Then a sound echoed through the forest gloom—the low blast of an orc horn, mournful and ominous. A flock of scorched ravens roosting in the treetops took flight with panicked caws.
Kaelrith raised one hand in a signal, and the hidden goblins tensed, gripping their weapons. Every eye strained toward the tree line.
Dark shapes emerged between the charred trunks. Marching in rough ranks, the orcs came.
They advanced like an ironclad wave. The Ashfang orcs were tall and broad, their skin tones ranging from sickly green to ashen grey. Each bore the mark of a black fang smeared across their face or chest in paint or blood—a totem of their warlike tribe. They carried crude but heavy weapons: cleavers, axes, spiked maces, and ragged-edged swords that looked perpetually stained with gore. Many wore piecemeal armor—scraps of chainmail or plates scavenged from past victims.
At the vanguard of the force stalked their chieftain, Boruk. He was a head taller than even Rugh, with arms like knotted oak trunks. A cloak made from the hide of a giant boar draped his shoulders. In one hand he brandished a massive cleaver-sword, its blade nicked and darkened by old blood; in the other he held a wooden targe studded with iron nails. Small, piggish eyes gleamed with anticipation under his heavy brow.
Flanking Boruk were two notable figures: to his right, an Orc Shaman leaned on a staff decorated with skulls and feathers, his milky-white eyes rolling as he murmured to unseen spirits. To Boruk's left lumbered a scarred Orc Berserker stripped to the waist, his torso crisscrossed with ritual scars that had been recently painted over with fresh blood in swirling patterns. The berserker breathed in ragged huffs, body trembling in barely-contained frenzy.
Boruk raised a hand, and the orc column halted just out of bowshot, spreading into a line at the forest edge. He surveyed the goblin village, noting the dimmed fires and apparent lack of sentries. A cruel smile tugged at his lip. To him, it looked like his approach was still a surprise.
"Goblins!" Boruk's voice boomed across the clearing, deep and guttural. "Come out and die! Your misery ends today under Ashfang blades!"
He waited, expecting perhaps pleas for mercy or some pitiful attempt at parley. None came. The village remained silent, eerily so.
Boruk's grin twisted in annoyance. Goblins were usually skulking cowards, trying to bargain or hide. Why was there no response? He turned to his warriors and gave a snarling command. "Blood and glory, Ashfangs! No survivors!"
A thunderous roar of approval answered him. Orcs slammed their weapons against shields, whipped themselves into a frenzy with battle-cries. Boruk himself threw back his head and let loose a feral howl—a Warcry brimming with primal rage that sent a jolt of murderous adrenaline through every orc heart.
As one, the warband surged forward, charging out of the treeline and across the open ground toward the village. Their footsteps drummed against the earth.
Kaelrith watched with narrowed eyes as the orcs barreled toward the hidden traps. He forced himself to remain still, to wait for the right moment. In his mind he counted off the paces.
Three… two… one…
The foremost orcs hit the concealed trench line. With their focus on the village ahead, they failed to notice the ground under their heavy boots was false. The camouflaged coverings gave way with a splintering crash, and half a dozen orcs plunged waist-deep into pits filled with tarry oil and kindling. Before they could even claw their way out, a spark—triggered by Kaelrith's earlier enchantment—ignited each pit in a bloom of flame. Howling screams tore through the morning air as the trapped orcs found themselves suddenly engulfed in sticky, clinging fire.
At the same time, other orcs bellowed in pain as sharpened stakes punctured their feet and legs. The charge faltered in confusion. Their tightly packed formation buckled as those in front tried to halt or recoil from the unexpected hazards.
Kaelrith's hand came up, slicing through the air. "Now!" he hissed.
On both flanks of the clearing, goblin archers rose from their hiding spots in the trees and behind rocks. The night's darkness had begun to retreat, but in the dim light the goblins were nearly invisible until they moved. Bows creaked in unison and a deadly volley of arrows streaked out of the shadows.
Arrows and javelins rained upon the stalled orcs. Some shafts pinged off bits of armor, but many struck flesh. An orc with an arrow through his throat gurgled and collapsed. Another snarled as two arrows buried in his thigh, only to take a javelin through the belly and topple with a shocked grunt. Within moments, a dozen orcs lay dead or wounded, and many more roared in pain and fury.
Boruk's eyes widened in disbelief. Ambushed? By goblins? He had expected a slaughter, yes—but with him as the butcher, not the cattle. Snarling, he swung his cleaver in a furious arc. "Shields up! Forward, you dogs!" he bellowed, rallying his warriors.
The orcs roared back and raised what shields they had or simply bulled forward with thick shoulder plates to weather the next volley. Their charge regained momentum, slower and more cautious now. They smashed aside the burning, thrashing bodies of their own comrades and pushed past the pits and spikes.
From his vantage point, Kaelrith could see Boruk's enraged face as the orc chieftain locked his gaze onto the goblin leading the ambush. Grak had climbed a pile of rubble by a half-collapsed watchtower and was hollering orders for another rain of arrows.
"Grak!" Boruk snarled, recognizing the old goblin. He remembered well their past skirmishes—raids where Boruk's might had always sent Grak's kin scurrying. "Come out from behind your tricks and traps, coward! I'll gut you and offer your heart to our wargods!"
Grak bared his teeth in a fearless grin, standing defiantly atop the rubble. "You should have stayed in your wasteland, Boruk!" he shouted back. "We may be become weak, but we're not prey today. Choke on your arrogance, brute!"