Dravak

  The march began at dawn beneath a low gray sky. The forest dripped with thaw, each branch shedding cold water onto the heads of those who passed below. The Ironfang moved in silence broken only by the soft hiss of boots in mud and the occasional creak of leather. Every line was steady. Every step measured.

  Dravak walked near the front, his cloak drawn close, the haft of his axe resting across his shoulder. The weapon hummed faintly in his grip, a sound he felt more than heard. The edge caught stray light whenever the clouds thinned, a pulse of buried brightness beneath the steel. He had carried it through too many hunts to count, and still it had never dulled.

  They kept their pace slow and even, halting at midday only long enough for dried meat and a swallow of melted snow. The wolves padded alongside the column, tails low and eyes sharp, their breath smoking in the cold. Ashpaw led them, the largest of the pack, his thick shoulders moving like rolling stone. Behind him came the others, smaller but no less fierce. Sable trailed near the rear, her frame narrow and lithe, built for speed and agility rather than weight. She lingered close to Rika’s stirrup before slipping between trees, a streak of black fur against the pale melt.

  Throk handled the line like a drumbeat. His voice kept rhythm, quiet but firm, a wall against creeping fatigue. Behind him, Hask repeated the cadence for the Duskroot, correcting a lagging stride or uneven spear. They were learning fast. Fear had burned out of them and left only focus.

  Kesh moved near the center, counting under her breath instead of scratching at her usual slate. Her eyes missed nothing: the gaps in spacing, the half-limp of a warrior’s leg, the way the sled ropes chafed when the slope turned steep. She corrected mistakes with a word or gesture, precise as clockwork.

  By the second day, the air had grown warmer. Meltwater streamed through the gullies, cutting paths around roots and stones. Dravak called a halt near a stand of pine, raising a hand. “We camp here,” he said, and the word carried down the line. The Ironfang moved as one. Fires flared. Bedrolls unrolled. Wolves circled the perimeter, their low growls melting into the wind.

  Rika approached while Dravak crouched over a map scratched into damp soil. Mud stained her boots to the knee, her cloak heavy with moisture. “You’ll want us gone tonight,” she said, not asking.

  Dravak nodded. “Take the riders. Go when the sun falls. Circle the camp before you reach it. Keep your distance. Let them hear the wolves but not see you.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until dawn breaks twice,” he said. “Their nerves will be frayed by then.” He grinned faintly.

  Rika tightened the strap on her bracer. “We’ll keep them awake and on edge.” Her eyes flicked to Ashpaw, who waited at the edge of the clearing, massive and still. “We're ready.”

  “Good,” Dravak said. “Sable runs with you.”

  Rika gave a short nod and turned to gather the others. One by one, the riders mounted, wolves shifting restlessly beneath them. When they left, it was soundless, ten shadows swallowed by the forest, Ashpaw in the lead and Sable following last, her smaller shape vanishing into mist.

  Dravak watched the last trace of movement fade among the trees, then looked back to his gathered warriors. “Eat. Sleep, if you can,” he said. “We move slow tomorrow. No one arrives tired.”

  The fires dimmed as night came down. Somewhere far off, a lone howl rose through the fog, long and low. Another answered it, and another, until the forest seemed to breathe with the sound.

  Dravak listened until it faded into distance. The wolves had begun their work.

  Grub

  The first howls came just after dusk.

  Long and low, too measured to be wild. The Red Tusk laughed at the sound at first, trying to cover the unease it stirred. By the third call, the laughter had thinned. By the fifth, it was gone.

  Grub listened, head tilted against the post. The ropes around his wrists had rubbed his skin raw, and his shoulders burned with each breath. Pain had long since stopped being new. He let the sound wash over him, feeling the rhythm of it like a heartbeat.

  He opened his mouth and answered. It was a rough, cracked sound at first, more growl than howl, but it carried through the camp nonetheless. The guards near the fire turned sharply toward him. One of them cursed under his breath. The others looked away, pretending not to hear.

  The howling continued, weaving through the trees in waves. The camp moved uneasily, firelight flickering against faces that would not turn toward the forest.

  Then the Bugbear came.

  He stepped out from his shelter, ducking beneath the frame. The light caught his tusks, stained a deep, dark red. Two hobgoblins followed behind him, silent and watchful. He stopped in front of Grub and stared for a long moment before speaking.

  “You call to them,” he said. His tone was flat, not angry yet, only curious. “Why?”

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  Grub raised his head as much as the ropes allowed. “They are my kin,” he said. “When they sing, I answer. It makes me happy to know they are coming for me.”

  The Bugbear’s jaw flexed. “Your kin are beasts.”

  “They are wolves,” Grub replied quietly. “You are the one who forgot what kin means.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed, the yellow of them sharp in the firelight. “You think yourself clever.”

  “I think you don’t understand what it is to belong,” Grub said. “You rule through fear. We lead with trust. That’s why the wolves follow us, and why your goblins flinch when you walk by.”

  The Bugbear’s lips curled back, showing the edges of his tusks. “I am alive, little goblin. That is all the safety my tribe needs. If fear keeps them moving, then fear serves me.”

  Grub held his gaze. “Then you've already lost.”

  The Bugbear stared for a long moment, the muscles in his neck tight. Then his hand snapped forward. Grub’s head flew to the side, blood spraying from his split lip. The chief made a small, sharp gesture. One of the hobgoblins stepped forward and shoved a strip of hide between Grub’s teeth, pulling the knot tight behind his head. The gag bit into his jaw.

  The chief leaned close, voice low and cold. “You talk far too much for your own good, little goblin. Keep quiet. You’ll live longer that way.”

  Grub groaned, the pain in his jaw flaring hot and bright.

  The Bugbear turned and walked back toward the fire. The hobgoblins followed, spears catching the light as they went. The rest of the camp pretended not to watch.

  The howls rose again, closer this time. The trees seemed to breathe with the sound. Grub stood bound and still, chest rising and falling, eyes closed. Blood dripped past the gag and down his chin.

  He opened his eyes and howled again through the cloth, low and muffled, a rasp that trembled through the ropes and the post behind him. The guards nearest him froze at the sound.

  The wind shifted, carrying the echo into the night.

  Dravak

  The forest was heavy with mist as the Ironfang continued their march. Each step sank into soft, wet soil that clung to boots and filled the air with the smell of rot and thaw. They moved through the early morning dark in silence, their pace steady, never hurried.

  They had been marching for three days now, slow and deliberate. There was no point in reaching the enemy tired. The wolves had gone ahead with Rika and her riders, their cries threading the night beyond the ridges.

  When the third dusk came, the trees thinned, and Dravak raised his hand. The column halted. Before them stretched a line of black pines and a shallow hollow carpeted with moss. The air smelled of wet stone and pine pitch. It was enough cover to serve as camp.

  Throk was the first to speak. “Three days’ march,” he said. “The men hold well. None have fallen behind.”

  Dravak nodded. “They were trained to keep step, not to run.” He turned to Kesh. “How far are we from their camp?”

  “An hour, maybe two,” she said. “We'll be ready to attack before graylight.”

  Hask leaned his spear against a nearby tree, his breath coming in steady clouds. Dravak looked toward the north ridge, where faint tremors of howls carried on the wind. The wolves were working even now, the echoes of their cries weaving through the forest in long, haunting runs. They rose and fell in deliberate patterns. Rika was doing her part well.

  The tribe settled into their camp with quiet precision. Fires were small, little more than coals buried in shallow pits. The smell of smoke barely rose above the mist. Even Throk, loud by nature, kept his voice low. The forest felt close, alive with distant sound.

  Near midnight, the first shapes emerged from the dark. Rika’s riders slipped between the trees like shadows, wolves moving smooth and silent beside them. Ashpaw came first, his fur matted with dew, his eyes pale in the gloom. Behind him came Sable, small and dark, her lean frame brushing through the ferns without a sound.

  Dravak rose as they entered the clearing. Rika dismounted, brushing a hand across Ashpaw’s neck. Her face was streaked with mud and cold sweat, but her eyes were alert.

  “They haven’t slept,” she said, her voice rough from shouting. “We circled them from dusk until dawn. Howls, claws on stone, anything to put them on edge. They fired arrows into the shadows until their quivers ran dry. They’re jumpy, tired, and afraid of their own fires.”

  Throk grunted, pleased. “Good. Fear burns strength faster than hunger.” Dravak studied her closely. “Any losses?”

  “None,” Rika said. “A few scrapes on the wolves, nothing serious. They’re restless, not broken.”

  Dravak’s gaze fell to Sable, who stood beside Rika’s leg, chest heaving, eyes bright and alert. “You will go back out,” he said.

  Rika nodded without hesitation. “Before the moon reaches the trees. They will not rest tonight either.”

  Kesh stepped forward. “Eat before you leave. The wolves too.”

  Rika took a strip of dried meat, tearing it in half and tossing the larger piece to Ashpaw. “We’ll eat on the move.”

  Dravak placed his hand briefly on her shoulder. “Keep them afraid, but don’t get too close. The Red Tusk are cornered beasts now. Beasts strike hardest when they’re desperate.” Rika gave a tired smile. “Desperate beasts make the most noise.” Dravak’s mouth twitched. “Then make them scream.”

  Moments later, the riders vanished once more into the dark.

  The first howl came almost at once, echoing through the mist like a blade drawn from stone. Another answered, and another, until the valley filled with sound. The wolves of the Ironfang sang through the night, unbroken and relentless.

  Dravak stood watching the trees long after the others had settled to rest. His hand rested on the haft of his axe. When the Red Tusk finally faced them, they would do so exhausted, frightened, and half-beaten before the first blade ever struck.

  That was how the Ironfang would win against larger numbers.

  Grub

  The fires in the Red Tusk camp burned too high. The heat rolled off them in uneven waves, thick and choking. Wet wood hissed and spat as the Red Tusk threw more fuel on the piles, trying to drive back the dark. The air stank of pitch and fear. Shadows danced at the edges of the light, bending with the trees.

  No one slept. Eyes ringed with black stared into the glow. Every sound made heads turn. A cough. A footstep. A stick snapping under snow. The howls never stopped. They moved in circles through the forest, sometimes near, sometimes far, never where they were expected.

  Grub hung limp at his post, wrists swollen, skin rubbed to raw meat. The ache in his shoulders had gone past pain into a dull, constant hum. He counted the howls, not for comfort but for pattern. The wolves were working the camp like a slow hammer.

  The Bugbear came from his tent near midnight, broad shoulders hunched, fur clumped with damp. His eyes were rimmed red from lack of sleep, and his movements carried the heavy stiffness of someone who had not rested well in too long. Two hobgoblins followed, both looking worse.

  He stopped before Grub, squinting through the firelight. “You think this noise frightens me?” His voice was low, hoarse from shouting. “I have stood through worse nights.”

  Grub raised his head. His lips were cracked and split, but his voice held. “Maybe you have. But your tribe has not.”

  The Bugbear’s nostrils flared. “They will hold as long as I command it.” “They will hold as long as they can stand,” Grub said. “And they are falling already. I can see it. You can too.”

  The chief’s jaw tightened. “Fear will pass. The weak will die off. What’s left will be strong.” Grub met his gaze, unblinking. “And when there’s no one left but you?”

  For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The fire cracked between them, throwing sparks that rose and died in the smoke.

  The Bugbear’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Then I will still be standing.” Grub studied him. “You might. But a chief without a tribe is just another beast in the woods.”

  The Bugbear moved before the last word finished. His hand caught Grub across the face, snapping his head sideways. The taste of blood filled his mouth again, a familiar feeling by this point.

  "Keep your tongue still,” the chief said. “You live because I allow it. You breathe because I decide it.”

  Grub turned his head back slowly, spitting blood into the mud. The Bugbear stared at him, muscles working under his fur, but there was no second blow. Instead he motioned sharply, and one of the hobgoblins stepped forward to jam a strip of hide between Grub’s teeth. The knot was pulled tight, the gag biting deep into cracked flesh.

  The chief leaned close, his voice rough and quiet. “Sleep if you can, little goblin. You’ll see what strength looks like in the morning.”

  He straightened and walked away. The hobgoblins followed. Around the camp, goblins shuffled and muttered in the firelight, their eyes dull, their hands shaking. The flames hissed higher as more wood was thrown on.

  From the woods came another long, slow howl, joined by others until the night throbbed with sound.

  Grub breathed through his nose, eyes half-lidded. Blood dripped from his chin, trailing down to his chest. When the next silence fell, he lifted his head as far as the ropes allowed and howled through the gag. The sound came low and muffled, but it carried far enough for the guards to flinch.

  The wind shifted. The smoke rolled toward the palisade. The wolves answered him.

  And the Red Tusk burned more wood.