The Northern Threat
Sneaking from tree to tree, the two rogues moved with the practiced grace of shadow and silence. Only the keenest elven eye and ear could have picked them out from the foliage. Dirt, a wiry human scout with a scar across his left brow, led the way, his hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of his dagger. Just behind him crept Yip, his goblin companion, smaller but faster, with a mischievous gleam in his eye and an unsettling fondness for traps.
They paused at the edge of a clearing deep in the Timberveil Forest, crouching low in a thick patch of brush. Through the foliage, they had a clear view of a tense standoff.
Four green-skinned goblins stood in a loose semicircle, their jagged spears leveled in challenge. Opposite them loomed a squad of Worg riders, gray-skinned goblins clad in crude steel armor, mounted on massive wolf-beasts the size of miniature horses. These weren’t mere wolves; their eyes gleamed with cruel intelligence, and their bodies rippled with unnatural strength. The Worgs’ breath steamed in the cool morning air.
One of the riders urged his mount forward, the Worg's snarling maw barely restrained by rusted chains. The rider raised a clawed hand and pointed it toward the smaller goblins.
“Your trade with the pathetic humans ends today,” he growled, his voice like gravel ground under iron. “Unless tribute is given, the Chief of the North takes what he pleases.”
The leader of the green-skinned goblins stepped forward, forcing confidence into his posture. “We will not be extorted. Our Chief is powerful, and so are his allies.” He gave a defiant chuckle, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear.
The Worgs shifted and growled, sensing the tension. Without warning, the lead rider gave a subtle command. His mount surged forward and slammed its massive paw into the chest of the green-skin leader, toppling him backward. The Worg placed its paw atop the goblin’s chest and pressed down, slowly and cruelly. The goblin writhed beneath it, gasping for air.
“St…op!” he wheezed.
The Worg riders erupted into laughter, cold and unfeeling.
From the cover of the trees, Dirt’s jaw clenched. This meeting at Big Tree, an effort to bring the scattered goblin tribes into a fragile alliance with human border settlements, could collapse before it began. He looked down at Yip, who already had a pebble in hand, ready to sling it as a distraction. Dirt shook his head and rose.
“Stop!” he called, stepping from the shadows with his bow half-raised. The leather of his armor creaked softly as he took his stance. “These goblins are under our protection. Harm them, and we’ll cut you down where you stand.”
The Worg riders tensed, their eyes scanning the tree line. Yip, ever the trickster, rustled branches and snapped twigs behind them, mimicking the sounds of a much larger force preparing to strike. He even added a low growl for good measure.
The bluff worked.
The lead Worg rider glared, pounding his armored chest with a mailed fist. He bared yellowed teeth in a snarl, locking eyes with Dirt. Then, with a sharp whistle, he turned his mount northward.
One by one, the riders followed, disappearing into the misty forest beyond the clearing.
As the last of them vanished, Dirt exhaled sharply and wiped his brow.
“We fooled them,” he muttered to Yip, who grinned like he’d just robbed a merchant blind. “Thought for sure we’d be running by now.”
The goblins on the ground slowly helped their leader up, who was still coughing but managed a weak thumbs-up in Dirt’s direction.
But even as the rogue chuckled and turned back to the trees, a shadow of unease settled in his gut. These were no ordinary raiders. The Worg riders had been scouts… which meant something bigger was coming.
Dirt looked north, where the forest thickened and the sun no longer reached the mossy floor.
This wasn’t over.
The North was stirring.
- Synica melton
Art By
- Runehammer
- William McAusland used with permission