Another goblin had died before dawn. The overcrowded infirmary was filled with cries of pain and moans of suffering. The smell of blood and potions permeated every corner. Death hovered in the stifling air, and many auras flickered out, never to shine again.

  Shoma watched with terror in his eyes. Over three hundred of his people had fallen on the first day of battle, and since the enemy had taken the field, not all the bodies could be retrieved. Here and there, the enemy had impaled the heads of the unfortunate on spears — little realizing that such acts only filled the hearts of the alliance warriors with unbridled rage and thirst for revenge.

  He walked among the wounded, himself carrying numerous injuries. Every step was careful, so as not to crush a hand or leg of someone lying on the ground, and though his abilities were limited, he did what he could to ease their suffering. He handed out water, repced bandages, and treated wounds.

  He hadn’t slept since yesterday. Fear and emotions had denied him that blessing.

  “Commander. Great Isma summons you,” said one of the goblins, and Shoma didn’t even hesitate. He nodded and set off toward the commander in chief's hill.

  He rode on one of the wolves, with a strong escort. Caution was necessary, as news and rumors were coming from all directions about enemy night raids harassing the guards and movements of enemy infantry on the southern front, guarded by Borg and Gyrd. Meanwhile troll Nut was asleep, sedated with a sleeping potion to regain strength for another day of battle, lying under a tree — wounded and battered from arrows, cuts, and enemy strikes.

  Isma sat in a rge tent of furs and hides. Inside were three of the five Green Generals. Naturally, Zoggo was absent, and Mago, who commanded the northernmost front, remained behind to oversee defense in real-time, awaiting orders delivered by falcon.

  Borg, Gyrd, and Doirak sprang to their feet as Shoma entered. The bulky green warrior fought like a lion, and his troll had saved dozens of lives, if not more…

  “Sit, friend. Time is short,” the elder spoke.

  A dozen high-ranking officers and many tribal leaders also took seats on wide logs arranged around a hastily constructed table of boards and branches. In the center, a battle map was drawn in charcoal — gray stones marking enemy units, white ones the alliance. A few sticks represented the river to the north.

  “What of the Queen? Will she return in time?” asked Doirak, his body bearing the marks of combat, his right arm wrapped in a bandage. “We need her!”

  Isma motioned for him to sit, leaning on the table with his elbows.

  “The Queen knows what she’s doing. She will arrive in time, once her mission is complete.”

  The others knew what he meant, but not entirely. In truth, even not all of Zoggo’s special unit assigned to the mission were aware, until the very end, that the goal was to free the hostages, sves, and prisoners gathered in the ancient watchtower. Had it not been for a goblin interrogated after the siege who hailed from those nds and overheard rumors — no one would have known.

  Of all present, only Isma, Valeria, and the Green Generals were aware of the purpose of such a damn risky mission.

  If they managed to free the hostages — most importantly children and wives of many tribal warriors and leaders — the forces of dozens of tribes compelled to fight for the Red Serpent Tribe, the battle could take a completely different shape. Once the whip over their backs fell silent, it was possible they would turn against their oppressors. Barely possible… yet enough…

  “Koshia is evil incarnate. The greatest scourge of the goblin race! We must kill that bastard if we are to survive until Zod arrives!” Gyrd shouted. The falcon on her shoulder screeched, and the arrows rattled in the quiver at her hip.

  Others echoed her. The tent filled with threats and curses aimed at the enemy leader. The sounds of the previous day’s battle still thundered in many ears, and images of sughter clouded all reason.

  “Silence… This is not the task we were given. We only have to hold until the Queen returns with Zoggo,” Isma told them. “When the time comes, you will fall back behind the ramparts and trenches. Let that fool bleed out his best troops trying to storm the hill. Even with triple numbers, it won’t be easy for him.”

  The idea of retreating did not sit well, especially with Gyrd and Borg, who had achieved the greatest successes on the first day and even forced the enemy to withdraw from the southern fnk toward the center. Borg scratched at his side, every movement seeming to cause him pain. He tried not to show it, but everyone seemed to see it.

  Shoma — once leading an army of his own — now simply sat, feeling like a minnow in a vast ke. His wounds throbbed with pain at every breath, and the generals’ voices blended into an incomprehensible hum.

  They argued among themselves, moved the stones, and made speeches, while he could only think of returning tomorrow. Fighting again with orcs and hobgoblins from the enemy’s central army. The red serpent devouring itself and gray-skinned orcs. Death and horror. May the spirit of Domadok Greyhide give him strength.

  He felt ashamed that not long ago he had chosen to say farewell to the world. Now he remembered his childhood in Brec, his days in the Fiery Company… Perhaps this was his chance for vengeance? Perhaps the God of the Sword had given him revenge to enact with his own hands? Yes… he would die or prevail, taking vengeance on the minions of piratical city-states and human lords who profited from ensving the green race.

  Dawn came, and he returned to his position. There were no reserves today. Only one solid line, and he, subordinate to Doirak, responsible for the right fnk of the central front — the one closest to the commander’s hill.

  He had four hundred warriors with him — hungry, tired, often wounded, and terrified of what was coming. The green nation and western tribes had not fought in such a fierce battle in ages. Many of them, especially the young, knew at most how to hunt deer and other even less dangerous beasts. Killing armed foes was an entirely different matter.

  It began. The red of morning flooded the sky from the east.

  The enemy marched slowly but with determination, a wall of shields in all colors and emblems of the eastern tribes. Enemy insults carried through the air: “Bastards! Minions of the pale-skinned! Weaklings! We’ll kill you!”. Alliance replied to them “Fucking dogs of humans! Orc-lovers! Trash!” Enemy higher ranks beat their warriors with clubs and whips to maintain formation, but it quickly fell apart. The real sughter began. Troll Nut joined in as the first arrows fell on shields and the first warriors dropped dead. His aura and the might of his club killed three fully armed hobgoblins at once. One shield shattered to splinters, blood and innards defiling the grass.

  “Arghh! DEATH TO THE REDS!!!”

  The massive troll crashed into the line of enemy goblins like a falling tree. His beard, matted with blood and mud, bounced with every step as he raised his tree-club. Another enemy didn’t even lift his shield — the blow crushed him with it, scattering wood, bones, and teeth into the air. Another was swept aside by the side of the club so his body spun in the air and fell a few steps further with a crack of broken ribs. Spears sank into the troll, one after another, but Nut only roared louder, his massive bearded face contorted in a savage grimace as he crushed another skull like a rotten apple.

  Shoma plunged into the fray with his best unit, shield held high and spear thrust forward — full of the fury of the green nation.

  He was bulkier than most goblins, each step spshing the ground wet with blood and guts. He pierced the first hobgoblin under the arm — the spearhead sank deep between the ribs, and when he pulled it out, blood spurted from the wound. He raised his shield just in time against a club strike, then thrust again, this time into the attacker’s throat. Around him, his warriors fought shoulder to shoulder, shields cshing, spears piercing flesh, while the enemy pressed relentlessly from the forest.

  Wave after wave of hobgoblins and orcs poured from the trees like a torrent. Shoma’s underlings fell one by one. One goblin beside him colpsed, spear in chest; another was struck with a club that crushed his skull until brains spilled. Shoma parried blows with his shield and thrust his spear again and again, feeling it sink into flesh, bone, and skin. The air was heavy with sweat, mud, and blood, the ground beneath turned into a slippery slurry of bodies. Yet his unit still held the line, though each breath cost them more and more.

  Then, as the enemy faltered for a moment, a long, ominous bst of horns echoed over the battlefield. From the forest surged a new wave — over a hundred orcs and hobgoblins on wolves and boars charging straight at the center of the front. The beasts roared and tore at the earth with hooves and cws, riders raising spears and axes high. Nut, heavily wounded, spears protruding from his shoulders and sides, roared wildly and hurled himself at them in fury. His massive, multi-meter frame staggered, but the troll still gripped his tree-club and ran forward like an enraged bull.

  Shoma raised his head over the line of shields and saw the enemy banner — a great red serpent twisting. Beneath it rode a massive hobgoblin cd in fur, wielding a heavy axe. Even from this distance, his stature and the way he pushed through warriors left no doubt. This was Koshia. At that same moment, Shoma saw the alliance lines begin to break. The sounds of trumpets and whistles called for retreat. A rider on a wolf dashed past him, shouting desperately for men to withdraw to the hill. In the distance, Shoma saw the unconscious Doirak being carried on a wolf toward the fortifications.

  For a brief moment, Shoma stood frozen, watching Nut nearly fall under the enemy’s pressure, his huge body swaying among the boars and wolves. Everything happened so fast. Life fshed before his eyes. He knew if he fell, the troll would surely die, and the army would crumble.

  Hundreds would perish!

  He gritted his teeth, raised his shield, and turned to his warriors. “Sons of the green nation! Behind me! For Zod! The God of the Sword watches!” he roared.

  Dozens of volunteers answered with a shout. Together they charged forward — like an arrow, one by one, spreading wider — straight into the heart of the bloodiest fray, to unleash their fury and prove that the goblins of the west could fight!

  Though they didn’t fully understand it, acting partly by instinct and heart, they halted the enemy’s wave long enough that day to allow hundreds more to retreat safely to the hill, saving the army and the battle itself.

  As a child, he had dreamed of the goblins rebuilding their power, and for the young to live in peace, free from hunger and oppression. He had little idea of the price such a dream demanded… Today, he paid it.

  He fought to the end like a lion, yet the fire in his heart had to burn out as more orcs leapt at his throat. Falling to one knee, he sprang upward again, biting one’s throat, until more daggers, axes, and clubs knocked him unconscious.

  Blinded by blood seeping into his eyes, half-conscious and mortally wounded, he swung his spear blindly in the air. He still fought! While he breathed, he struck!

  When the massive axe fell upon his chest, his entire aura faded.

  Everything went silent, dark. He saw the faces of his father, sister, and mother.

  They looked happy… walking now through a beautiful forest, and behind them, little baby-Nut ran on all fours…

  Birds chirped, a rainbow arched above the treetops, and a stream babbled beside them. There was no more pain or death. Shoma felt nothing. Only happiness and calmness.

  “Well done, my son…” he heard a familiar voice of his dad.

  On a strangely flowered hill before them, a mighty being smiled — rger than the rgest ork, he had dark hair thick and powerful like a forest lion — resembling an armored human in a horned helm, with multiple swords orbiting around him like a warrior’s halo. He raised his hand, and hundreds of souls rose from the sky.

  Shoma knew them…

  That day, he and Nut died on the field of glory, their deeds recorded in the history of the green nation, like Domadok Greyhide’s who defeated an archangel in ancient times.