As dusk fell that day, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and crimson, Kaelrith's forces were put to their first true test.
A young goblin scout came sprinting into the glow of the central fire, panting and bleeding from a jagged cut across his chest. He nearly collapsed, but Grak and Rugh caught him under the arms and eased him down before the altar stone where Kaelrith now sat.
"My lord—" the scout gasped, eyes wide with alarm. "Movement… beyond Bonepine Ridge… orcs! A warband, maybe a hundred strong. Marching this way."
A murmur of unease rippled through the gathered goblins. Every member of the tribe knew of the Ashfang orcs—a brutal clan that roamed the fringes of the Expanse. The goblins' numbers were greater, but head-to-head an orc was easily worth several goblin warriors in sheer strength and durability. And a hundred orcs… that was a force to be reckoned with.
Rugh's scarred face twisted into a scowl. "They think us easy prey," he snarled. "Probably heard rumors of weakness. A lone goblin tribe—ripe for slaughter and plunder."
Kaelrith's expression, still that of a human child, remained eerily calm. Only a slight narrowing of his eyes betrayed any emotion. He turned toward the dark horizon where Bonepine Ridge lay unseen beyond the trees. "How long until they arrive?" he asked quietly.
"By first light, perhaps sooner," wheezed the scout. "They move quickly, without fear."
Kaelrith stood and dusted off his simple tunic—a strangely ordinary gesture given the circumstances. Then he smiled, and in that smile every goblin present caught a glint of draconic ferocity. "They believe they hunt goblins in the dark," he said softly. "They believe they'll find frightened prey. We will show them how very… wrong they are."
Without wasting another moment, Kaelrith began issuing orders, his voice cutting through the growing night with crisp authority. The goblins sprang into action, adrenaline banishing their exhaustion from the day's drills.
"Rugh!" Kaelrith snapped, drawing the hobgoblin commander's full attention. "Gather your best fighters. We'll prepare an ambush along the forest path. Choose elevated ground and dense cover."
Rugh bared his teeth in a predatory grin and thumped his chest. "It will be done."
Kaelrith nodded sharply and continued. "Grak, rally the rest. I want trenches dug at the village perimeter—now. Use oil from the tar pits if you have it. And sharpen plenty of stakes."
Grak's eyes gleamed. "We do. We'll turn the very ground against them, my lord." He hobbled off, barking commands at nearby goblins to fetch digging tools and jars of sticky black oil they harvested from volcanic seeps.
Teams of goblins scattered into the darkness, moving with frantic purpose. By torchlight, shallow trenches began to take shape at key choke points along the main path into the village. Goblins worked swiftly, lining these pits with clay jars of thick tar-oil and kindling, then covering them with loose foliage to disguise their trap.
Others hastily drove sharpened stakes into the ground, hidden just beneath the surface dirt and leaves where a charging orc might step or stumble onto them. The goblin archers climbed into the gnarled blackwood trees that flanked the approach to the village, taking position on thick branches heavy with shadow.
Kaelrith oversaw each preparation personally, his keen eyesight cutting through the gloom. He moved through the defenses with a steady, unhurried pace, uttering quiet words of draconic magic. Where he whispered, the night answered. Along one section of the path, he left an invisible rune that would ignite into a wall of flames when enemies crossed it. At another, he traced a claw discreetly over an array of stakes, imbuing them with a minor enchantment so that any flesh they pierced would burn with a lingering magical heat.
Back in the village, non-combatants were ushered into the tunnels and caves behind the main cavern—women, children, and the elderly vanishing into the protective darkness with barely a sound. Grak's plan, on Kaelrith's orders, was clear: if the fighters had to fall back, they would retreat in stages to narrower alleys between stone huts, drawing the orcs into tight quarters where superior numbers would count for little.
In the chill hours before dawn, every goblin warrior took their position and waited, hearts pounding in their throats. Kaelrith positioned himself at the center of the village, atop the bloodstained altar stone once more. In his current guise, he appeared a fragile boy perched on a sacrificial slab, but the goblins nearest to him—Skarl, Igra, and a handful of the bravest warriors—could feel the air thrum around his slight frame. The dragon within was awake and watchful.
An uneasy stillness fell. The sky to the east was just beginning to lighten from black to deep indigo. Each passing minute felt interminable. Some goblins closed their eyes and mouthed fervent prayers to the Great Flame to steel their nerves. Rugh silently checked the edge of his blade for the tenth time. Grak tightened and re-tied the ragged bandage on the scout's chest wound while muttering an old battle chant under his breath.