Dravak

  Graylight bled through the trees, thick and pale. The air smelled of thawed soil and wet bark. Mist clung low to the ground as the Ironfang gathered in silence.

  Dravak stood near the base of the ridge, the others crouched beside him. His breath came slow and steady. The axe in his hand pulsed faintly with buried light, its edge humming like a low growl in his bones.

  Nine warriors waited behind him, faces streaked with soot, eyes steady. Each knew their task. No war drums. No horns. Only quiet. They would be the reason the Ironfang won or lost today.

  Farther down the slope, Throk waited with the main force, hidden among the trees. No signal would be given. He knew his part: to lead the noise and keep the enemy looking the wrong way. Dravak would hopefully end the fight before it ever became a battle.

  He turned to his infiltration party, voice low. “We move now. Stay close. No sound. We kill fast and clean.” He looked to each of the 9 warriors in turn and they nodded. He turned and started on the path.

  They climbed together, slow and silent. The path wound upward through slick stone and dripping roots. Water ran down the rock like veins, cold and constant. The footing was slippery, and twice, a warrior nearly stumbled. By the time they reached the tunnel mouth above the Red Tusk camp, their breath came in thin clouds.

  Two guards stood at the lip, swaying with exhaustion. Dravak moved forward first. His axe bit through ones chest, and before the second could make a sound, a blade slit his throat. Both bodies were quickly and quietly dragged aside into the mud.

  They moved slowly through the narrow passage to the opening. The earth pressed close on all sides. When light began to filter onto the ground ahead, Dravak crept forward and peered down.

  Below him lay the Red Tusk camp, half-smothered in fog. The fires still burned too high, the flames licking hungrily at the mist. Figures stumbled about the camp in the glow, their weapons drawn but their movements aimless. The whole camp looked tired and hollowed out.

  Dravak waited patiently for his moment.

  As if on cue, a deep rolling sound broke through the forest. Shields were struck in rhythm, wolves howled in long, rising calls. The ground itself seemed to move with it.

  The Red Tusk in the camp below panicked. Goblins ran for the walls. Arrows fired into the trees. Dravak’s mouth curved slightly. He watched as the Bugbear chieftain roared orders for his men to move to the front of the camp, to meet their attackers head on. This was the chance he'd been waiting for.

  “Now.”

  With that single word, he dropped from the ledge and landed in the mud, axe already rising. The first goblin died without a sound. The next fell to a knife in the dark. The Ironfang dropped into the camp from the shadows above like a tide.

  Grub

  The wolves had howled through most of the night. Then, suddenly, they stopped. Grub hung from his post, wrists torn, body trembling with exhaustion. He stayed conscious only through sheer willpower, knowing what was coming for the Red Tusk. The silence pressed against his skull until it became a sound of its own. Every pop of wet wood in the fire made the nearby Red Tusk warriors flinch.

  Then, all of a sudden, the silent forest erupted into a cacophany of noises.

  Howls rolled through the fog in layered voices. Spears hammered against shields. The earth itself seemed to shake beneath the noise. Goblins scrambled from their shelters, stumbling half-dressed into the mud. The fires were stoked even higher by goblins desperate to chase away the shadows that only grew deeper.

  The Bugbear chief burst from his tent, eyes bloodshot and hollow. His voice cracked as he shouted orders. “To the front! Shields high! Show them your teeth!”

  Half of the warriors ran towards the front of the camp before he finished. The rest stared toward the trees, knees and arms trembling. The Bugbear’s hands shook in anger as he pointed his spear toward the gate. “We meet them there! Push them back!” The rest of the tribe surged forward, leaving the rear of the camp unguarded.

  Grub lifted his head against the ropes. Through smoke and confusion, shadows moved among the crates. The Ironfang had somehow entered the camp from behind.

  He smiled around the gag in his mouth. Dravak had outdone himself.

  The first kills were silent. Grub watched silently as guards fell before they could shout. Then, finally, one turned at the wrong moment, and the alarm was raised. “Behind us! Theyre inside the camp!”

  Grubs eyes moved frantically as he watched the chaos unfold. The camp broke in two directions at once. Archers spun inward, looking for the threat, and arrows meant for the trees struck their own. The Ironfang in the forest took this opportunity to strike. Wolves burst from the fog, their fangs flashing, and a flood of warriors came racing forward, spears raised. Dravak and his infiltration force moved in precise rhythm, their blades cutting clean.

  The Bugbear spun toward the chaos. His tusks gleamed red in the firelight. He roared, calling his bodyguards to him.

  Dravak stepped out into the open. The two locked eyes across the burning camp.

  “You think to steal my fire, Ironfang? Not while I still stand,” the Bugbear bellowed.

  Dravak’s voice was calm. “Then come fight me, and die on your feet like a man.”

  The chief grinned and charged. The ground shook under his weight. Their weapons crashed together, spear tip meeting axe, and metal ringing in the early morning. Dravak twisted, cut low, and opened the Bugbear’s thigh. Blood sprayed across the mud.

  The Bugbear struck back, the spear tip catching Dravak’s shoulder and burying itself deep. Pain flared in Dravaks eyes, but he stayed upright. He swung an elbow, breaking the spear shaft, leaving the tip embedded in his chest. He shoved forward, pressing the attack on the now disarmed Bugbear.

  Two of his bodyguards closed in from the sides. Dravak spun, his axe taking one across the throat, the second in the chest. Sable darted from the smoke, slamming into another Red Tusk, her teeth flashing white.

  Grub strained against the ropes, helpless but grinning through blood. The Bugbear came again, roaring, with his claws out. Dravak met him straight on.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The axe rose once, then fell, sure and final. Claws ripped through fur and hide, tearing flesh.

  The axe blade split both fur and bone. The Bugbear dropped to his knees, disbelief in his eyes, then toppled into the mud.

  Silence fell over the camp. The Red Tusk warriors’ eyes moved to Dravak, standing hunched over the Bugbear chieftain’s corpse, cooling in the mud.

  Dravak straightened, blood streaking his arm. He reached up and yanked the spear-tip from his shoulder, and blood spurted anew. His voice carried through the mist, strong and even. “Your chief is dead. Surrender now and be spared. Keep fighting and you die in the mud beside him.” He stared back hard at all the Red Tusk that were looking at him.

  The words hung in the air. Nobody dared to move. Ironfang warriors began advancing, spears up, moving in tight formation toward the frozen Red Tusk.

  First, one weapon fell. Then another. The sound spread through the camp like rain. The wolves padded between the surrendered, their growls low and constant.

  The fight was over.

  The air after battle was thick with wet ash and iron. Fires still burned, crackling over broken crates and fallen bodies. The noise had dropped to a slow murmur of breath and movement. The sun climbed over the treetops, shedding its golden light over the bloody and chaotic scene.

  Grub still hung half-conscious against the post. The ropes cut into numb flesh. He felt them move before he saw them part. The fibers hissed, and he fell forward into a pair of waiting arms.

  Rika caught him before he could hit the mud.

  “Easy,” she said, voice rough from shouting. Her hands steadied him as he blinked through the blur. Her face was streaked with grime, her eyes hard with a mix of relief and anger.

  “You sure took your time,” Grub rasped.

  Rika gave a short, bitter laugh. “We waited because he made us. Said we needed the ground and the plan.” Her jaw tightened. “If it were up to me, we’d have been here the night you were taken.”

  Grub managed a faint smile. “Then it’s good that Dravak is in charge. It was the right decision.”

  She didn’t answer. She just pulled him close again, holding him upright when his legs failed. It wasn’t a tender embrace, but something steadier, the kind shared by two who had bled for the same banner.

  A soft whine pressed in at his side. Sable crept up, leaning her body against his shoulders, her muzzle stained red from the fight. Grub turned his face into her fur and breathed her in. “I missed you too,” he whispered. He leaned heavily against Sable, the wolf easily taking his weight. She whined again and pressed her muzzle against his shoulder, then licked his face. He chuckled softly.

  When Rika let go and took a step back, her voice softened. “You look like shit.”

  Grub laughed. It was raspy and cracked, but it felt good. “I feel worse,” he said. “But I’m still breathing.”

  Dravak’s shadow fell across them. His armor was dark with blood, his arm hanging heavy from where he had taken the chieftain’s spear. His stomach sported nasty looking claw marks, evidence of the Bugbears deadliness even without a spear in hand. Dravak still gripped his axe tightly, as it dripped small droplets of blood into the mud with each movement he made.

  He stopped in front of them and looked down at Grub for a long while before speaking. “You held out longer than I would have,” he finally said.

  Grub’s mouth twitched as he slowly climbed onto Sables back and took hold of the familiar harness. “You’d have chewed through the ropes by now.”

  Dravak almost smiled at that. “Maybe.” He looked toward the fallen Bugbear. “It’s finished. What’s left of them will kneel or die.”

  Grub’s gaze shifted to the smashed crates near the cliff. He nodded toward them before speaking. “Those supplies. They aren’t theirs,” he said. His voice was hoarse but steady. He leaned forward, laying against Sables back, putting his head sideways into her neck fur. “Someone’s been feeding this tribe. Someone from outside the forest. The nails are too clean. They have grain you cannot find in a place like this. Steel that’s not their make. The chief said it came from people who give orders as well as supplies. Humans. They told him to keep anything strange alive for them.”

  Kesh, binding a wound nearby, glanced up and wiped her hands. She moved toward the clearing with quick, efficient steps and a slate held against her forearm. She grinned softly. “That explains why you're still alive then." Grub laughed again. "Suppose it does." She moved on quickly and efficiently. Numbers,” she stated, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the camp.

  The Ironfang fell quiet and let her speak. Her marks were quick and exact.

  “Red Tusk present at first light: eighty-seven,” she read aloud. “Killed in the fighting: thirty-four. Wounded: twenty-three. Captured alive: thirty. Missing or fled: none accounted for beyond those numbers. Ironfang casualties: none dead, eleven wounded, including Dravak. Nothing fatal, as of yet.”

  A low sound ran through the gathered Ironfang, not triumph but the simple arithmetic of survival. Dravak nodded once. “Good. Take the prisoners to the cages. Treat the wounded. Keep the healthy warriors we have remaining on watch. Send runners to the den. Count again in the hour. We will start to march the captured back to our den today.”

  Kesh dipped her head and moved to her task. She barked quiet orders as she went, assigning binds and water, sending two wolves to circle for any stragglers she may have missed.

  Dravak’s attention returned to the cliff and those neat, foreign crates. He motioned and watched as a hobgoblin, one of the two who had survived from the Bugbear’s bodyguard, was dragged forward with hands bound. The hobgoblin’s furs were matted with blood. His face was a map of exhaustion and something like fear, or maybe resignation.

  Grub squinted at him from Sables back. “You there,” he said, as Sable slowly padded forward and sniffed at him.

  The hobgoblin flinched at the attention, but didn’t bare his teeth. He just looked exhausted, the fight drained out of him. “Ask your questions,” he said quietly. “I’ll answer. The chief broke too many backs for nothing for us to keep his secrets.”

  Dravak’s voice came low. “How did your tribe receive the crates?”

  “Dropped off. Always the same place,” the hobgoblin said. “A cleft in the southern ridge where the rock splits like a broken jaw. We call it the Jaw. Every week, before dawn, the supplies would be there. Grain, steel, pitch, even cloth. We took them and left.”

  “Who left them?” Grub asked.

  The hobgoblin shook his head. “I never saw. Once or twice, the chief claimed he met them, but he never said how. We didn’t see them, didn’t hear them. Just the crates they left behind.”

  Grub frowned. “And they asked for something in return, yes?” He stared down at the Hobgoblin as Sable circled around him.

  “Yes,” the hobgoblin said, his eyes moving to track Sables movements. “That much the chief told us. In return for the goods, we were told to strike south. Farms, roads, small villages along the edge of the forest. We took what we could. Sometimes they wanted captives, sometimes just iron and food.” His eyes flicked to the Bugbear’s corpse. “He said the orders came from the ones who left the crates. We didn’t ask questions. He didn't like questions. Good riddance.” He spat in the direction of the cooling corpse.

  Grub studied him for a long moment, then looked to Dravak. “They’ll come again. The crates are too clean, the supplies too good. Whoever’s been sending them expects the Red Tusk to still be here, to still carry out these raids.”

  Kesh was already sketching in the mud with a burnt stick. “The Jaw. South ridge. Narrow approach, two ridges for cover. We can reach it within the hour. It's not too far from here.”

  Dravak folded his arms. “If they return, they’ll expect to see the Red Tusk.” He motioned to a nearby warrior, and the Hobgoblin was led away to one of the cages.

  “Then we show them the Red Tusk,” Grub said. “We move their supplies to the Jaw. Pile them with their dead. The Bugbear on top. I’ll be there when the suppliers come.”

  Rika turned on him. “Alone?”

  “Alone,” Grub said simply. “If they see me with warriors behind, they’ll vanish before speaking. If they think the Red Tusk defeated, and the new tribe willing to talk, they’ll come closer. I’ll sit on the crates and wait for them.”

  Dravak’s eyes narrowed. “You mean to talk to them? To what end?”

  Grub nodded. “If they’re men, maybe they’ll speak. If not, I’ll learn what I can. We might gain something from this. Good steel, tools, food, maybe even trade. The Ironfang could use better weapons and clean grain. It’s worth seeing what they want before we dismiss them.”

  Rika crossed her arms. “And what if it’s a trap?”

  “Then you’ll hear me signal before it’s sprung,” Grub said, not smiling. “I’ll need only a few watchers on the ridge. No closer.”

  Dravak studied him a moment longer. “You’ll go as bait.”

  “I’ll go as a voice,” Grub corrected. “You said before the Ironfang needed more than strength. This is that. If these Humans can speak to Goblins, maybe we can gain something from them. Even if we plan to cut their throats later.”

  Dravak’s jaw flexed. “Alright. But you don’t offer them fealty. You don’t promise any raids. You only learn what you can and come back.” Grub met his gaze. “That’s the plan.”

  Kesh brushed the dirt from her fingers and nodded toward Dravak. “I’ll place scouts a hundred paces from the Jaw. Far enough to stay unseen. Throk can hold a second line west, in case things go wrong.”

  “Good,” Dravak said. “Rika, you’ll take the wolves and guard the trail north. If they follow him, you close the path behind them.”

  Rika exhaled, unhappy but obedient. “Understood.” She glanced over to Grub with a worried expression clouding her features.

  Dravak looked back to Grub. “You will sit on their supplies. You talk if they come close. You signal if they come with weapons.”

  “Aye. I will have a horn. How should I signal?"

  “Loudly,” Dravak said. “One blast if they come to speak, three if they come with weapons.”

  Grub nodded once. “That’ll do.”

  For a while after, no one spoke. The Ironfang moved quietly through the ruined camp, stacking crates and clearing the ground for the march south. The smell of wet ash and blood hung heavy in the air.

  Grub glanced toward the cliff where the morning light began to burn through the fog. “If they trade with goblins,” he said, “we might learn what they want."

  Dravak rested his hand briefly on Grub’s shoulder. “Just don’t let curiosity kill you right after we rescued you.” Grub gave a faint smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Kesh’s voice rose again. “We move in half an hour!”

  The Ironfang began to strip the camp. Wolves hauled sleds of supplies and dragged bodies toward the trail. The dead of the Red Tusk would serve their final purpose as a message, and as bait. Meanwhile, Throk, Hask, and the Ironfang warriors began the slow march back to the Ironfang den, escorting the fifty-three new captives through the forest. The Ironfang had won a great victory here today, regardless of whatever happened with these mysterious suppliers.

  Grub watched the tribe work, silent from Sables back. The idea of meeting these Humans who consorted with Goblins had rooted itself deep in his mind now: the chance to speak with a Human for the first time since waking up in this strange new world, to understand how they commanded and traded and built their reach across species. If the Ironfang were to survive the thaw, they needed to be more than a pack of killers. If Grub was to survive this world, he would need to branch out beyond the world of Goblins, and grasp at any power he could get his fingers on. This was his chance.

  He reached down to scratch Sable’s ear. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s see what waits at the Jaw.”

  The wolf raised her head against his hand in response, and together they turned toward the southern ridge.

  By nightfall, a new sight would stand at the Jaw. A pile of Red Tusk corpses before a lone goblin sitting on a crate, waiting for whoever had fed the dead to return and feed again.