearms and shoulders like grit. The spear smashed down, glanced from his raised forearm, and tore into his sleeve without biting. He answered back at once. Grub stepped in on the lead foot and cracked the butt of his staff up under the chieftains jaw. The blow staggered the chief and bought him a heartbeat.

  Grub took it. His hand dipped to the leather pouch at his belt and came up with a fist-sized stone. Mana ran down his arm and the rock lengthened into a jagged spike. Stone Spear. He did not throw it. He drove it forward with will alone, a straight line that crossed the space in a blink. The crack of the impact rang like iron on frozen wood. The point buried high in the chief’s left chest, above the heart and just inside the shoulder. He reeled back two steps, his breath bursting white, eyes wide with pain and fury.

  “Magic,” he spat, voice rough. “Little stones? You think that is enough to end me?”

  Grub said nothing. He saw the tremor starting in the chiefs arm, the shallow pull of breath. He backed away, reached into his pouch again, palmed another stone so the chieftain could see it, and threw it straight up into the air. His left hand rose, and mana snapped out and into the stone high above.

  The stone burst in midair with a hard crack. Shards of sharp stone hissed outward and rattled to the ground. Dust hung in the air for a heartbeat, then drifted down.

  Everything held still.

  The chief stared at the fragments, then down at the spike in his own flesh. Understanding landed. If the little goblin could burst a stone from ten paces, he could burst the one lodged in his chest.

  Grub’s voice cut the quiet, steady and soft. “Surrender. I could kill you with a thought, but you do not need to die today.”

  Wind scraped across the clearing. The chief’s spear drooped. His mouth worked before words came. “I yield,” he said. Rough, but clear. “Duskroot yields.”

  The words moved through the clearing like an arrow loosed from a bow. The watching Duskroot tribe members glanced around, looking at the Ironfang warriors on the opposite side of the ring. Their weapons lowered, then clattered to the ground, one by one. Relief and disbelief mixed plainly on their faces. The wolves stirred but did not move. The Ironfangs held their formation.

  Throk let out a long breath. “I'll be damned,” he muttered. “He actually did it.” Dravak’s eyes stayed on the field. “Bind them. No rough treatment. We have won the day, fair and square.”

  Kesh was already moving with six warriors at her back. Throk followed, barking orders, his grin tempered slightly by the weight of what they had seen.

  Grub stood where he was a heartbeat longer, then walked towards the chief. He whistled once, and Sable bounded over to his side. He opened the pack strapped to her back, and pulled out his supplies,resin soaked strips of cloth, a filled waterskin, and bindings. The older goblin flinched when Grub reached out, but did not pull away. "This will hurt," he said to the chief. He pressed the waterskin and the bindings into the chiefs hands, who accepted them without thinking.

  Grub set two fingers to the edge of the wound and whispered a trickle of mana into the jagged spear in the chiefs chest. He drew the stone out in a clean, steady line. Blood ran hot over his fingers. He tossed the spike aside and took the waterskin from the chiefs hands. He quickly rinsed and cleaned the wound, then met the mans eyes. "Use your fingers to press the wound together," he said, and when the man complied, he pressed a resin soaked cloth to it, and bound the wound tight.

  The chief’s breath came ragged, but his eyes were steadier now. “You could have killed me.” “That was not the goal,” Grub said. Dravak stepped up beside them. “He will live?” “He will,” Grub said. “And he will remember.”

  Dravak gave a slow nod. “Good. Then we take what is worth carrying.” His voice rose. “Kesh, sweep the rim. Throk, loot whatever is worth bringing home, and keep the boys from thinking with their bellies. Rika, watch the prisoners until we move.”

  The Ironfangs woke and began to move like a machine. The hollow filled with purposeful sound, leather scraping, old roots cracking, snares cut and tossed aside. Kesh climbed the rim and broke what traps she found. Throk kicked open crude shelters below and called what to keep. There was little of worth, but enough to matter. Furs rolled tight and tied. Spears and knives stacked. Rika and the goblin riders spent their time carefully binding the hands of the prisoners, tying them together in pairs. When Throk and his men came with arms loaded, the wolves stood still while riders balanced loads and tightened harness. Each pack weighed even. Sable stood calm under Grub’s hands as he watched the tribe go about their work, her black coat dusted with frost, breath steady.

  "Come," Dravak said to him and the chief. Dravak and Grub walked to the main burrow with the wounded chief. Smoke clung to damp roots and raw earth. Cold poured through every gap. Grub had to duck to pass. It felt more like a grave than home.

  Dravak snorted as he looked around. "This is what they call shelter," he muttered.

  “They made do,” Grub said. “Hunger leaves little time for craft.” The chief let out a sound that started as a laugh but turned into a pained groan as his shoulder flared. "You almost sound sorry for us," he said.

  "I'm not. I understand why you lived this way." Grub continued to inspect the den.

  “Understanding does not fill stores,” Dravak answered. “We will strip it clean.”

  By the time they climbed back into daylight, the work lines were set. Kesh returned with dirt on her cheek and a thin, satisfied look. “Gullies are clear. Traps were shallow. I broke them.”

  “Good,” Dravak said. “Form the column.”

  The Ironfangs drew in, but Grub turned instead to the captives gathered near the fire. He counted quickly. Twenty warriors, including their chief. Seven pregnant females stood close for warmth. One male lay half-conscious, thigh torn.

  “Wait,” Grub said. “Some will not be able to walk far in this cold.”

  Dravak nodded once. "Do what needs done."

  Grub knelt by Sable’s satchel and took out clean cloths soaked in pine resin and small pouches of fever herb. He worked goblin to goblin, washing cuts, wrapping gashes, setting splints from broken spears. He dosed the shivering with bitter herb in warm water. Sap and clean snow cut the smell of old blood.

  The half-conscious male blinked as Grub packed resin into the wound and pulled hide tight. “Why,” he rasped.

  “Because you are still worth the trouble,” Grub said.

  He stood and looked to Dravak. “They can march. Not all on their own legs.” “Make it work,” Dravak said.

  “Unload three wolves,” Grub called. Bundles and tools came off in quick hands. Warriors took the weight without complaint. Three freed wolves stepped forward, steady as stones. “Ashpaw and another take three each,” Grub said. “The third takes two.”

  Rika whistled. Ashpaw padded in. The seven pregnant females were lifted gently onto two broad backs, three to each. The wounded male and the final pregnant female were strapped to the third, tied firm so they could not fall. The wolves adjusted their stance until the loads sat right and then stood patient.

  “They will keep pace,” Rika said. “Slow, but steady.” “We do not need speed,” Dravak said. “Only distance.”

  Smoke began to rise where Throk’s men had fired the ruined dens. Faint orange light painted the hollow. The column stood ready, wolves, riders, warriors, and captives in their places.

  Grub wiped his hands in the snow. Sap and iron lingered on his fingers. He looked once more at the captives, at the bound chief, at the worn faces that dared not meet his eyes, then nodded. “They will make it home,” he said.

  Dravak gave a grunt of approval, then called out to his tribe. “Form up. We go home.”

  The Ironfangs tightened their lines. Wolves shifted in the snow. Behind them, the Duskroot den burned low and the smoke rose thin into the gray. The cold bit deep, but the Ironfangs stood unbothered. They turned from the hollow and began the march, victors and prisoners moving as one line toward the warmth that lay behind stone and door.