Gromp panted heavily, clutching his dagger as hard as he could. He stumbled, luckily managing to catch himself on a tree trunk with trembling hands. He tried to refocus his vision to the best of his efforts, but to no avail, as a blurry green figure slowly crept closer.

  He looked down. Crimson blood gushed from his stomach in an unending stream.

  He looked up. Red droplets slid off the figure’s blade, glistening in the dim light.

  ‘'Krakka. What have you done?'’

  An hour ago, the scouts had entered the forest, moving ahead of the main force to uncover the enemy’s positions. Zakk had placed all the murderous idiots on two teams, sending them to walk in directions least likely to encounter opposition. Nonetheless, Gromp and Krakka's team had gotten quite a bit of action.

  Their team, which counted four goblins in total, had stumbled upon two orcs who were even worse at this scouting business than they were. The two older goblins immediately sprang forward, completely ruining the chances of a coordinated sneak attack.

  To much surprise though, the two orcs had apparently been placed there for a reason. They fought with great coordination, quickly managing to isolate one of the goblins before skewering him with their short spears. Krakka, too, joined the melee, evening the battlefield with his presence.

  Gromp deliberately took all the time in the world to help, and by the time he arrived, only Krakka and one of the orcs still stood. He briefly considered stabbing Krakka in the back or bolting away as fast as he could, but he decided against both, as neither option seemed too exciting. The chaotic skirmish quickened his pulse, stirring a reckless desire to join the fray.

  Instead, with a playful expression, he circled around the two tired combatants, stalking through the lush undergrowth like a proper scout. Upon arriving behind the orc, who had many small gashes and cuts littering his green skin, he lunged forward like a ravenous wolf, slicing the opposing tribe combatant’s throat before he could even turn around.

  Before the now-dead orc even made contact with the ground, a piercing pain shot up from Gromp’s stomach. Reflexively, Gromp darted away, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the unforeseen threat, feeling confused and frightened.

  And that brings us back to the present.

  As the aggressor moved closer and closer, Gromp desperately tried to stall for the time he so badly needed.

  ‘'Why the fuck would you do this? I thought we were friends!'’ he croaked, his voice barely rising above the agony.

  The blurry figure laughed.

  ‘'Are those the words of the same person that kicked me like some whore this morning, huh?’’ The figure retorted, its unattractive visage gradually entering Gromp’s view.

  Krakka now stood only a few steps away.

  ‘'I heard you two talk last night, you know? You and Throg.'’ The aggressor continued.

  He took another step forward. Gromp racked his brain, trying his best to find a solution.

  *THUMP*

  Krakka kicked Gromp with all his might, purposely aiming right at his wound, consequently turning his vision even worse than it was. Tears streamed down his face as unbearable pain wracked his body. Krakka delivered kick after kick, each strike accompanied by a guttural grunt of satisfaction.

  He tried to cover the wound with his hands, yet bright red blood still poured out without stopping. Just when he was about to give up, to let go, his barely functioning eyes picked up something. He saw a second figure, a second silhouette slowly emerging from behind his former ally.

  He clenched his teeth as hard as he could, and slowly raised his hands, drenched in his very own blood, before slowly opening his trembling mouth.

  ‘'I… I never planned to do as he said! You have to trust me!'’ He pleaded to his kin, all arrogance he might have had before vanishing under the weight of death.

  The green figure slowly raised its right hand, the blood from the dagger it held dripping down in small crimson droplets, mixing with the tears on Gromp’s face.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! What should I say, WHAT SHOULD I SAY!?

  ‘'If I wanted to follow his plan, then why didn't I stab you in the back before? Please, fuck, please think about it!'’ He cried out, hands shaking uncontrollably.

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  The hand and the dagger reached their highest point. Gromp looked at the blade, and for a moment, saw his own pitiful reflection.

  ‘'Stop! STOP! I SAID STOP!'’ He yelled at the top of his lungs, begging like never before.

  The hand swung down.

  *SHIK*

  Gromp slowly opened his trembling eyes, his hands still hanging in the air.

  An iron spear was impaled in Krakka's stomach, the tip of the spearhead only a hair's breadth away from his own head. He scrambled away on all fours as fast as his heavy limbs could carry him, grass and little sticks sticking to his bloody hands.

  In a swift motion, the spear suddenly retracted and Krakka, his eyes now staring into the distance, collapsed. A bulky figure stood upright behind the corpse, spear in hand – he was one of the two orcs. His left arm was missing, and various other wounds covered nearly every inch of his large frame. And yet, he still stood.

  He gazed down at Gromp and slowly reached behind his back, taking out a short dagger of his own. Gromp braced himself once again, closing his eyes and preparing for the worst to come, only to hear the sound of fabric being ripped. Struggling with his one good hand, the orc ripped a strip of fabric from his trousers and tossed it to Gromp.

  The goblin watched, blinking his eyes repeatedly as if to make sure he was not hallucinating. The orc, his movements getting more sluggish by the second, moved over to the nearest tree and slowly slid down its trunk, leaving a trail of blood behind. Once seated, a tired sigh escaped his dry lips.

  Gromp, on the other hand, summoned every last bit of his sapping strength to wrap the cloth around his wound. He tore off a piece of his loincloth too, and after applying as much pressure as he could muster, blood mostly stopped escaping his body.

  The young goblin fought to stay awake, biting his lips to the point they bled to shake off the drowsiness. It didn't do much, as the pain felt more and more distant. His eyes began to close, blood flowing once again through the gaps of his fingers as he failed to put enough pressure on the wound.

  ‘'Hey.'’ A voice said in a weird accent, snapping Gromp out of his daze.

  He grunted as he put pressure back on his wound which started to hurt again, even more than before.

  He slowly turned his head and looked at the orc, leaning on the tree trunk. The warrior was looking up, past the tree branches into the clear blue sky above. He had taken off his many necklaces and was holding them with his remaining hand before him as in prayer.

  The dying orc wordlessly placed all but one of the necklaces on the ground with gentle precision. Without moving his eyes, he extended his hand to Gromp, and let the final necklace slip through his fingers, softly falling into Gromp's lap.

  He finally turned his head, looking at the goblin’s face for the first time. The orc's gaze was powerful, holding eye contact without blinking even once. He opened his parched mouth, and with a deep, quiet voice uttered a single word.

  ‘'Survive.'’

  The orc leaned his head against the rough tree bark and closed his eyes, letting eternal rest take him.

  The goblin army, slightly fewer in number than at the start of the march, was gathered at the edge of the forest they called home, tall mountains looming over them from ahead. Past the final few trees stretched a large clearing, where tall grass swayed in the gentle wind. The night sky stood on the goblin army's side, as thin clouds covered the bright moon, making them almost invisible, coupled with their natural camouflage.

  The goblin troops were itching to fight, most of them tapping their feet on the ground or twirling their weapons in anticipation. Throg and Gromp's previous squadmates stood at the very forefront, minutes away from experiencing what leading a charge truly meant.

  They were waiting for the shamaness and some others who knew a thing or two about medicine to finish patching up the wounded scouts who had engaged in combat, by a stroke of luck somehow managing to win every skirmish.

  After the old and wrinkly shamaness concluded her work on the last patient, a young goblin with quite a horrible stab wound on his stomach, she made her way to the very front of the group of rowdy goblins.

  She could feel her chief's gaze on her back as he peered at her from the tail end of the army. With a sharp look in his eyes and hands held behind his back, he looked over the soon-to-be battlefield expectantly.

  Yaga snorted, silently chuckling to herself.

  As if you could control goblins. Stop playing general and grow up, little chief.

  Despite the shamaness' scrutinising thoughts, she knew the Chipped Ear tribe's chief was no fool. In fact, he had intentionally decided against employing any complicated tactics in the coming battle, instead ordering each of the elders to pass down the chain of command a very clear, short order that even the biggest morons could understand:

  ‘'Wait for Yaga to blow shit up, and rush in after those dumb kids take the lead.'’

  The shamaness turned around, making eye contact with the chief. He looked at her momentarily with an unreadable expression, before giving her a simple thumbs-up.

  Yaga spun around again, this time facing the grass plains and the giant cliff that loomed over them. At the very bottom of the rock face stood a wooden wall, built in a half circle and thus effectively protecting the orc tribe within. Bright lights shone from behind it, gently illuminating the nearby grass, though luckily for her, she knew she didn't have to get that close to the wall. It was constructed from large wooden stakes, built from the logs of old trees that once proudly stood there.

  If examined from a smaller distance, one could see many cuts and burn marks decorating the old wood. The reason for this were the many attempted raids on this orc village, most of which were carried out by the Chipped Ear Tribe’s ancestors throughout the two tribes' bloody history.

  In contrast to their forefathers, though, this generation had an ace up their sleeve – a hidden weapon if you will, in the form of Yaga. She was the chief's key to breaching the orc tribe's unbreachable defences, the key to uniting almost half of the forest under one single green goblin.

  The shamaness walked forward, hunching over because of her old age rather than to conceal herself. The clouds helped her greatly, as in better lightning, she might have been spotted by the orc guards who stood on small wooden platforms attached to the wall, unenthusiastically observing the rustling grass. Once she stood close enough to make out the guards' faces, she halted.

  ‘'Alright, you can do this.'’ She muttered, psyching herself up for the first time in years.

  She straightened her posture and rose to her full height, her back cracking in protest. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs to the brim with refreshing night air.

  A foreign, chilling energy slowly began to gather around her – mana, or ra' as the goblins called it. The power to make something out of nothing, to change your surroundings according to your thought. The power everybody sought.

  The energy around Yaga swelled and bubbled, forming a sort of vortex as it flooded into her old body. Her legs buckled as the mana condensed within her, writhing about with a mind of its own. She tensed her every muscle as she brought it under her control, and with a primal roar, she swung her wrinkled hand towards the wall in a grand arch.

  One of the orc guards nearly fell from his platform as the scream roused him from irresponsible sleep. He turned his head to the darkness, his eyes anxiously darting around in search of his disruptor.

  He reached for his bow just in time for a giant wind scythe, as tall as the wooden wall itself, to cleave him in half like he was made of butter before crashing into the houses behind him with a thunderous noise. A thin, at first only barely visible line of red formed right in the middle of his pink body. Blood violently spurted out from his insides, his nearly identical halves separating as he fell to the hard ground together with the two stakes that held the platform up.

  The battle had begun.