Free Web NovelChapter 23: To War
Far to the west of Evergreen Forest, where the trees grew darker and the sunlight struggled to pierce the thick canopy, smoke rose continuously into the sky.
Unlike the hidden tunnels of the Vaal’kor Clan, this settlement had no intention of hiding.
A crude wooden palisade nearly twelve feet high encircled the village, its sharpened logs stained dark from years of blood and rain. Hundreds of skulls belonging to beasts, goblins, wolves, bears, and even humans had been nailed onto the walls as trophies. Guard towers overlooked every approach while goblin sentries patrolled the walls carrying stone axes and bows.
Within the walls, nearly three hundred goblins went about their daily routine. Some hammered crude weapons atop stone anvils while others skinned beasts recently dragged back from hunting. Children wrestled each other in the dirt while older goblins laughed and placed bets on who would win.
The Ashmork Clan was thriving, and this prosperity was born from unity. Under Grash’s leadership, three once independent goblin tribes had laid aside their rivalries and merged into a single faction.
Deep within the village stood the largest hut in the settlement. Its roof was layered with enormous monster hides while countless skulls decorated its entrance. Inside sat a massive goblin. Even while seated, he stood nearly six feet tall. His skin was a dark olive green covered in old scars that crossed one another like rivers. His arms were thicker than tree trunks while a heavy stone greataxe rested beside his throne, its chipped edge bearing the marks of countless battles.
Unlike ordinary goblins, his eyes carried intelligence.
This was Grash, Chief of the Ashmork Clan.
Silence filled the hall as several elders sat around him discussing hunting routes and preparations for the coming expansion.
"The eastern hunting grounds are becoming crowded. We should claim more land before winter," the Ashin Tribe Leader said as he pointed toward a rough map spread across the floor.
"Our warriors already outnumber the Red Fang Tribe. They’ll submit once they see our strength," the Dar Tribe Leader added confidently.
Grash listened quietly, a satisfied smile resting upon his face. Every report of victory reaffirmed the path he had chosen. For years he had looked upon the great walls of human civilizations with envy. One day, he too would carve out a kingdom worthy of fear and respect. The Evergreen Forest would belong entirely to the Ashmork Clan.
Bam!
A goblin scout burst into the hall before collapsing onto one knee, breathing heavily.
"Chief!"
The conversations stopped instantly.
"What is it?" Grash asked calmly.
The scout hesitated.
"The Blood Shaman has not returned."
Grash remained expressionless.
"When was he due back?"
"An hour ago."
The chief slowly leaned back.
"And?"
The scout swallowed nervously.
"Two of their tiger boars returned wounded."
Several elders frowned.
"Without riders?"
The scout nodded, and the atmosphere instantly grew heavy.
No goblin rider would ever abandon his mount.
Something had happened.
Grash slowly rose from his throne. Without saying a word, the enormous goblin walked toward the entrance of the hall while the elders hurried after him.
Outside the village gates stood two enormous striped boars.
Their saddles remained strapped tightly across their backs, partly scorched and stained with fresh blood.
Grash slowly approached the lead boar. The beast whimpered softly upon seeing him, lowering its head as though ashamed. He placed one massive hand upon its neck.
His eyes slowly narrowed as they drifted toward the distant Southern Hill. He had already dispatched scouts there once before.
They had all been killed by kobolds.
Ordinarily, Grash would have marched south immediately and exterminated the colony without hesitation. Unfortunately, the Ashmork Clan’s forces had been stretched thin by their campaign in the eastern hill region. Rather than waste soldiers, he had chosen to force the kobolds into becoming a tributary colony until the eastern campaign concluded. Once the Red Fang Tribe had been conquered, the Ashmork Clan would simply turn south and absorb the kobolds as well.
Instead those miserable cave dwellers had answered his generosity with blood.
Not once.
Twice.
Grash slowly closed his eyes and let out a long breath like a man whose patience had finally reached its limit.
What choice did he truly have?
If such insolence from mere kobolds went unanswered, his authority would begin to crumble. The Ashin and Dar tribes had only accepted him because he was the strongest. The moment he appeared weak, they would devour him just as quickly as they had sworn loyalty.
Without another word, Grash turned and walked deeper into the village.
The crowd followed behind him.
Every goblin who noticed their chief immediately abandoned whatever they were doing and quietly fell into step until the procession came to a stop before a small, unassuming hut standing in a desolate corner of the settlement.
Without saying a word, Grash casually pushed aside the worn leather flap covering the entrance and stepped inside.
Unlike the bustling village outside, the interior was silent.
The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs, burnt bones, and old blood. Strange charms fashioned from skulls, claws, feathers, and polished stones hung from the ceiling, swaying gently despite the absence of wind. Countless symbols had been painted across the earthen walls in dried crimson pigment, surrounding a circular fire pit whose dying embers glowed faintly.
Seated before the fire was an elderly goblin.
His body had withered with age until little more than skin clung to bone. Long white hair flowed past his waist while countless ritual scars covered the exposed parts of his body. His eyelids remained permanently shut, revealing only empty sockets where eyes had once existed.
Yet despite his blindness, he smiled.
"I was wondering how long it would take before you came."
Grash remained silent. The old shaman slowly raised his head toward him.
"The Blood Shaman is dead."
Grash’s brow twitched.
"You already know."
"I knew the moment his soul disappeared."
Silence settled between them.
The old goblin reached toward the fire and gently tossed another handful of dried herbs into the embers. Pale green smoke immediately rose into the air, twisting into strange shapes before disappearing through a small opening in the roof.
"You came seeking guidance."
Grash folded his arms before slowly shaking his head.
With most of their warriors stationed far to the east, barely fifty soldiers remained to defend the village. To wage war against the Vaal’kor Colony now would require recalling every one of the hundred and fifty warriors stationed in the eastern campaign along with their supplies and redirecting their efforts toward the south.
The Red Fang Tribe had already been cornered.
Victory was within reach.
If he withdrew now, months of campaigning, countless lives, and precious resources would all be wasted. Worse still, the Red Fang Tribe would be given the opportunity to recover and prepare for another war.
What Grash sought was not guidance.
He sought certainty.
He needed to know whether destroying the Vaal’kor Colony would outweigh everything he stood to lose.
"I came seeking certainty."
The old shaman chuckled softly.
"There is no certainty."
He smiled faintly.
"There are only choices."
Grash stepped closer.
"The eastern campaign is nearly complete. If I recall our warriors now, months of progress will be wasted. Our forces in the east already outnumber the enemy. Victory is close."
The Chief Shaman slowly lifted one bony hand.
"In my dreams..."
His voice became strangely distant.
"...I saw a dragon."
Buzz.
Grash frowned.
"A dragon?"
The old goblin nodded firmly as a crooked smile spread across his weathered face.
"It sleeps."
He paused briefly.
"But not for long."
The Chief Shaman’s empty eye sockets slowly turned toward him.
"Whether you choose to act now or later, the glory and the blame shall both belong to you."
A faint smile crossed his lips.
"That is why you are our Chieftain."
For the first time in years, Grash felt uneasy.
Despite the prosperity of the Ashmork Clan, he knew the Ashin and Dar leaders had never truly abandoned their ambitions. They waited patiently for the slightest opportunity to replace him.
Everyone wanted the throne.
"Sometimes I envy your position," Grash sighed. "It is respected by everyone, yet desired by no one."
The old goblin laughed between violent coughs before slowly shaking his head.
"There is no crown without thorns, my lord."
Grash nodded slowly.
A simple conversation with the Chief Shaman was always enough.
The old goblin rarely gave direct answers, yet somehow Grash always left understanding exactly what needed to be done.
Without another word, he pushed aside the leather flap and stepped back into the village.
Hundreds of goblins had unknowingly gathered outside during his meeting.
Warriors.
Hunters.
Children.
Elders.
Every eye turned toward their chief.
Grash slowly walked into the center of the settlement. His gaze drifted toward the distant Southern Hill rising above the endless sea of trees.
Then he slowly raised his fist into the air.
"TO WAR!"
The roar exploded throughout the village.
Every goblin warrior slammed weapons against shields. Axes struck spears. Claws pounded against armored chests.
"TO WAR!"
"TO WAR!"
"TO WAR!"
The chant spread like wildfire throughout the Ashmork Clan.
