The Ironfang reached the southern ridge by midday.

  The air was colder here, cleaner, touched by the smell of wet stone and pine resin. The place the hobgoblin had called the Jaw split the ridge in two jagged walls of pale rock, curved inward like the mouth of a dead beast. The cleft opened south, facing mist-covered hills and lowlands that stretched beyond sight.

  Dravak stood at the edge of the formation, arms folded. “Good ground,” he said quietly. “Narrow. Easy to guard.”

  Kesh crouched near the mouth of the cleft, marking sightlines into the dirt. Rika and the wolves scouted the perimeter, their movements silent among the dripping trees.

  The Ironfang worked quickly. The Red Tusk corpses were dragged into the open and stacked in the hollow beneath the stone. The Bugbear chief was placed before the small pile of bodies. Around him, the crates of supplies were arranged in neat rows: boxes and sacks filled with grain, cloth, and tools that did not belong in the forest.

  Grub watched from Sable’s back as the pile took shape. The air stank of blood and pine sap. Even he felt a faint unease at the sight of the Bugbear’s dull eyes staring south as if daring his benefactors to come and see what had become of him.

  When the work was done, Dravak approached him. “You still have time to change your mind.”

  Grub shook his head. “If we stay in the forest alone, we will die here. If the Ironfang are to become a great tribe we will need better gear. I’ll wait for these Humans.”

  Dravak handed him a curved horn and gripped his shoulder. “One blast if they come to speak. Three if they come to fight.”

  Grub studied the horn for a moment, then looked up. “I’ll add a signal. Rika, I will sound two blasts if I want the Fangs to howl. It could be a good way to scare them off trying something sneaky.”

  Dravak nodded once. “A good idea. Two blasts it is.”

  Rika joined them, Ashpaw breathing hard behind her. “If anything feels wrong, blow the horn. Don’t try to be clever.”

  Grub smiled faintly. “No promises.”

  When the last of the Ironfang melted into the forest, silence rolled over the Jaw. The light dimmed as clouds gathered, and a thin wind whispered through the split in the stone.

  Grub climbed onto the pile of crates and sat cross-legged as he settled in to wait. Sable lay half-hidden behind a stack of supplies, her dark fur blending into shadow. The smell of rot mixed with damp earth. Hours passed. The sun slid away, and the forest sank into gray. No sound was heard but the creak of cooling wood, the drip of water through moss, and the quiet pulse of his own heartbeat.

  He nearly missed the light when it came.

  A lantern flickered between the southern trees, faint at first, then steady. It swayed once, then moved forward. Three figures followed behind it, tall and thin beneath their dark cloaks.

  Grub rose, jumped down from the crates, and landed lightly on the damp earth. He did not reach for the horn. He simply stood and looked at the approaching figures. From their height, he guessed these must be the Humans.

  The trio stopped at the edge of the clearing. For a moment they simply stared at the pile of bodies arrayed before them. Then the lantern lifted, spilling its glow across white masks carved to resemble skulls. Bone-smooth surfaces caught the light, hollow eyes glinting faintly from within.

  The leader raised one hand and traced a pattern in the air, slow and steady. Grub watched with fascination as he completed the gestures. A pale light rippled across his fingers before sinking away beneath the skin. When he spoke, the words came in rough, halting Goblin.

  “You… are not Red Tusk.”

  Grub’s pulse hammered, but his voice stayed steady. “No. The Ironfang tribe controls these forests now.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The figure tilted its head. “You killed them?” He gestured at the bodies.

  “Yes,” Grub said. “We attacked and conquered the Red Tusk to grow stronger. That is the way of our world.”

  “Strength earned through blood,” the figure murmured.

  “That’s the only kind that lasts,” Grub replied.

  The masked one took a few steps closer. “Then why do you wait here, Goblin? You have taken what was theirs. Why stay?”

  Grub gestured to the crates. “Because someone supplied the Red Tusk with things not of the forest. Clean steel. Good grain. I wanted to see who was behind this.”

  The second figure shifted. He too made the same slow gestures as his companion. When he was done, he stepped forward. “You want trade.”

  “Maybe,” Grub said. “Better weapons, tools, food. My tribe fights for what we have, but we could fight harder with better supplies. I thought we might speak. Might find a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  The leader’s head tilted again. “Few goblins speak as you do. Most want fear, not talk. Violence, not reason.”

  “Then you haven’t met the right goblins,” Grub said. “I am Grub, of the Ironfang. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do you have names?”

  The lead figure shifted, then nodded. “You may simply refer to us as The Harvest. We had an agreement with… your predecessors. In exchange for supplies, they did our bidding.”

  Grub nodded, but frowned when the figure finished speaking. He shook his head. “That will not be the case with us. We are no slaves, nor are we tools for you to use as you wish.”

  The leader’s tone hardened. “You refuse obedience?”

  At that word, a low growl came from the shadows. The three figures looked around warily.

  “Obedience?” Grub chuckled softly.

  Sable rose from her resting spot behind the supplies, having stayed silent and hidden from view until that moment. She stepped forward out of the dark and pressed herself to Grub’s side, her yellow eyes catching the lantern light. She growled again, low, deep, and threatening. The cloaked figures recoiled a step, their hands twitching toward hidden blades before they stopped themselves. Grub made a slight hand signal and Sable sat on her haunches beside him. She went silent.

  Grub reached up and laid a hand on her head. “We don’t obey,” he said calmly. “We listen. We choose. We are not the Red Tusk. If we do not like your offer, we do not need you, and we will walk away.”

  The leader studied him. “You are… quite strange, Ironfang. A wolf that sits beside goblins. A tongue that shapes words like men. You are not like the others we have fed.”

  Grub raised his hand, one finger lifted in a gesture to wait. “No I am not, Human.” He reached down and took the horn off his belt. The figures glanced around warily, but made no move to stop him. “Before we continue,” he said, “I need my tribe to know you are not a threat to me.”

  He lifted the horn and blew a single, low note. The sound echoed once across the ridge, rolling through the trees like distant thunder. No response came. The forest stayed still. Grub lowered the horn again. “Now they know you have come in peace.”

  The masked figures exchanged glances, unsettled by the silent discipline of the Ironfang.

  Grub continued. “The Ironfang will not agree to anything tonight. But know this. We will not kneel, and we will not bow. If there is to be trade, it must be fair and equal. If that offends you, take your crates and go. You will have safe passage out of our forest, but you will not be welcomed back.”

  The leader tilted his head slightly. “You would threaten us, Goblin? Presume to set the terms? You would need to prove your worth first.”

  Grub gave a small nod. “You want a proof of Ironfang strength?”

  “Yes,” the figure said. “Show us something that tells us you are worth considering more than others of your… kin.” The last word dripped with disgust, as if he could not believe he was having this conversation with a goblin.

  Grub’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. He lifted the horn again and blew twice. Two long low notes drifted into the night sky as the figures watched him, their body language curious. They looked around them. Silence followed. For several heartbeats, nothing happened.

  Then the howling began.

  It came from all directions at once, layered, overlapping, perfectly timed. Wolves crying out from the ridges, from the gullies, from the forest beyond. The sound rose into a wall of noise that made the air itself tremble. It carried the weight of discipline, not wildness. The figures froze where they stood.

  As suddenly as it began, the howling stopped. The silence that followed was sharp as a blade.

  Grub lowered the horn. “That’s the Ironfang,” he said quietly. “When we make a sound, the forest listens.”

  The leader’s voice was slower now, edged with something almost like respect. He looked at his companions, and something unspoken was communicated in that look. He turned back to Grub. “You have earned our attention, Goblin.”

  “Grub.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name is Grub. Negotiations must begin with mutual respect. Names are a good place to start.”

  The leader seemed to barely stop himself from scoffing, covering the sound with a cough. “Very well, Grub. In that case, my name is Jin.”

  He looked to the others, then back to Grub. “We will meet again. Here, at a time of your choosing. You will be ready to show your strength, or you will be forgotten.”

  Grub nodded his head. “Two weeks, then. We have some business to take care of first. I will be here at sundown two weeks from today.”

  The masked head turned slightly, as if consulting the others. The others nodded. “This is acceptable for us.”

  He gestured, and the other figure who had cast the spell stepped forward. “We brought supplies with us, intended for the Red Tusks. Take them as a gesture of good faith for future negotiations. Use what you wish from this and from the Red Tusk’s stores. No strings attached.”

  Grub regarded them for a moment, then nodded. “Then I’ll leave the clearing, and you and your group can drop the rest before you go.”

  He placed a hand on Sable’s neck and vaulted easily onto her back. The movement startled the figures again; they had not expected her to serve as his mount. The wolf rose to her full height, almost shoulder-high to the humans.

  The leader’s voice shifted, something like reverence mixed with unease. “You ride the beast?”

  “She lets me,” Grub said. “That’s called trust.”

  The leader’s tone grew quiet. “You are not like the others,” he repeated.

  “No,” Grub said. “That’s why you’re still alive. My leader might have handled things differently, had I not requested this course of action.”

  Jin stepped back. “You’re not the leader of the Ironfang?”

  His head tilted again.

  “No. But I have permission to speak for the tribe,” Grub responded.

  He guided Sable back several paces, giving the cloaked figures room, then nodded to them once more. “Leave your goods here, and go. In two weeks, we’ll talk again.”

  The figure inclined his head. “As you wish. We will see if the Ironfang’s strength is worth the trouble.”

  They turned and slipped into the mist, their masks fading one by one. The faint sound of boots on wet stone trailed off, then vanished entirely.

  Grub waited until the last echo was gone. Then he turned Sable toward the north, the wolf’s paws silent on the damp ground. As they began moving towards Dravak and Rika, she whined slightly.

  “I know,” he murmured, reaching down and scratching her behind the ears in that spot she liked. “We’ll see what they bring.”

  The wind sighed through the Jaw, carrying the faint scent of metal and blood. Somewhere far off, a crow called once, and then there was only the forest and the low breath of the wolf as they slipped away into the trees.