The scent of damp stone and sulfur lingered even aboveground, clinging to the squat figures that emerged from the Narrow Pass. A procession of goblins, more than five thousand strong, made their way through the winding trail toward the war camp, eyes squinting in the grey light.

At their front marched Grogus,a bit out of place compared to the other goblins, he was clean, too clean compared to the others who are covered in dirt and grime as they came directly from the mines. A fine blade hung at his side, ceremonial but sharp enough for ingredients.

The guards at the outpost gates raised their weapons.

Grogus approached slowly. “It’s me…,” he shouted while revealing himself from the darkness.

“Oh it’s just you…and more goblins” one of the orc sentries shrugged his shoulders.

With the current state of things, they would need all the hands they can get, and the goblins, though with little hands, they would still be of some help to them.

Inside the war council tent, Khao’khen stood over a wide map marked with orcish symbols. Sakh’aaran, Gur’kan, and Trot’thar flanked him, their eyes relaxed compared to that of the Threians soldiers and officers.

“You’re far from the mines,” Khao’khen said as he directed his voice at the goblins who are gathered in front of the command tent, his voice unreadable.

“They are done with the mines, Great Chieftain,” Grogus replied, bowing low with one hand across his narrow chest.

“Too many of our kin now fill the tunnels. We breed, we dig, we rot.” The goblin beside Grogus spoke.

Sakh’arran raised a brow. “Your kind always begged for deeper tunnels. You feared the sun.”

“We no longer fear it,” one of the goblins said. “We fear rust. Decay. Uselessness.”

He stepped forward, emboldened. “Our numbers grow, and yet we are denied the one thing that we use to enjoy: war.”

A silence fell. Even the Trot’thar and Gur’kan were speechless.

Khao’khen studied them. “You think the frontlines will welcome you with open arms? You think your bones can hold against the charge of a Threian soldier?”

“No,” the goblin who seemed to be their speaker said plainly. “But we do not need open arms. We need only a place to die with purpose. And our presence in the battlefield would be a surprise to the pinkskins.”

The goblins behind him raised their fists in silence …thousands of them, grim-eyed, clad in mismatched armor, most with no armor at all, their bodies thin but their resolve iron.

“Let us fight. Let us bleed for the horde. Not every blade must be tall, Chieftain. Some must be sharp and many.”

A long pause.

Then Khao’khen nodded.

“Very well,” he said, turning to the others. “Get some rest first, I will fulfil your request.”

“Pair them with trolls. Use their size, their speed. Give them poison and fire. And let them dig under the enemy defenses.” Khao’khen quickly made arrangements for the goblins to take part in the war.

For the first time in many moons, the goblins will take part in battle.

*****

The morning after the fire and the tunnels was quiet.

Too quiet.

Major Gresham stood at the top of the outer rampart, a pair of field glasses hanging at his side. The battlefield below was a canvas of blackened earth and crimson trails. The smoke had thinned, but the stench lingered…burned flesh, dried blood, spoiled provisions, and death. The dawn light illuminated the true cost of the night.

The trenches were charred husks. Men moved like shades…hollow-eyed, silent. The wounded filled every cot, every corner of the aid tents, many lying without blankets, shivering in their own sweat.

Captain Braedon passed Gresham without saluting. Neither man spoke.

There was no need.

*****

The corpse pits were overflowing.

At the rear of the camp, soldiers dug fresh mass graves. Bodies were lined in rows. Some were missing limbs. Others were so burned that only their armor gave any hint of their identity.

Odric and Agis stood nearby, assisting the quartermasters. They had stopped speaking some time ago. Their faces were drawn tight, and their eyes stayed on the task.

Agis finally broke the silence. “Three squads gone last night.”

Odric nodded. “Sixteen wounded in this sector. Only five left standing.”

“Gresham still writing?”

Odric didn’t reply.

*****

Back inside the command tent, Gresham stared at his map with a hollow gaze. Colored markers had been moved so many times the parchment beneath them was tearing. Three red pins were missing from the east flank. Five yellow were removed from the northern ditch. Another ten lay in a bowl beside the inkpot, no longer needed.

He sat. Reached for his pen.

Paused.

Then reached again.

” Blue Countess,

This will be the last I write you in civility. Consider it a courtesy you no longer deserve.

Last night, we fought beasts beneath our feet. They dug under our lines, broke through our trenches, and set fire to our defenses. I lost more than men…I lost faith.

Faith in your commitment to this kingdom. Faith in your sense of duty. Faith in anything beyond your name stitched on banners and your perfume on decrees.

I have bled this army dry to hold this line. My officers do not sleep. My scouts drop from exhaustion. My men dig graves before they march, because they do not expect to return.

And you? You write nothing.

You send nothing.

You sip wine while my engineers drown in smoke. You recline in silk while my infantry pulls wounded out of burning tunnels with bare hands.”

He pressed his pen down so hard the nib cracked.

He reached for another.

” Do you understand what is happening here? This is not a battle…it is an annihilation. It is a slow, deliberate bleeding orchestrated by an enemy that knows patience better than we do.

And still, we fight. We hold. We burn. We scream. And we rise.

But even we have limits.”

He stopped again, breath catching.

Then finished the letter with lines that dug from his soul.

” When this front falls…and it will, without aid…I will not send you a plea.

I will send you a list.

A list of names.

The names of every soldier who died asking why you left them.”

He sealed the letter himself.

*****

That afternoon, the sky darkened again.

Not with weather.

With smoke.

The orcs were burning the bodies of their own dead…across the plains, giant funeral pyres lit up the haze like beacons. Their warriors stood in ranks as fire consumed kin. No chants. No cries. Just silence.

It was not mourning.

It was ritual.

And it meant one thing.

They were preparing to fight again.

*****

Gresham walked the lines that evening, inspecting each trench, each station, each cannon position. Soldiers saluted with exhausted arms. Officers gave reports through cracked lips.

He stopped by the front most lines, where Captain Braedon stood staring toward the orc lines.

“They’ll hit us tonight,” Braedon said without turning.

“I know.”

“Deramis says we’ve got maybe twenty full squads fit for frontline duty.”

Gresham exhaled. “That’s more than I expected.”

A long silence.

Then Braedon asked, “Do you think she’ll ever answer you?”

Gresham didn’t speak.

He just walked away.

*****

The courier left at dusk with the letter wrapped in oilskin, tucked into his satchel with three others like it…each darker than the last.

By then, the sky had turned red.

And drums had begun to beat again in the south.

The letter was written.

But not the last.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep