I left the hut soon after that, the quiet intimacy of the moment dissolving the instant I stepped back out into the chaotic aftermath of our victory. The air was still thick with the smell of smoke, and the sounds of hammering and shouted goblin commands echoed off the newly conquered palisade. My brief respite was over. The weight of command, heavy and familiar, settled back onto my shoulders. I had a thousand things to do and a terrifyingly short amount of time to do them. My entire strategy hinged on the impending return of Corvus, and I had to get as much done as possible before his shadow fell over the camp.
My summon was currently operating on two primary objectives, a dual-pronged reconnaissance mission that was vital to our survival. First, I'd sent him on another fly-by of the human mountain settlement Corvus had discovered to our north. I needed to know if anything had changed, if they'd noticed the commotion from our little war. His second, more critical task was to locate Ufgak's tribe and return with precise intelligence on their numbers and, most importantly, their movements. Every minute he was in the air was a minute Ufgak was marching closer.
If I was lucky, Ufgak would spend today consolidating his own forces, gloating over the news of his brother's death before beginning his advance. A single day. That was the best-case scenario. It would give me twenty-four precious hours to turn a fractured, terrified mob of goblins into something resembling a functional army.
That mob was the first item on my agenda. I strode toward the center of the compound, where Gnar, my magnificent Hobgoblin creation, was handling the messy business of integrating our prisoners. The surviving goblins from Grob's tribe were huddled together, a miserable-looking crowd of about thirty, their faces a mixture of fear, despair, and sullen resentment. Gnar stood before them, his new height and muscular frame radiating an authority they couldn't possibly ignore.
He was laying out the terms I'd given him. There were only two options. They could swear fealty to me, be absorbed into Rakka's tribe, and become citizens of our growing settlement. Or they could die. Right here, right now.
It was brutal, a cold equation that left no room for sentiment. My decision wasn't born from a desire for cruelty. It was a simple, pragmatic necessity. I couldn't risk them fleeing into the woods, where they could be captured by Ufgak's scouts. His forces were fewer in number than ours, certainly, but they were the veteran warriors of their father's original tribe—stronger, more skilled, and far more dangerous than the rabble we now commanded. Giving an enemy like that crucial intel on our numbers, our leadership, and Rakka's alliance would be suicidal. This was also why we'd struck Grob's camp so quickly. Had Ufgak taken this fortress, his smaller, elite force would have had a secure position and more resources, making them nearly impossible to root out.
Leaving Gnar to his grim work, I moved toward the training yard. There, he had already begun drilling Rakka's warriors, attempting to teach them a rudimentary defensive formation I'd conceived. It was a tactic I'd half-remembered from a boring history elective back on Earth, a lecture about peasant levies. A levy was just a group of poorly equipped commoners who, by all rights, shouldn't have been able to stand against trained soldiers. That was exactly why the concept was perfect. Ufgak's elite warriors would be expecting a disorganized mob. They would hit our lines hard, confident that their superior skill would shatter their lesser brethren with a single, overwhelming charge.
They would be wrong.
I called it the "Porcupine Formation" in my head. It was a simplified phalanx. The front rank of goblins knelt, planting the butts of their crude spears into the packed earth, their bodies braced behind a wall of interlocked, scavenged shields. The second rank stood behind them, leveling their own spears over the heads of the first. The result was a dense, bristling hedge of sharp points aimed directly at the height of a charging enemy's chest. It was simple, required more discipline than skill, and was the perfect way for a weaker force to negate the individual prowess of stronger opponents.
Gnar was barking orders, striding down the line and physically shoving goblins into the correct positions. It was a sloppy, uneven formation right now, but they were learning. The core of Grob's old camp was built for this kind of defense. Its high, crude walls funneled any attacking force into a single, narrow entrance—a natural killbox. Any army that wanted to take the camp would have to break through that gate, and that meant charging headfirst into my fifty-goblin-strong porcupine.
That wasn't even including Grob's former forces. Once Gnar was done "convincing" them, our numbers would swell to eighty or so. I'd place the new conscripts on the front lines, right behind the gate. Their options would be to fight Ufgak's warriors or get trampled by Rakka's much more loyal tribe behind them. Their survival would depend entirely on their ability to hold the line.
Of course, they wouldn't be alone. I could use my Tier 3 Phantom Visage to create all sorts of havoc. An illusion of their chieftain Ufgak suddenly appearing wounded, a terrifying phantom roar of a Gristle-Boar from the flank, a blinding flash of golden light that mimicked Samuel's divine power—anything to sow a moment of panic, to create openings for my goblin hedgehog to capitalize on a badly timed swing or a moment of hesitation.
But I knew, with a certainty that settled like a cold stone in my gut, that it might not be enough. Formations and illusions could only do so much. To truly break Ufgak's elite force, to end this civil war before it bled my own green troops dry, I had to cut off the head of the snake. My ultimate plan, the one I kept locked away behind layers of strategy and logistics, was simple. I was going to kill Ufgak myself. If I had to face down a titan to secure our future, then so be it.
First, though, I needed a clearer picture of our own resources. I needed to find Rakka. She had taken on the role of quartermaster with a fierce, proprietary zeal, and had been spending the day cataloging the looted contents of Grob's armory. I needed to know exactly how many of our new goblin recruits even knew how to use a bow, let alone use one effectively. If I could get even ten competent archers stationed on the palisade, their harassing fire could be a massive force multiplier, breaking up Ufgak's charge before it even reached our wall of spears.
Fortunately, it didn't take long to find her. In the chaotic, swirling ecosystem of a newly conquered goblin camp, Rakka had already carved out a center of gravity. She had taken command of the former den of Zog, Grob's enforcer and pit boss. The structure was as brutal and ugly as its former owner, little more than a wide, squat hut built around a sunken, blood-stained fighting pit. The air inside still carried the metallic tang of old violence and the sour stench of fear. It was a place built to celebrate savage strength and mete out bloody punishment.
Under Rakka's command, however, it was being transformed. The remainder of her own elders, gnarled and scarred goblins who had followed her out of loyalty and desperation, had started using the pit's edge as a ramshackle council chamber. And now, mingling among them, were the elders who had once served Grob. I watched from the shadows of the entrance for a long moment, my Analysis skill feeding me a stream of information not about stats, but about social dynamics. I saw Rakka, standing near a newly-lit fire in the center of the pit, listening intently as a withered, one-eyed goblin who had once advised her brother gestured emphatically, complaining about the distribution of looted blankets.
Rakka didn't dismiss him. She heard him out, her expression serious, before issuing a crisp order to one of her own warriors. The warrior nodded and scurried off. The old goblin, seemingly satisfied that his grievance had been given weight, gave a stiff bow and retreated back into the crowd. It was a masterful performance. She was slowly, methodically, winning the support of her former enemies, not with threats, but with respect.
This, I was beginning to understand, was a key and perhaps unbreakable aspect of controlling and integrating a goblin force. You didn't win the tribe by winning the warriors; you won the tribe by winning the elders. The rest would fall into line.
Goblins weren't inherently intelligent in the way a Scholar like me might define it. Their intellect scores were rarely impressive. But they possessed a deep, evolutionary cunning and a social structure forged in the crucible of a brutally short and violent life. Their society wasn't built on laws or ethics; it was built on a single, unimpeachable metric: survival. In a world where the average goblin was lucky to see their tenth winter, any goblin who lived long enough to grow old, to see their skin wrinkle and their tusks yellow, was regarded with a profound sense of awe and respect.
An elder wasn't just an old goblin; they were a living testament to success. Their scars were not deformities but paragraphs in a long and storied resume of battles won and traps avoided. Their hunched backs and missing teeth were proof that they had faced down starvation, disease, monsters, and the blades of their rivals, and had lived to tell the tale. They were libraries of survival experience. Therefore, to a younger goblin whose primary life goal was to not get eaten before sunrise, the elders' counsel was scripture. Their approval was the benchmark for all other actions. To defy the elders was to defy the very wisdom of survival itself.
Of course, this entire social fabric depended on the tribe being unified, on the shared belief that this structure was what kept them all alive. The civil war between Grob and Ufgak had thrown this system into chaos. The elders I was looking at now, both Rakka's and Grob's, were the ones who had lost most of their influence in the schism. They were physically weaker, unable to compete in the new, savage meritocracy their former chieftain's sons had created.
Ufgak, in particular, represented a dangerous, revolutionary heresy in the goblin world. From what I had gathered, he believed the old ways were weak. He preached a new philosophy where the only thing that mattered was immediate, overwhelming physical strength. He had no use for the cunning of a wizened elder who could predict a rockslide but couldn't win a duel. He only wanted the strongest warriors, the ones who could kill most efficiently today. The old, the weak, the infirm—they were just mouths to feed, a drain on the resources that could be better spent on his elite shock troops.
This philosophy had forced the elders' hands. They hadn't so much chosen to support Rakka and Grob as they had fled to them, seeking refuge with leaders who still paid lip service to the old ways. Ufgak's new world order had no place for them.
And this was the key to Rakka's quiet genius. She wasn't just offering these elders sanctuary; she was restoring their world. Here, in this bloody pit-turned-council-chamber, she was giving them back their voices. She listened to their counsel, adjudicated their petty squabbles, and treated them with the deference they felt was their due. She made them feel valued again. In return, they were giving her their absolute loyalty, and with it, the loyalty of every son, nephew, and cousin who still looked to them for guidance. She wasn't just gathering followers; she was rebuilding a society with herself at the top, piece by painstaking piece.
I stepped out of the shadows and into the dim, smoky light of the hut. A few of the goblins near the entrance tensed, their hands straying to the hilts of their scavenged weapons, but they relaxed when they recognized me. Rakka looked up from her conversation, her sharp, intelligent eyes finding mine across the firelit space. She gave me a slight, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.
She beckoned me forward with a sharp jerk of her chin, and the circle of elders parted to let me pass. The fire at the center of the pit cast long, dancing shadows, making the gnarled faces of the goblins look like grotesque, living carvings. I felt their collective gaze on me, a heavy weight of suspicion, curiosity, and a sliver of fear. I was the architect of their previous chieftain's demise, a "Bigskin" wielding magic they didn't understand. But I was also the one who had brought them food, and the one who had promised them a future. I was an anomaly they hadn't yet figured out how to categorize.
"The tribe is settling," Rakka said, her voice low and business-like. It wasn't a question. "Gnar is a harsh instructor, but he gets results."
"He's what we need right now," I agreed, my eyes scanning the faces of the assembled elders. "But his training will only get us so far. The battle to come will be won or lost before the first spear is thrown. It will be won here, with planning." I intentionally included the elders in my gaze. "Which is why I need your counsel."
A low murmur went through the group. They exchanged wary glances. They were used to being commanded, not consulted.
I turned to Rakka first. "The inventory. Grob's armory. What can you tell me?"
She didn't hesitate, rattling off the numbers with the efficiency of a seasoned quartermaster. "Seventy-four spears of varying quality, mostly fire-hardened wood with chipped stone tips. One hundred and twelve shields, mostly light wood and hide, many damaged. Thirty-one hand-axes. A miscellaneous collection of clubs and daggers. And…" she paused, "…sixteen shortbows, with roughly two hundred arrows. Most of the fletchings are ruined, but the arrowheads are decent."
Sixteen bows. It was less than I'd hoped for, but more than I'd feared. "And archers?"
An old, one-eyed goblin I recognized as one of Grob's former advisors spoke up, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Bows are for hunting, not war. War is for spears, face-to-face. But there are a dozen of the younger hunters from my clan who can shoot straight enough."
"A dozen will have to do," I said, making a mental note. "They'll be stationed on the palisade. Their job will be to harass, to disrupt the charge. Make Ufgak's warriors keep their shields up and their heads down."
I then laid out the rest of my plan. I explained the "Porcupine Formation," the strategy of placing the newly-conscripted warriors from Grob's tribe in the front rank at the gate, and my intent to use illusions to sow chaos. I left nothing out. I needed them to understand the cold logic of it all.
When I finished, the silence was heavy.
"You would put my brother's warriors at the front?" the one-eyed elder asked, his tone laced with suspicion. "To be slaughtered first?"
"I would put them where they have a choice," I countered, my voice hard. "They can prove their new loyalty to Chieftain Rakka by holding the line, or they can break and be crushed by the fifty loyal warriors at their backs. Their fate is their own. It is the only way they will truly be integrated. They must bleed for their new tribe."
Rakka nodded her assent. "The Bigskin speaks the truth. There can be no division. No 'Grob's goblins' or 'Rakka's goblins'. Only our goblins. They will fight for their place, or they will die."
Her blunt endorsement seemed to satisfy them. The logic, as brutal as it was, was goblin logic.
"Now," I said, turning my full attention to the council of elders. "Tell me about Ufgak. I know he is strong, and that his warriors are elites. But he is still a goblin. He has weaknesses. What are they?"
For the first time, I saw a flicker of something other than suspicion in their eyes. I had acknowledged their true value—not their strength, but their knowledge. The one-eyed elder spat into the fire.
"Pride," he grunted. "Ufgak was always his father's favorite. He believes he is the strongest, and that his strength makes him invincible. He will lead the charge himself. He will not stand at the back."
Another elder, one of Rakka's, added, "He keeps a trio of Bugbears as his personal guard. They are his only real confidants. If they fall, his courage may falter."
The council continued for another hour, the elders sharing priceless nuggets of intelligence forged from decades of experience. They told me of Ufgak's hatred for swamp-dwellers, his superstitious fear of loud noises, and an old rivalry with a lieutenant that could potentially be exploited. With every piece of information, my plan became sharper, more refined, and deadlier.
Finally, as the last of their knowledge was exhausted, a consensus settled over the group. The chain of command was clear. The strategy was understood. The roles were assigned..