The first light of morning crawled over the Bend, thin and cold through the river mist. The air was heavy with damp earth and the faint scent of smoke from the banked fires smoldering behind the Ironfang lines. Across the churned ground, the tribe stood waiting.

  Three tight ranks of goblins standing in formation filled the areas behind the trenches, where the ground would funnel the enemy. The front line crouched behind rectangular shields planted in the ground, the second stacked their shields above the first and readied their spears, while the third stood in reserve, shields held high to block projectiles. Their armor caught the weak sunlight, dull and gray, a forest of iron and discipline.

  Behind them, the medics waited with Grub beside them, their slings and stones ready. Rika and the Fangs of Winter crouched among their wolves to the sides, every beast tense, yellow eyes locked on the dark tree line. Dravak stood at the center of the formation, his two hobgoblin guards looming beside him. Kesh, Throk, and Hask stood near their units, watching the forest with grim faces.

  The drums came again. Louder this time. Closer.

  Shapes moved between the trees.

  The Bonegnashers had arrived.

  They emerged from the forest in a loose, uneven tide. Dozens of goblins in mismatched hides and crude scraps of armor, weapons clutched tight, voices rising in a rough, uneven roar. The noise rolled over the clearing like a wave. The Ironfang stood still, watching silently.

  At their head came Skarn. He was huge even for a goblin, shoulders broad, arms thick with muscle, a long cleaver-like blade clutched in his hands. His eyes burned red in the mist. Scars cut across his chest and face, pale lines telling the tales of many battles. Behind him came Vexa and her hunters, fewer in number but more disciplined, their expressions tight. Vexas eyes scanned the field, gaze washing over the worked earth and the disciplined ranks of Ironfang arrayed on the other side. She frowned slightly, but said nothing.

  The Bonegnashers fanned out across the field and halted just short of the trenches. The roar died. The clearing held its breath.

  Skarn stepped forward, his voice breaking the stillness like a hammer strike.

  “You dare to come into my land and take my ground?” he shouted, fury raw in every word. “You think you can steal my river, my forest, my home? You think you can live after what you have done?”

  He swung the cleaver and pointed it at Dravak’s line. “You have one chance. Pack your things and crawl back into whatever hole you came from. Leave this land, or I will bury you in it.”

  Only the wind through the short grass answered.

  Then Dravak stepped forward.

  He moved to the front of the line with slow, measured steps, armor whispering with each motion. When he spoke, his voice was low but carried cleanly over the distance.

  “This ground belongs to the Ironfang now,” he said. “You are the ones standing where you should not be. I will give you one opportunity to keep yourselves alive. One chance to surrender to us and live. Stay, and the river will carry your corpses.”

  A ripple passed through the Bonegnashers. Some shifted uneasily. Others spat and snarled.

  Skarn’s eyes widened, his disbelief quickly sharpening into rage. He laughed, a hard, broken sound, then slammed the cleaver blade into the dirt, sending soil flying.

  “You think I will kneel to you?” he bellowed. “You think I will bow to some soft-tongued thief hiding behind shields? You will drown in your own blood before I take one step back.”

  He turned and roared to his tribe, “Bonegnashers, kill them all!”

  The horde answered with a ragged cheer. Drums thundered again.

  Behind him, Vexa hesitated. Her hunters shifted, waiting for her command. She raised her bow, but she did not loose.

  Skarn never looked back, as he and the Bonegnashers charged forward.

  Dravak raised his arm and stepped behind the shield wall again. “Hold,” he said.

  Shields locked. Spears braced.

  The trap was ready. The battle had begun.

  The Bonegnashers rushed across the field in a wild, uneven wave. Their war cries filled the air, harsh and guttural, rising over the pounding of feet. The morning mist swirled around them as they closed the distance.

  The first trap triggered before they were even halfway across.

  The ground beneath the leading goblins collapsed. Hidden pits yawned open, ropes snapped, and sharpened stakes ripped through flesh. Screams followed as goblins tumbled into holes or were dragged sideways by weighted snares. The narrow approach forced the next ranks to trip over the fallen, twisting the charge into chaos.

  Then came the mounds and ditches.

  Low ridges of packed dirt rose across the path, their tops studded with outward-angled stakes. Goblins tried to climb them in panic, only to be impaled or toppled. Others slowed to circle around the obstacles, splitting the charge and funneling it into tight, predictable lanes. Those that moved were met with the ditches and trenches, forcing them to funnel into an even tighter area to advance. A wide chaotic charge had slowed to a crawl as the goblins were forced to maneuver across the field. Momentum shattered.

  Dravak watched calmly behind the Ironfang line. “Hold,” he repeated.

  The Ironfang did not move. Their ranks remained steady and straight. Armored front lines stood firm, shields locked tight. Behind them, the hide-clad spearmen waited, their weapons forming a bristling wall. The ground beneath their feet was shaped to force the attack directly into their strongest angle.

  The Bonegnashers reached them in broken clusters, not the massive wave that had started the attack.

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  Skarn crashed into the line first. His cleaver slammed into a shield with a bone-shaking impact. Sparks flew. The warrior behind the shield braced hard and shoved back.

  “Hold,” Dravak shouted again. "Thrust!"

  The line tightened. Spears thrust through the gaps. The dull thud of metal meeting flesh echoed through the clearing. The Bonegnashers threw themselves at the Ironfang formations but could not break it. Each impact dissolved against iron discipline. The front ranks absorbed the blows. The second line struck with precision. Wounded Bonegnashers collapsed at their feet.

  Behind them, Grub crouched with the medics. “Now,” he said. Stones whistled through the air as medics swung their slings, dropping Bonegnashers left and right with carefully aimed rocks. Grub thrust his staff forward, channeling mana through the earth.

  A Stone Spear burst upward beneath a cluster of enemies. Bodies flew. Dirt and blood sprayed through the air. Before they hit the ground, Grub cast again, threading his mana into the spear’s core. Stone Fragmentation.

  The spear exploded, and shards of stone flew in all directions among the Bonegnashers, ripping through legs and arms, sending goblins screaming into the mud.

  Grub raised his staff again, breath heavy but steady. A second Stone Spear shot upward, followed by another detonation. The Bonegnasher center buckled under the barrage. His mana drained quickly. His limbs shook. But he cast a third spear, and then a fourth, tearing the charge apart.

  When he lowered his staff, panting, the center of the Bonegnasher formation lay shattered. The Ironfang line held strong.

  Grub looked around the battlefield, and forced a grim smile onto his face. The plan had worked. The traps worked. The discipline worked. But the Bonegnasher were not broken yet.

  Then came the moment Grub was waiting for. A sharp sound cut through the clash. The sudden twang of bowstrings.

  Grub’s head snapped up. Arrows hissed through the air from behind the Bonegnasher lines, their black shafts glinting cruelly in the morning light.

  The first volley struck low, thudding into the backs and legs of Skarn’s warriors. Several fell with cries of pain and confusion, stumbling into the mud.

  Skarn’s goblins faltered, turning in panic as they realized the attack came from behind them, not the Ironfang. Their confusion spread like wildfire through the ranks.

  At the rear of the Bonegnasher force, Vexa’s hunters had stopped their advance. Their bows were raised again, strings drawn. Her voice carried faintly over the field, cold and sharp.

  “Loose.”

  The second volley fell, deliberate and controlled. The arrows slammed into the rear of Skarn’s horde, cutting down those who still tried to press forward.

  Grub’s eyes narrowed. “She’s turned,” he muttered.

  Vexa stepped forward from her halted line, raising her crossbow. She took careful aim, the weapon steady in her hands despite the chaos before her.

  The bolt flew, cutting through the air with a hiss.

  It struck Skarn in the back of his knee.

  He roared, a sound halfway between fury and pain, and dropped to one knee, his cleaver sinking into the mud beside him.

  The effect on his warriors was immediate. The charge faltered completely. Goblins tripped over one another, some turning to flee, others freezing in place. The Bonegnasher line crumbled as chaos spread through it like fire through dry grass.

  “VEXA!” Skarn bellowed, his voice cracking with rage. “TRAITOR! I’ll skin you alive!”

  His threat only fed the confusion. The Bonegnashers who still followed him looked between their crippled leader and the archers behind them.

  Vexa said nothing. Her expression was calm, almost resigned. She gave a short hand signal, and her hunters slung their bows, then silently dropped to their knees and put their hands on their heads, signalling surrender.

  Dravak saw the opening, and would not think twice. “Now,” he bellowed. "Advance!"

  His voice cut through the din like a blade.

  The Ironfang moved as one. The shield walls split into three precise charges, each company stepping forward in perfect rhythm. Shields stayed high and tight, their edges overlapping in a gleaming wall of iron and hide. The ground churned beneath their boots as they surged over the blood-slick soil.

  The front ranks struck first.

  Spears darted out in short, sharp thrusts, low and deliberate. They aimed for knees, thighs, and bellies rather than hearts or throats. It was not slaughter they sought, but control. Every motion was measured, every strike meant to cripple or disable. The Bonegnashers, broken and scattered, met the advance with wild swings and panicked shouts that did nothing to slow the Ironfang’s methodical push.

  But Skarn was not finished.

  He tore through the chaos like a beast, wounded leg dragging, cleaver swinging in wide arcs. He smashed through shields, split wood, and carved through Ironfang bodies. Blood splattered across the mud with every strike.

  “Fall back from him,” Throk roared. “Do not meet that thing head-on.”

  Skarn refused to slow.

  Dravak stepped forward.

  He advanced with his two hobgoblin guards, calm and controlled. His eyes locked on Skarn. “With me,” he said.

  Skarn turned with a snarl. “You think you can take what is mine?”

  Dravak lifted his axe as he advanced toward Skarn. "You've already lost, fool. You're just too blinded by rage to see it."

  Skarn bellowed an incoherent war cry, lifted his cleaverblade and charged. The cleaver crashed down. Dravak caught it on his shield. Wood split halfway through, but held long enough for him to pivot aside. His left guard slashed across Skarn’s forearm. His right stabbed behind the damaged knee.

  Skarn staggered.

  Dravak stepped in and drove his axe down through Skarn’s shoulder. The blade tore through flesh, ribs, and heart.

  Skarn froze. His cleaver dropped. His breath rattled once in the cool air, then died.

  The chief collapsed face first into the mud and lay motionless, a puddle of blood quickly staining the ground around him.

  All around them, the battle faltered.

  The Bonegnashers saw their leader fall. Weapons began to hit the ground. Hands raised. Pleas for mercy rose through the air.

  Rika whistled sharply. The wolves swept forward, circling the survivors and forcing them to their knees. None escaped. Those who tried to run were quickly driven back.

  From the rear, Vexa and her hunters stayed motionless, on their knees with their hands on their heads. She caught Grubs eye, and nodded once. He returned the nod. He would talk to her soon.

  The Ironfang, meanwhile, held their line, shields raised, watching. They moved slowly, cautiously, towards the surrendering Bonegnashers. They began picking up the weapons and tossing them aside, then ushered the captured goblins to their feet.

  Silence rolled across the field. Only the groans of the wounded and the murmur of the river broke the stillness.

  The battle was over.

  Smoke drifted through the clearing, mixing with the copper scent of blood and churned earth. The Ironfang moved with quiet precision, gathering the wounded, collecting weapons, and arranging the fallen.

  There were no cheers. Only the steady rhythm of post-battle work.

  Dravak watched his tribe, his expression unreadable.

  Kesh coordinated the center of the field. Warriors tied ropes, secured captives, and laid the dead in careful rows.

  Grub moved among the injured with Sable at his side. Medics followed him, their hands stained red. They treated the worst wounds first, cutting armor, pressing poultices, and binding gashes. A young medic glanced toward a cluster of injured Bonegnashers. “Grub, what about them?”

  Before he answered, Dravak spoke behind them.

  “They are ours now. Treat them the same. Worst wounds first, Ironfang or Bonegnasher alike.”

  The medic nodded and moved to work. Others followed.

  By midday, the field was cleared. The dead from both tribes were placed in a single trench near the river. Warriors stood in silence as earth covered them.

  “They fought as two tribes,” Dravak said quietly. “They will rest as Ironfang.”

  Kesh approached soon after, slate in hand. “The count is finished,” she reported. “Eighty-nine captured. Seventy-two warriors, sixty-one of which are wounded. Eight pregnant females, nine children. Many have old injuries reopened.”

  Grub exhaled. “Then we tend to them all.” Dravak nodded. “Make them strong.” Grub motioned to the medics, and they got back to work.

  By late afternoon, the prisoners had been brought into the camp. The cages that once held Vexa’s hunters as captives now stood open, repurposed as shelters. Furs and water awaited inside. The Bonegnashers entered cautiously, expressions a mixture of fear and disbelief.

  Rika dismounted near the last group. “None escaped,” she said. The wolves made sure of it." Dravak nodded. “Good.”

  Night settled. Fires burned high. Warriors ate quietly, cleaned weapons, and had their wounds tended. Medics worked diligently among the injured, their hands stained red.

  Grub watched the flames flicker. Smoke and river mist blended in the cooling air.

  The battle was done.

  The Ironfang had endured once again.

  The Bonegnashers had fallen.

  And now, for the first time, they stood as one.

  Another victory for the Ironfang.

  More strength for the tribe.