The five days of waiting after their last meeting with the Harvest passed steadily in a rhythm of motion and cold breath. Each morning began before dawn, the tribe rising to the scrape of metal and the bark of orders. The frost that still clung to the den’s stone mouth in the mornings melted faster each day beneath boots and wolf paws as the Ironfang drilled in the pale light. The thaw was coming, slow but certain.

  The warriors looked stronger, more organized than before. Grub attributed that to their new shields.

  The shields had been made days earlier. Whole trees had been felled from the southern slope, dragged to camp, and carved by the builders into uniform rectangular shapes. Each was the same size, broad enough to cover a goblin from shoulder to knee, thick enough to take a heavy blow. Iron nails scavenged from the human crates held the bindings firm. For the first time, every warrior carried a shield identical to his brothers. The sight of them lined in the clearing, even in silence, felt like the birth of something larger than a tribe.

  Grub wasted no time implementing his reforms of the Ironfang’s fighting force. First, he split them into three groups of twenty, under the command of Throk, Kesh, and Hask. He placed the ten reserves among the groups so they would learn with the others and be ready to reinforce wherever nneeded.The 10 new combat medics waited off to the side, watching. Then came the new formations.

  The drills began with the shield wall. Grub oversaw every movement, drawing on his memories from Earth, when he had studied the warfare of the Romans and Alexander the Great, and from long nights spent playing strategy games with Max.

  He addressed the three units before him. “Front line, crouch low. Keep your shields close to the ground. Protect your feet. If an arrow hits you there, you fall, and the formation breaks. Seal the gaps by interlocking your shields.” His staff tapped one edge with a dull crack. “You are the wall. Nothing passes.”

  The first ranks crouched low, shield edges dug into the damp soil. At Grub’s direction, the second line locked their shields above the first, forming a barrier of wood and hide. Spears poked out from narrow gaps. The third and fourth lines lifted their shields high, guarding from above and to the sides. The formation was slow, heavy, and solid, exactly as it should be.

  “Advance,” Grub called. “Slow, steady. Every step together, or the wall fails.”

  The lines leaned forward as one. Shields scraped together. Boots bit into softening earth. Throk walked the edge, slamming his shoulder into the wall to test it. When a shield rattled loose, Grub struck it sharply with his staff. “Tighten up. If I see light, the enemy will too.”

  After hours of drilling, the units could move without collapsing. Grub had the medics hurl stones and fire blunted arrows at the shield walls. The projectiles bounced off harmlessly. It was a good example of the usefulness of the formation. The training continued.

  By the third morning, the grinding of wood filled the clearing as the three units practiced merging into one solid wall. Sixty shields moved like a living machine. The first rank crouched, the second locked above, the rest formed a roof and flanks to protect them. The structure did not waver.

  Kesh watched from the ridge. “One group can hold well,” she said, “but two or three can hold forever.” Grub nodded once. “That is exactly what I want.”

  The rest of the day belonged to the wedge.

  Under his direction, the builders had crafted a few large tower shields, massive things reinforced with iron straps and a thick center beam. Each was tall enough to hide a goblin and broad enough to batter through a barricade. The one at the point of the wedge would carry it, running blindly behind it, trusting those behind to follow and close ranks the instant the shield struck.

  Grub held one up for all to see. “This is the point of the wedge,” he said. “The front drives through the enemy like a hammer. Use its weight to break their line. The rest push through behind and peel outward. Once you are past their front, turn and strike from behind and from the sides. The enemy breaks, chaos begins, and that is when the rest of the tribe moves in to finish it.” He scanned the rows of faces. “If the point of the wedge breaks through alone, he dies. If it holds, the enemy breaks. Leading the charge means running blind and trusting the tribe behind you.”

  The formation took shape: one at the point, then two, then four, six, and seven. A living triangle, shields tight, spears angled over shoulders. While one unit formed the wedge, the other forty goblins spread into rough lines ahead of them, shields uneven and spacing sloppy, mimicking what most tribes called a battle line. Most carried sticks to simulate strikes.

  “On my mark,” Grub said. The air went still. “Go.”

  The goblin at the point ran first, the tower shield tilted forward. He smashed through the rough line alone. The wedge behind hesitated half a heartbeat and lagged. The front runner vanished into bodies and swinging sticks. He was swarmed, whacked hard across shoulders and thighs, and spun in place with no support.

  Grub lifted a hand and called a halt. “That is death,” he said, voice flat. “If the point outruns the wedge, the wedge is already lost. You move as one or you do not move at all.”

  They reset. The second attempt hit harder, timing better, but gaps opened on the flanks and the mock line folded around them. The third tried to force through with speed alone and bogged down in the press.

  “Again,” Grub said. “Together. Stay on the shield. Do not leave the point alone. He cannot carry a weapon and needs the rest of you to support him and keep him alive.”

  On the fourth try, the charge came together. The tower shield struck and the ranks behind drove in the same heartbeat, shoulders tight, feet in rhythm. The rough line split. The wedge poured through the gap and peeled to both sides as trained, striking from behind and the flanks while the mock enemy tried to turn.

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  This time, the line broke. Grub nodded once, a large smile on his face. “Again.”

  They repeated the charge until the wedge moved like a single being, fast, precise, and unstoppable.

  By the fourth day, they rotated through all three formations: the shield wall, the wedge, and the defensive ring.

  Grub marked a circle in the dirt and placed a “wounded” goblin in the center. “Form the ring. Shields out. Spears ready.”

  The goblins moved into a circle, shields locking outward, spear tips steady. “Close ranks. Move together. No gaps. Back one step. Again.”

  The ring shifted backward as one, a solid circle of wood and iron. When he called for the medics, they rushed in from the rear. They slipped through narrow openings made for them, and dragged the wounded clear, withdrawing while the ring held.

  By sunset, every formation moved smooth and precise. The air in the den stank of sweat, earth, and pine smoke. The wolves sprawled across the thawing ground, tongues lolling as goblins fed them scraps of dried meat.

  Dravak stood at the edge of the training field, watching as the last wedge smashed through another rough line of goblins. He said nothing for a long time. Kesh joined him, charcoal in hand. “Three groups of twenty. Trained, equipped, disciplined. Ready to march.” Dravak nodded slowly. “Good.” Grub approached, rubbing dirt from his hands. “They have done well,” he said.

  Dravak looked toward the field again, where the tower shield lay split near the clearing’s edge. “If we keep this pace, we will be more than a tribe soon,” he said. “We will be an army.”

  Grub’s mouth twitched faintly. “Then let's make sure we act like one.”

  Dravak nodded once. “By midday tomorrow, we meet the Harvest and collect our pay. Let them see what goblins with discipline look like.”

  The last light faded behind the ridge. The wolves stirred, the goblins settled, and in the cooling quiet of evening, the Ironfang prepared for what was to come.

  Dawn of the meeting day came gray and mild. Mist pooled along the slopes, turning the forest into a haze of drifting shapes. The smell of pine and wet earth filled the air. By the time Grub stepped from his alcove, the den was already alive with motion.

  Kesh waited near the main fire, slate under one arm. Two scouts stood behind her, cloaks damp and streaked with mud. Sable padded beside Grub as he approached, her breath rising in soft white clouds. Dravak stood close to the flames, arms folded. “They just returned,” he said. “Kesh says they found the Bonegnashers." Grub nodded. “Then let's hear it.” Kesh gestured to the scouts. “Report.”

  The first scout stepped forward, voice rough but steady. “We followed the eastern ridge, then cut south past the fork in the river. Found their camp in a hollow between two stone spurs. Same direction and layout the humans described.”

  “So the information was good,” Grub said.

  “It was,” the scout continued. “The rest that they spoke of was true as well. They have built crude palisades, sharpened logs bound with vine. Not tall, but thick enough to slow a charge. Roughly ninety in total. Around sixty fighters. The rest are pups or wounded. They are armed with axes, clubs, and bone-tipped spears. A few iron blades. No armor to speak of.” Dravak listened without interruption.

  The second scout took over. “They post two guards on the south ridge at night. Fires burn through the dark, but with no pattern. We saw no shifts, no real watch. They fight each other often. Mostly warriors, but even the elders brawl.”

  Kesh looked up from her slate. “They’re not a unified force. They are split between two leaders,” she said. “The scouts heard their names. Skarn and Vexa. They command separate factions. Their followers do not generally mix.” Grub’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Two chiefs in one tribe. That is a weakness.”

  Kesh’s charcoal tapped against her slate. "True. It may be one we can use to our advantage. If we could reach one of them, promise strength or alliance, we might turn them against the other. A betrayal at the right moment could break them faster than a direct assault.”

  Dravak’s attention shifted to her. “A risky idea,” he said, “but not foolish.” Grub nodded. “A good thought. We will consider it once we know more. There is no hurry yet.” Kesh gave a small nod. “Agreed. We have time.” She turned to the scouts. “Good work, both of you. Eat, rest. There is more ahead.”

  The scouts bowed their heads slightly and withdrew into the den.

  For a time, only the fire crackled as the three of them stood together. Dravak looked toward the cavern mouth. “In a few hours we meet the humans again,” he said. “You will speak for us, Grub.”

  Grub’s brows rose slightly. “Me? You do not want to meet them again yourself?”

  “You spoke for us before,” Dravak said. “They expect you. I will keep the den secure while you are gone. Let them think I am too busy to make time for them.” He grinned, iron teeth catching the firelight. He paused. “You will take fifty warriors, and Rika with her riders. Let the humans see enough strength to understand who they are dealing with.” Grub inclined his head. “Fifty, and the Fangs. That should make a solid point.”

  Kesh looked up. “Do you want them hidden or standing?” “They will stand,” Dravak said. “We show strength today. Let the humans think that is all we have if they wish.” Grub nodded. “Understood.”

  Dravak’s tone softened. “Remember, no matter how well they speak or smile, they are still human. They do not like nor trust our kind. Be careful what you give them.” “I will,” Grub said. Dravak grunted in approval. “Good. Then you march as soon as you are ready.”

  By midmorning the Ironfang had assembled in the clearing outside the den. Fifty warriors stood ready, shields and spears in hand. Their rectangular shields were still pale from fresh carving, the lines straight and even. Behind them, the Fangs of Winter waited astride their wolves, Rika at their front. Ashpaw’s claws scraped the softening soil, impatient to move.

  Dravak faced them, his voice clear in the warming air. “Today the Ironfang meet the humans again. You will not speak unless commanded. You will not draw unless told. You will stand as Ironfang, united, disciplined, unbroken. Understood?”

  Fifty voices answered as one. “Yes Chief.”

  Dravak nodded. “Then do our name proud.”

  The Ironfang departed at a steady march. Boots and paws struck the damp earth in rhythm. Mist curled between the trees, thin under the growing light. No one spoke. The forest thickened as they moved north. Frost still clung in shaded hollows, but the air had begun to carry the smell of thawing soil. Ravens wheeled above, their cries sharp against the quiet.

  By midday, they reached the clearing Grub had marked for the rendezvous. The ground was flat and damp, surrounded by pine. Faint carvings in the stone still showed through moss.

  Grub raised a hand. “Form ranks.”

  The goblins spread into neat lines of ten, the Fangs of Winter crouched low behind their riders. Grub stood at the front beside Rika, Sable pacing at his side. The air hung cool and still.

  Then came the sound of creaking wood from the south. Rika turned in her saddle. “A wagon.”

  Shapes emerged from the mist: five cloaked and masked figures guiding a low, wide-wheeled wagon reinforced with iron. Crates sat stacked under canvas, bound with rope. The Harvest had arrived.

  Jin walked at the head, his pale mask stark against the gray light. He lifted a hand in brief greeting. He made the slow deliberate movements of the spell he used to speak Goblin, and the familiar shimmer appeared around him, then faded. The other four mimicked the action. “Grub of the Ironfang,” he said. “On time, as promised.” Jins eyes flicked towards the wolves, then the warriors arrayed in neat lines. "I see you have brought some friends today."

  Grub stepped forward until he stood a few paces away, Sable’s eyes fixed on the strangers. He nodded slowly. "My chief said we were to show you some of our strength today. Proof that we have what it takes to carry out the task we agreed to," he said. His eyes moved to the wagon behind the five humans. “You brought what we agreed on?” Jin inclined his head slightly. “You will see.”

  Grub gestured to his warriors. “Then let us begin.”