The first light of morning spilled over the Ironfang den, painting the clearing in pale gold. The air was cool and sharp, still holding the bite of night, but beneath it ran a current of restless energy. The tribe had been awake long before sunrise.

  Outside the cavern mouth, two companies of warriors stood assembled. Hask and Throk led them, forty hardened goblins in all, flanked by the fifteen Builders burdened with tools and light packs. The wolves would go with the second contingent of Ironfang, so the sleds were pulled by goblin hands, laden only with what they could afford to bring ahead: food, rope, and the barest building supplies. The heavier loads would follow with the rest of the tribe the following day.

  Thirty of the warriors stood in the newly acquired armor the humans had delivered as payment for the coming campaign. The dark iron caught the light in dull glints as they shifted, a sight unlike anything the Ironfang had worn before. The rest fought in hardened hide, their weapons clean and sharp.

  Dravak stood before them, arms folded, his expression calm. Grub and Kesh watched from nearby as he surveyed the assembled goblins. The only sounds were the creak of leather straps and the faint scrape of boots on stone.

  “You know your orders,” Dravak said, his voice carrying clear across the clearing. “You’ll reach the river first and secure the ground. Build fast. Set traps along the edges. Hold it until the we arrive.” His gaze shifted briefly to Hask. “Your men will see to the traps. I want every approach covered.”

  Hask gave a short nod. “We’ll have the ground ready before the sun sets twice.” “Good.” Dravak turned to Throk. “You’re in charge of their safety until we join you.”

  Throk grinned, slapping a hand against his chest. “No one will get past us, Chief. Not beast, not Goblin.” Dravak’s mouth twitched faintly. “See that they don’t.”

  The Builders stood waiting just behind the warriors, their chisels, saws, and hammers slung across their backs, lightly loaded sleds at the ready. They looked smaller than the soldiers beside them, but their faces were steady. The man who had stepped up and become the defacto leader of the Builders, a wiry goblin named Tor, adjusted his pack strap and said, “We’ll make it stand, Chief. You’ll see.”

  Dravak gave a single nod. “I know you will.”

  A quiet tension hung over the clearing. Every goblin could feel it, the first step of something larger than a single battle.

  Finally, Dravak raised his voice. “Move light and move fast. Don’t wait for trouble, and don’t give it time to find you. We’ll follow once the rest are ready.”

  Throk and Hask straightened, raising their fists to their chests and pounding once. “Ironfang endures.”

  The warriors echoed him as one, a sharp chorus that rolled through the forest. Dravaks eyes narrowed, and the two lieutenants gave him a wry grin. "What was that?" he demanded. Their grins got wider, and Hask responded "We came up with it during training. We've been building something strong. Stronger than a mere tribe. It's something meant to last. So, we decided we needed a phrase to match the vision." Dravak just huffed, but said nothing. His eyes swept across the warriors in their neat ranks, and he had to concede the point. Something was very different about the Ironfang. He waved them off, and, with Throk’s signal, the advance group began their march to The Bend.

  Boots thudded in rhythm. Sleds creaked over frozen ground. The line wound its way through the trees and was soon swallowed by the forest shadows, sunlight glinting once on spearheads before vanishing.

  For a long moment, the clearing was still again. Somewhere deep in the woods, a wolf’s distant howl echoed like a farewell. Dravak stood silent at the den’s mouth, watching until the last trace of movement faded. Then he turned toward the others still gathered behind him. They were all watching him, as though expecting him to say something about what had happened. He grinned. “You know your work. We have one day to prepare before we follow.”

  Grub and Kesh exchanged a short look and just nodded. As they expected from their Chief.

  The Ironfang moved immediately, the clearing once again filled with noise and motion. Goblins packed sleds heavy with smoked meat, dried grain, weapons, spare hides, and tools. Builders supervised the lashing of bundles and the stacking of timber. Grub inspected each load with his usual precision, tugging at knots and adjusting balance. Kesh moved along the lines, barking quick orders to keep the process efficient.

  The females who would remain behind worked among them, spears now slung across their backs. In other tribes, even the pregnant and nursing goblins would have marched to battle beside the warriors. Goblins were expected to fight until death or until their bodies failed them. But under Grub’s influence, that had changed. The Ironfang had something new: non-combatants. Warriors made to rest, to protect the young, and to preserve life rather than spend it recklessly. It was a strange concept for many of them, but one that was taking root. In the absence of the majority of the tribe, they had taken up arms once more.

  The goblin children watched with wide eyes from the edges of the clearing as the tribe worked. Some clutched at their mothers’ legs, others stared at the gleaming weapons and sleds with quiet awe. They were old enough to sense the importance of what was happening, though still too young to name it.

  By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, the work was nearly done. The smell of smoke and sweat filled the cooling air. Warriors sat sharpening weapons or eating quietly, conserving their energy for what lay ahead.

  At dawn the next morning, the Ironfang gathered again in the clearing. Dravak stood at their head with his two hobgoblin guards, the three striking an imposing figure in their new armor.

  Kesh and her twenty warriors formed the vanguard, Rika and the Fangs of Winter waited mounted and ready, and Grub stood beside Sable with the ten medics and their supply sleds.

  Dravak’s voice cut through the still morning air. “Ironfang, move out.”

  The tribe began to march, boots and sleds creaking in steady rhythm as they slipped between the trees.

  Behind them, the den fell silent. The ten guards stood watch at the cavern’s mouth as the twenty-three remaining females and their children watched the army vanish into the forest. The faint echo of marching feet lingered long after they were gone, leaving only the whisper of wind through pine and the quiet heartbeat of what the Ironfang had become.

  The Ironfang moved through the forest like a single living thing. The steady rhythm of boots and the drag of sleds on packed earth filled the quiet beneath the trees. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in shifting ribbons, glinting off spearheads and the dull gleam of Dravak’s armor.

  Kesh led from the front, sharp-eyed and alert. A dozen scouts worked ahead and to either side of the column, fanning out in loose patterns. They moved like shadows through the underbrush, vanishing and reappearing as they checked the way ahead. Every so often, one would return to give a quick report before melting back into the trees.

  Behind them, the main body advanced in careful order. The warriors marched in loose formations, keeping steady spacing so they could move quickly if ambushed. The sleds rolled between the ranks, creaking under the weight of supplies.

  Grub and the medics marched near the center, close to the sleds. Sable padded alongside him, ears twitching at every sound. She was restless, unused to the slow pace, but Grub’s quiet voice kept her calm. The medics moved with purpose, their eyes sharp and watchful. Each carried a light pack filled with herbs, bandages, and knives, prepared to treat wounds or skin fresh game as needed.

  Rika and the Fangs of Winter rode their wolves along the flanks, sweeping outward in wide arcs. The wolves moved smoothly through the trees, their paws nearly silent on the forest floor. Every so often, Rika’s low whistle would call one rider back to report before they slipped away again into the dense green foliage.

  Dravak marched near the front with his two guards, their heavy boots keeping time with the others. The chief’s eyes were always moving, scanning the treeline, gauging the mood of his tribe. He rarely spoke, but his steady presence kept order as surely as any command.

  The first day passed quietly. When night came, they made camp in a shallow hollow beside a stream. Fires were lit, small and controlled, and guards posted in rotating pairs. The forest around them hummed with insects and the distant cries of night birds.

  They ate in silence that night, sharpening blades and mending straps in the glow of the fire. The air smelled of smoke, leather, and cooked meat. When it came time to rest, they slept in tight clusters, shields propped within reach.

  Morning saw them moving again, the thin gray mist curling low through the trees. They broke camp quickly and pushed on, setting a steady pace. The terrain shifted as they traveled east, the forest thinning in places, the ground softening near the low valleys where meltwater gathered. Scouts ranged farther ahead now, wary of the Bonegnashers’ domain.

  At midday, hunting parties peeled off from the column to bring in food. They returned before dusk dragging deer and boar, the meat cleaned and roasted quickly before being packed away for the next day’s march.

  The days fell into rhythm. Travel. Camp. Watch. Move. The repetition hardened the tribe’s focus, every goblin aware that each step carried them closer to battle.

  On the fifth evening, the forest began to change again. The sound of running water grew stronger, and the air took on the sharp scent of the nearby river. Scouts returned with word that the Bend was near.

  Dravak gave the order to make camp for the night. “Tomorrow,” he said simply, “we’ll reach them.”

  That night, the Ironfang slept beneath a clear, star-filled sky. No one spoke of what was coming, but every goblin could feel it in the air. The calm before the storm.

  The Bend was quiet when the advance party arrived. A wide curve of river cut through the land, its banks rising into a long, sloping plain. The forest pressed close on three sides, but the water guarded the fourth, the current fast and deep. It was open ground, good ground, and it would serve the Ironfang well.

  Hask was the first to speak after studying the terrain. “Good ground. We can hold this,” he said simply.

  Throk grunted his agreement, scanning the treeline. “Plenty of room to fight. Plenty of space to bleed them before they ever reach us.”

  Without further discussion, they set to work.

  The Builders moved first, marking the ground with small stakes to show where shelters, trenches, and funnel points would go. They directed warriors to cut saplings and drag them back to the river bend, their axes and saws ringing through the forest. The sharp scent of sap and fresh-cut wood soon filled the air.

  Hask divided his twenty warriors into smaller teams, sending them to dig shallow pits and weave snare traps into the brush around the clearing. “We’re not here to kill them,” he reminded his men. “We’re here to slow them down, catch them alive if we can. Corpses can’t work, can’t add to our strength.” They nodded and continued working hard to set the ground up for their advantage.

  The traps they set were designed for capture, not destruction: snare lines hidden under loose leaves, pits shallow enough to twist ankles, false paths baited to lead intruders into the waiting cord traps.

  Closer to the center, they shaped the ground itself. Trenches, mounds and angled ditches were cut deep, creating a labyrinth of worked earth that would channel any approach into three narrow lanes leading toward the open center of the camp. Each was wide enough for a formation to move through but too tight for a horde to spread out. It was a killing ground, designed to favor precision and discipline over raw numbers. Once the mounds were shaped, and the earth compacted, they drove small sharpened wooden stakes into them, creating a painful path for any who dared to climb over.

  By midday, the camp began to take shape as the Ironfang continued working tirelessly. A small rise overlooking the river became the center of the camp, where the Builders raised frames of cut poles and stretched hides for shelter. Smoke curled up from a single cookfire as strips of dried meat softened in the heat. The steady rhythm of work filled the air: digging, sawing, chopping, and the low murmur of quiet orders.

  The warriors worked without complaint, their movements measured and efficient. Some sang low to keep rhythm as they dug, their shovels striking dirt in time. Others wove rope, shaped stakes, or hauled logs to the Builders. By dusk, sweat streaked their faces, and the clearing bore the marks of progress: trenches carved deep, spiked mounds placed strategically to funnel the enemy where they wanted them, snares hidden in the brush, and the faint outline of what would soon become a fortified camp.

  Throk walked the perimeter one last time as the sun sank low, the light turning the river red and gold. He found Hask kneeling beside a finished trap, driving a stake into the soil with a mallet.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Your men work hard,” Throk said. “You run them like builders.” Hask gave a small, humorless smile. "This is what we had to do to survive before the Ironfang came to take us.” He grinned at the memory. "It's good to shape the ground again. Like old times."

  Throk chuckled softly, nodding toward the Builders’ camp, where Tor and his crew worked by firelight, hammering crossbeams into place. “We’ll have a stronghold here before the Chief ever arrives.”

  Hask looked out toward the treeline, where shadows stretched long under the fading sun. “Let’s just hope the Bonegnashers don’t find it first.”

  Throk only smiled, his confidence unshaken. “If they do, we’ll hold. Forty warriors in formation and fifteen Builders to stand behind them. That’s enough to stop anything Skarn can send. The Chief was right to give us this much strength. We can hold this ground for a week if we have to.”

  Hask nodded once, satisfied. “Then we’ll make sure we do this right.”

  The night settled across the slowly expanding campsite. Fires burned low, their glow reflecting off the river’s black surface. The sounds of digging, hammering, and low talk carried into the dark, mingling with the whisper of water.

  By the time the moon rose high, the Bend was no longer wild ground. It was the beginning of an Ironfang fortress carved from the forest and waiting for the rest of the tribe to come.

  Three days later, the forest broke open with the sound of movement. They heard boots on packed soil, sleds creaking over roots, and the low growl of tired voices. The main body of the Ironfang had come.

  They had taken six days to cross the distance the advance group covered in only four, burdened by heavy supplies and a slower pace. When the trees thinned and the Bend came into view, quiet murmurs rippled through the column.

  The once-empty clearing beside the river had been transformed. Rough shelters of wood and hide ringed the camp’s center, smoke curling upward from cookfires. Trenches and mounds cut deep lines into the earth, and a semicircle of sharpened stakes marked the edges of the three funnel paths leading into the open center. Warriors moved steadily along the perimeter, their silhouettes sharp against the light of dawn.

  Dravak marched at the front, his armor glinting faintly in the new sun. He slowed as he entered the clearing, taking in every detail. His gaze passed over the traps half-hidden in brush, the steady rhythm of the Builders hammering, and the disciplined posture of the guards on watch.

  When Throk spotted him, he barked a short order, and the guards snapped to attention. “Chief,” he called, grinning wide as Dravak approached. “Welcome to the Bend. You’ll find we’ve built something worth defending.”

  Dravak’s eyes swept the camp once more before he nodded. “You’ve done well. Better than expected.” He turned to Hask. “The traps?”

  “Set and ready,” Hask said. "We've scouted the forst nearby. No sign of Bonegnashers. We found a few old tracks, but nothing recent.” “Good,” Dravak said. “Then we’ll help finish the work you started.”

  At his signal, the rest of the tribe moved into motion. Warriors unloaded sleds, stacking crates of smoked meat, hides, and weapons under the Builders’ direction. Grub and the medics set up their tents near the water’s edge, organizing herbs, bandages, and tools with practiced precision.

  Kesh immediately took command of scouting. She called for pairs of her warriors and sent them ranging into the woods, replacing Throk’s patrols. Throk himself seemed relieved to hand the duty over, shifting his focus to organizing guard rotations and drilling the new arrivals in proper formation. His barked orders echoed across the clearing, the familiar rhythm of training grounding the growing camp.

  Grub spent the morning walking the perimeter, studying the camp’s layout. He made small adjustments as he went, showing a pair of Builders where to reinforce a trench wall or redirect a drainage channel. “If the rain comes, we don’t want the pits filling up,” he said. “It’ll ruin the traps.” He nodded in satisfaction as he surveyed the ground leading to the forest at the edge of the clearing. They would have a hell of a time getting past all this.

  Sable trailed behind him, her nose low to the ground. She sniffed at the new earth and gave a soft rumble of approval, curling up near one of the fires to sleep when he stopped his patrolling.

  By midday, the camp buzzed with new life. Smoke from the cookfires drifted high into the clear sky, and the air was thick with the smell of earth, sap, and sweat. The steady beat of hammers and saws mixed with the barked calls of warriors hauling supplies.

  Rika appeared beside Grub, her wolf Ashpaw looming tall beside Sable. “Looks like we’ve built ourselves a real fort,” she said, eyeing the line of trenches and stakes.

  Grub nodded. “It’ll hold.” He turned toward her. “Your job starts now. We need to bring them in close, but not too fast.”

  Rika’s grin was quick and sharp. “You want the Fangs to hunt the hunting parties?” He nodded. “Brinf them back alive,” Grub said. “They need to know we’re here.”

  She swung up into her saddle and gave a sharp whistle. The rest of the Fangs of Winter appeared from among the workers, the nine riders mounted and ready. “Then we’ll start the game,” she said, and with a final nod, the pack rode off into the forest, the sound of their wolves fading into the distance.

  Dravak stood on the rise above the river as the sun began to set, watching the light shift over the camp below. Shelters rose in neat rows, and fires glowed warm against the growing dark.

  The Ironfang had come far. The work had progressed quickly, the camp was secure, and the trap was ready to be baited.

  Soon, the Bonegnashers would come looking for them.

  The sun hung low when the sound of wolves rolled through the trees. The rhythmic thud of paws on packed soil carried into the camp, followed by the familiar bark that signaled the Fangs of Winter were returning.

  Work slowed across the clearing. Builders paused their hammering, warriors lifted their heads from trenches, and the smell of smoke and sap drifted through the cooling air.

  Ashpaw emerged first, dark fur streaked with mud, blood dripping from his maw, his yellow eyes bright in the fading light of the sunset. Rika rode tall in the saddle, her hair wind-tossed and her face streaked with dirt. Behind her came the rest of the Fangs, the riders and their wolves moving in a slow, controlled pace.

  Trailing behind them, tied together by a rope at the neck, stumbled five Bonegnashers. Four males and one female, all once armed but now empty-handed, their faces set with a mix of exhaustion and defiance. They each bore small wounds, and 2 of them limped.

  Throk spotted them first and barked a laugh. “Five of them already? The hunt begins well.” Rika guided Ashpaw to a stop. “We caught them not far from the ridge. A hunting party. They didn’t even know they were surrounded until it was too late.”

  Hask nodded as he approached. “Good work.” She just nodded as the continued to lead them into the camp.

  Dravak moved from the central fire, his armor dull in the sunset glow. “Bring them in,” he said simply.

  The cage stood ready near the northern edge of camp, built earlier that day by the Builders. It was solid timber reinforced with rope and bone pegs, already prepared for its new occupants. Inside were rolled furs and waterskins, placed there hours before in quiet expectation.

  The Bonegnashers were led to it under watchful eyes. Their bindings were cut away, and they rubbed their wrists, uncertain what to expect. When the door closed behind them with a heavy thud, no one spoke.

  They glanced at the furs and water waiting within, but the Ironfang paid them no more attention. There were no jeers or questions, no taunts from the guards. The prisoners were simply locked away, left to sit and watch the camp around them come alive with purpose. A few minutes later, Grub and the medics moved in with their supplies ready, and began tending to their wounds.

  Dravak turned to Rika. “Run into any trouble?” “None,” she said. “They tried to run at first. The wolves stopped that.” She grinned mischievously.

  “Good. Their disappearance will make Skarn start wondering,” Dravak said. “Scouts should start sniffing around soon. Let them see the fires. Let them know we’re not hiding.”

  Grub stood beside him, arms crossed. “That’s the point. Every hunter that goes missing will gnaw at him. He’ll come to us soon enough.”

  Throk smirked. “And when he does, he’ll be walking straight into our ground.” Dravak’s expression changed into a fierce grin. His iron teeth glinted in the firelight. “Exactly.”

  The wolves were fed and watered, stretching out near the fires as darkness fell. Around the camp, the Ironfang returned to work as though nothing unusual had happened. The rhythm of digging, chopping, and quiet talk filled the night air.

  Inside the cage, the Bonegnashers sat in silence. Their wounds were bound now, and the smell of cooked meat drifted past, the glow of the flames reflected off the sharpened stakes that lined the choke points. When the evening meal was served, they were given steaming bowls of the same stew as the Ironfang, passed through the bars by a pair of Builders before being left alone again.

  They had been caught, fed, and ignored.

  Outside, the Ironfang prepared for what came next. The bait had been set.

  Morning rose over the Bend, the mist curling above the river in thin ribbons. The Ironfang camp was already alive with movement. Builders and warriors alike worked side by side, reinforcing the trenches and deepening the choke points that curved around the clearing. The sharp scent of fresh-cut wood mixed with smoke and sweat.

  The groundworks had changed everything. Each trench was widened, its edges braced with logs, and the shallow ditches beyond were angled to funnel anyone approaching into the three narrow lanes leading to the open center. The mounds looked malevolent in the early morning light with the sharpened stakes poking out through the hard earth, like they were begging for hapless hands or feet to find them. Warriors carried bundles of vine and rope, lashing the braces tight while Builders barked orders and checked the lines. With so many hands at work, progress was fast. Far faster than anyone would expect of goblins.

  Dravak and Grub made their rounds, quiet but ever-present. “Keep the spacing even,” Grub told one group. “If a ditch runs too wide, they can spread before they hit the line.” Nearby, Dravak inspected a trench, giving a satisfied nod.

  Beyond the works, Hask’s warriors moved through the underbrush, finishing the trap lines. The pits were shallow, camouflaged with brush, the spikes inside dull-tipped to maim slightly or trap the legs of their victims. Snares hung low to the ground, ready to catch ankles or pull down an unsuspecting foe. It was careful, deliberate work meant to slow the Bonegnashers and break a charge.

  By midmorning, the sound of wolves carried through the trees again. The camp stirred. Rika and the Fangs of Winter returned in two groups, wolves panting, their fur streaked with mud and leaves. Ashpaw came first, followed by another pair of mounts close behind. Between the two groups, eight Bonegnasher captives trudged forward, bound but uninjured.

  The cages stood waiting near the northern edge of the camp for them. Inside each one lay clean furs and filled waterskins. As the Fangs guided their prisoners inside, the tribe barely spared them a glance. This was routine, just another step in their plan. Once the doors were shut and barred, bowls of steaming food were carried over and passed through the bars. The prisoners ate in silence, sharing uneasy glances with the other captured hunters as the Ironfang returned to work around them.

  Rika lingered long enough to see them secured before turning toward Dravak and Grub. “Eight today,” she said, wiping the sweat and dirt from her brow. “We’ve been running the wolves hard. I’ll rest them today and head back out tomorrow.”

  Dravak gave a short nod. “You’ve done well. That will be enough for now.” Rika saluted and left to tend to the wolves.

  The sun sank lower as the day went on, and by the time the shadows stretched long across the camp, the air was heavy with the smell of smoke, earth, and pine. The river caught the fading light, turning the surface to molten gold.

  As the evening fires began to rise, Kesh strode into the camp from the west, her cloak torn and her boots caked with mud. She went straight to the center fire, where Dravak and Grub were talking quietly with Throk.

  “We’ve seen movement,” she said without preamble. “Scouts. Three, maybe four groups, no more than five in each. They’re watching us from the woods.”

  Dravak’s gaze sharpened. “How close?” “Close enough to see the cookfires,” Kesh said. “Maybe even the trenches. They’re being careful, but not careful enough.”

  Throk’s hand dropped to the hilt of his blade. “Let me take a squad and deal with them.”

  Dravak shook his head. “No. This is what we wanted. Let Skarn’s pride do the rest. He’ll come charging when he sees how deep we’ve dug in. If they’ve seen us, the damage is already done. Killing them changes nothing now.”

  Dravak nodded once, as if coming to a decision. “No more raids. We’ve caught enough to make our point. From now on, all hunting stays within the scouts’ perimeter. I’d rather eat less fresh meat than lose anyone before the battle starts.”

  Kesh inclined her head. “I’ll tighten the patrol lines.”

  Rika had returned in time to hear the order. She folded her arms and nodded to Kesh. “The wolves will rest tomorrow, then run with your scouts. If they come, we’ll be prepared.”

  Dravak’s expression softened slightly. “Good. The time has nearly come. Let them see our strength.”

  The order spread quickly through the camp. Fires burned lower that night, guarded by quiet sentries along the trenches. The wolves slept near the riverbank, ears twitching at every sound.

  Grub stood alone for a while near the outer edge of the clearing, looking out into the black treeline. “They’ve seen us now,” he said quietly to himself. “The next move is theirs.”

  Beyond the camp, somewhere in the shadows, unseen eyes watched back.

  Two days passed in tense stillness. The Ironfang camp had grown quiet, the sound of hammering and sawing replaced by the soft rustle of the river and the crackle of cookfires. No more raids went out, and the wolves rested at the riverbank whenever they weren't out with the scouts, their heads low, ears twitching toward the dark line of trees.

  Kesh’s patrols swept the woods in wide circles, searching for signs of movement. The forest had turned unnaturally still, as if holding its breath. Even the birds had gone silent.

  Late in the afternoon of the second day, Kesh returned from the western woods, her cloak dark with dirt and her expression grim. She went straight to the fire where Dravak, Grub, Rika, and Throk sat in low discussion.

  “They’re on the move,” she said. “Scouts spotted them coming from the west. A big group this time, maybe eighty or ninety strong. Spears, clubs, and bows. Some are armed with scavenged weapons. Skarn is said to be carrying a nasty looking blade. According to the report, they’ll be here by tomorrow morning.”

  Dravak rose slowly, the firelight flickering across his face as he smiled. “Good,” he said. “I've been growing bored sitting here. Let them come.”

  Throk grinned, standing and cracking his knuckles. “I can't wait to knock some sense into them.”

  Hask nodded from across the fire. “We’ll hold them, Chief. They won’t even know what they’ve walked into.”

  Rika crouched near the flames, watching the sparks drift upward. “The wolves will wait behind the center line until you give the word. They’ll hit hard when it’s time.”

  Dravak looked over to Grub. “You said Vexa might help us. Do you still think that?” Grub met his gaze. “I do. She knows Skarn will lead them to ruin. When it starts, she’ll move. The only question is when.” Dravak gave a slow nod. “Then we’ll be ready for her.”

  He stepped up onto the low rise near the center of camp. Around him, the Ironfang stirred, conversations falling silent. Builders set down their tools, and warriors turned toward him.

  “The Bonegnashers are coming,” Dravak said. “By sunrise, they’ll be here. You all know your roles. You all know your place. No panic. No mistakes. Hold the line. Protect your brothers. When they break, we take them alive.”

  A low murmur of voices rolled through the camp in answer, steady and unified.

  Dravak turned to Kesh. “Recall the scouts closer to the camp. I want everyone back behind the trenches before nightfall. A few runners close by to give us warning will be enough.”

  Kesh nodded sharply and moved off, her warriors scattering into the trees.

  By twilight, the camp was locked down. Scouts returned from the woods and joined their units. The trenches were checked, the stakes sharpened one final time. The wolves paced restlessly behind the formation lines, their eyes glowing faint in the firelight. Only a few, the fastest runners, stayed out in the woods, not ranging too far from the camp.

  The Ironfang formed into their companies: Kesh with her warriors on the left flank, Hask with his on the right, and Throk holding the center line where the trenches ran deepest. Dravak stood just behind them with his two hobgoblin guards, and Grub moved between the lines, checking positions and offering quiet words of focus.

  Rika and the Fangs of Winter waited near the back, mounted and silent, ready to strike when the order came.

  The camp fell still. The river whispered softly behind them, and the night wind stirred the tops of the pines. In the faint red glow of the fires, the Ironfang waited.

  Before dawn, the first sound came from the forest, a low, distant murmur of movement, the crack of branches, the muffled rhythm of many feet in the forest.

  A runner appeared from the trees, breathing hard. “They’re close,” he said. “Dozens of them. Skarn’s force is coming fast.”

  Dravak’s voice was calm and clear. “Then hold your ground.”

  The runner nodded and vanished back into the ranks.

  Along the trenches, shields lifted. Spears braced. The Ironfang crouched low, their eyes fixed on the dark edge of the forest.

  The air grew heavy and still, filled with the scent of earth and wood smoke. Somewhere ahead, a voice shouted, harsh and guttural.

  Then came the sound of drums.

  The Bonegnashers had arrived.