The cave was no longer a sanctuary; it was a kill box, and the Elves were coming to spring the trap. The momentary triumph of Fen's lucky javelin throw had evaporated, replaced by the chilling reality of the antler-crowned lord's command. Leave none alive. The words, though spoken in an alien tongue, needed no translation. Their intent was carved into the cold fury on every Elven face now swarming up the slope.
Gron's mind, a hunter's mind, calculated and discarded options with a speed born of desperation. They could not hold the mouth. They were too few, their shields were splintering, and they had no more javelins for a second surprise.
"BACK!" he roared, his voice raw. "BACK TO THE NARROWS!"
The tribe scrambled away from the sunlit entrance, deeper into the cave's throat. About fifty feet in, the main chamber narrowed into a tight, twisting passage barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast. It was a natural choke point, their last, best hope.
"Shield wall here! Bor, left! Fen, right! Hold them! Kala, get the children to the deep chamber! Everyone else, find rocks! Anything you can throw!"
The tribe moved with the frantic, coordinated energy of a cornered animal. The hunters formed a ragged line, their battered shields overlapping. Behind them, women and elders scrambled, their hands clawing at the cave floor, gathering fist-sized stones and heavier, jagged rocks. The air was thick with the smell of fear-sweat, dust, and the coppery tang of blood from the minor arrow wounds.
The first Elf appeared at the cave mouth, silhouetted against the daylight. He did not rush in blindly. He paused, his head tilted, assessing the darkness within. Then he flowed inside, silent as a shadow, his glowing blade held low. Two more followed, then a fourth. They spread out, their movements a ballet of lethal grace.
They saw the shield wall blocking the narrow passage and slowed, a faint, contemptuous smile touching the lips of the lead warrior. To them, it must have looked like a line of children playing at war.
"NOW!" Gron bellowed.
The tribe behind the hunters let loose a hailstorm of stone. It was not a volley of arrows, but it was dense and furious. A rock the size of a gourd, thrown by an elder with surprising strength, slammed into the lead Elf's shoulder. There was a sickening crack, and the Elf staggered, his sword arm dropping. A smaller stone caught another in the temple, stunning him. The Elves, for all their grace, were not armored in stone. They were flesh and bone, and they could be hurt.
A snarl of rage replaced their contempt. The lead Elf, his shoulder clearly broken, charged the shield wall anyway, his good arm driving his glowing blade in a vicious thrust. It punched through Bor's hide shield as if it were parchment and sank deep into the wood beneath.
Bor roared, not in pain, but in fury. He didn't try to pull the sword free. Instead, he shoved forward with all his weight, pinning the Elf's weapon, and thrust his own spear around the edge of his shield. The crude flint point caught the Elf in the side, sliding between ribs. The Elf's golden eyes widened in shock, a fine spray of silver blood misting the air. He gasped, a sound like a bell cracking, and fell back, pulling Bor's spear from his grip.
The second Elf lunged at Fen, his blade a blur of green light. Fen met it with his shield, the impact numbing his arm. He stabbed back with his spear, but the Elf flowed around the thrust, his own blade slicing a deep gash along Fen's forearm. Fen cried out, his grip on his spear faltering.
The cave was now a cacophony of screams, grunts, and the clash of stone on flesh and wood. The narrow passage was both a blessing and a curse. It funneled the Elves into a manageable number, but it also meant the front-line hunters had no room to retreat, no space to maneuver. It was a grinding, face-to-face slaughter.
An Elf woman leaped, impossibly agile, using the wall as a springboard to vault over the shield wall. She landed amidst the rock-throwers at the rear, her blade already moving. Old Man Hask fell without a sound, his throat opened. A young mother screamed as the Elf's backhand slash caught her across the face.
Gron saw it happen. A red mist descended over his vision. He abandoned his position, turning his back on the main fight—a cardinal sin of warfare—and charged the lone Elf who had broken through.
"YOU!" he roared, his voice the sound of the mountain itself.
The Elf woman turned, her expression one of cold amusement at the enraged human chief. She raised her blade, ready to parry his obvious, heavy spear thrust.
Gron didn't thrust. At the last second, he dropped the spear and dove forward, tackling her around the waist. It was not a warrior's move. It was the move of a wrestler, a brawler. It was utterly, primally human.
They crashed to the stone floor in a tangle of limbs. The Elf was stronger than she looked, her limbs like whips of steel. She clawed at his eyes, her knife-hand trapped between them. Gron ignored the pain, his greater weight and raw, desperate strength pinning her. He got a hand free, found a rock from the scattered pile, and brought it down. Once. Twice. The sound was wet and final. The Elf's struggles ceased.
He shoved her lifeless body away, his chest heaving, his face spattered with silver blood. He looked up and met the horrified eyes of his tribe. They had just seen their leader kill like an animal. And in their eyes, he saw not disgust, but a grim, dawning understanding. This was not a hunt. This was a fight for the nest. There were no rules.
"FIGHT!" he snarled at them, scooping up his spear. "FIGHT LIKE YOU MEAN TO LIVE!"
His act of brutal survival ignited something in the tribe. The rock-throwing became more focused, more savage. A young boy, no older than twelve, hurled a stone with such ferocious accuracy it smashed an Elf's knee as he pressed Fen. The Elf stumbled, and Fen, seizing the opening, drove his spear into the Elf's neck.
But the pressure at the front was relentless. Bor, now weaponless, was using his shattered shield as a bludgeon, but a swift Elf blade found his leg, slicing through muscle. He bellowed and went down on one knee. The shield wall was breaking.
Suddenly, a new sound cut through the din. A high, piercing whistle from outside the cave. It was repeated twice.
The Elves pressing the attack hesitated. They disengaged with fluid ease, leaping back from the shield wall, their eyes flicking towards the entrance. The one who seemed to be in command now gave a sharp, melodic call in response. In unison, the Elves still standing retreated, flowing back out of the cave mouth, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Panting, bleeding, the Frost-Tribe stared in confusion. What was this? A trick?
Gron limped to the front, peering out. The slope was still filled with Elves, but they were no longer looking at the cave. Their attention was focused down the valley. The antler-crowned lord, leaning on another for support, was pointing, his voice urgent.
Then Gron saw it. A cloud of dust. And emerging from it, a tide of figures. Not tall and graceful, but short, squat, and brutish. Their greenish skin was covered in crude leather armor, and they wielded an assortment of stone axes, clubs, and jagged knives. They moved with a rolling, aggressive gait, their numbers seeming to stain the landscape.
Goblins. A horde of them. Hundreds. They had seen the Elven force concentrated on the slope, seen their vulnerability, and now they were coming to scavenge the spoils of a weakened enemy.
The Elves formed a new line, turning their backs on the human cave to face the greater, more immediate threat. The battle between the ancient races was about to recommence, right on their doorstep.
Bor, clutching his bleeding leg, dragged himself to Gron's side. He looked from the disciplined Elven ranks to the swarming, chaotic Goblin horde. "What… what do we do?"
Gron's face was a mask of stone, etched with exhaustion and grief. He looked at his wounded, his dead—Old Man Hask, the young mother, others bleeding out on the cave floor. He looked at the terrified faces of the children. They had survived the initial assault, but they were trapped between a rock and a hard place. Or more accurately, between a blade and a club.
"We do nothing," Gron said, his voice hollow. "We tend our wounds. We mourn our dead." He looked out at the two ancient armies preparing to clash, his tribe a tiny, battered island between them. "The world is at war. And we are in the middle of it. We hold this passage. We let them kill each other. And if either side turns on us again…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. He picked up a rock, its edge stained with silver and red blood, and hefted it in his hand. It was the only answer he had left. They would fight for every single heartbeat of life they had left, and they would make the price for taking it higher than any Elf or Goblin could ever imagine. The cost of entry into their cave was now measured in blood, and the Frost-Tribe was prepared to make both armies bankrupt.