"Great Sage, let us place our faith in Zod."
Doirak stood among the gathered chieftains, their gazes shifting between him and Isma of the Yellow Grass Tribe. Fire crackled in the hearth, casting restless shadows across the wooden hall, while a pot of stew simmered softly, filling the air with a heavy, earthy scent.
The most renowned goblin of the southern lands did not rush to answer. He rubbed his forehead and cleared his throat, weary from a life that had stretched across eight long decades. All eyes were on him. Even the young and ambitious chieftains held respect for the old shaman who had walked this world longer than most remembered.
At last, he rose. Clasping his hands behind his back, he let out a long sigh and spoke.
"Our blades have grown dull. Our people have grown thin and weary. If we turn on one another, many will die — and the outsiders will not hesitate to take advantage of it. Since the days of my great-grandfather, we have lost vast lands in the east to humans. And all territories north of the White Stone River have fallen to those orcs!"
He clenched his fists, and his fury spread through the hall like a sudden heatwave. The flames before him flared wildly, and the wooden planks beneath their feet creaked under the pressure of his unleashed aura.
"Cursed spawn of orcs!"
Shouts erupted. The chieftains and their closest warriors felt raw, unrestrained anger surge through their veins. Only a few managed to hold their tempers in check.
"Soon, we will be driven toward the swamps of the dreadful lizardfolk in the west, and the empty wastelands of the south. We must conserve our strength. Our enemies are merely waiting for us to slaughter one another…" Isma finished.
Silence followed.
The chieftains exchanged glances. They knew many villages had not answered the call — some infamous for their pride and arrogance. They would not submit without a fight. In truth, most of their leaders either wished to become the supreme chieftain of the alliance… or did not believe in the common cause, nor in Zod's return.
That, at least, was how the famed Doirak Ironhide saw it.
Yet after all he had witnessed, he believed that the Behemoth's emissary and the powerful daughter of House Nocturne had a plan. They would not let the goblins fall. He often dreamed of ancient times, when the primordial Behemoth ruled all three great forests of eastern Montara. In those days, goblins lived in peace and prosperity — thousands of tribes, hundreds of thousands of warriors.
"We will return to those days…" he murmured, clenching his fist.
A goblin wearing a twisted black tiger mask spoke up. Long hair fell down her back, a falcon perched calmly on her shoulder. A curved blade hung at her waist, and a quiver of arrows rested against her hip.
"Old shaman!" she snapped — her voice unmistakably female. "Listening to your whining makes me sick."
She stepped forward sharply, her boot striking the floor. Pulling off her mask, she revealed a youthful goblin face full of fire, marred by an ugly scar above her right eye.
"Don't fight, wait patiently, pity the goblins — sniff, sniff! Might as well soil ourselves and wait for salvation!" she mocked.
When the old shaman slammed his fist down, others rushed to restrain her, fearing the elder's wrath.
"We are a proud race!" she continued fiercely. "Our ancestors fought in the front lines of the Sword God's army, with the Great Behemoth Zod as our general and leader! How did we fall so low!? Why do you all want to hide and wait until we starve to death!? We waited generations for word of Zod — and when his true emissary finally appears, one who knows the ancient Behemoth rites… when hope finally returns — you cower!?"
"Silence!" the old shaman roared. "You have seen too few winters! You do not know how cruel humans and orcs can be. I have seen them crush goblin children's skulls against stone for sport. I have seen our wives thrown to starving dogs! You do not know what it means to lose everything!"
His eyes burned.
"Anyone can fight — but not everyone survives. After Zod vanished, our kingdom fell. Legends spread that he was defeated in the north, driven into the southern mountains and slain… For centuries, we believed our sacred patron is dead."
His voice trembled.
"And now you think I do not rejoice when someone arrives who knows the ancient rites — someone who remembers the friendship of the greatest cataclysm beast toward our weak race!? Do you truly believe that!? Answer me, young Gyrd of the Venom Arrow Tribe!"
Doirak watched as she paled and sat down without a word.
At the same time, a massive gray-skinned goblin — the one who had subdued a bear — and a grim young warrior who never parted from his spear stepped forward, clearly enraged.
"Old fool," the bear-slayer growled. "Running away solves nothing. Gyrd speaks the truth. We must teach them a lesson, or they will never stop preying on us. This time, we have a vampire and a hydra sent by Zod on our side. Do you truly believe we will lose!?"
"My spear thirsts for blood — human, orc… it matters not!" shouted the spear-wielder, his back marked with white tattoos, fragments of chainmail clinging to his body.
A dangerous pair.
Doirak knew it well. As a seasoned warrior bearing the mark of the Red Hand, he felt the hall growing hotter with every breath. Each chieftain held a different vision of what must be done.
He sighed deeply, his expression darkening, and returned to his seat.
Five chieftains held the greatest renown among the gathered: himself — who had played the largest role in defeating Hakku of the Western Great Forest; Isma of the Yellow Grass Tribe, whose reputation reached beyond the Three Great Forests; Gyrd of the Venom Arrow Tribe, already famous despite her young age; Zoggo, called the Spear God, who had once sought glory fighting Moon Elves under ogre command; and Borg the Bear-Slayer, widely considered the finest warrior present, commanding over three hundred battle-hungry goblins.
Mago and Godo remained silent. Surrounded by such figures, their small villages — and their small voices — carried little weight.
"Let us vote," Isma said at last. "Let the majority decide. If such is the will of the chieftains, we shall follow the vampire and march against our brethren… though I would rather avoid it."
Doirak retrieved a heavy jug of stones from the wall. Each chieftain received a white stone from the White Stone River, and a red one — the symbol of war. One by one, they cast their choice before the elder shaman.
"I vote for war! My people do not fear battle!" Gyrd declared, throwing the red stone first.
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
She was the only female among them. Her father had been killed by Hakku's orcs after refusing to pay tribute. Doirak remembered him well.
"So do I," Borg followed. "The time has come. Zod has not abandoned us."
The spear-wielder echoed him without explanation.
Then Isma halted the red tide. He cast a white stone. Then another. And another. White stones clattered across the floor.
13-9 for white.
Many had brought mostly children and the frail. They were in no hurry to wage war.
"After waiting nearly five centuries for Zod," Isma said calmly, "We can wait a little longer. When he returns, even the ogres of the Western Great Forest and the minotaurs of the Northern Great Forest will kneel before us."
Another white stone flew.
"And what if this is a test!?" Gyrd shouted. "What if Zod wishes to see whether the spirits of our ancestors still live within us!? Will he be proud to see us starving, freezing behind fortress walls!? Have you forgotten Domadok the Grayhide!? The one who slew an archangel alone!? I am ashamed of you!"
Her words struck deep.
The balance shifted.
Of the sixty-one chieftains present, after many speeches, arguments, and near-fights, the count stood at 29-30 — in favor of remaining within the stronghold.
Only two remained.
Doirak — and a frail, old goblin who was not even a hobgoblin.
Godo.
All eyes turned to them.
Doirak knew Godo. He had been the one who sheltered the vampire during a blizzard, when she fled the east broken and dying. She herself had told him how Godo's people saved her — and how she later defended them alone against goblin hunters, earning the respect of Zod's emissary.
The famous fighter did not hesitate.
He believed in Zod once more. He remembered his grandmother's stories. Deep in his heart, he felt that a great change would occur within his lifetime. Goblins would rise again. His children would live without fear.
He cast his stone.
30-30
"I once thought Lady Valeria was mad," Godo said quietly. "Every time, I was terribly wrong. She does not see herself as better than us. She is worthy to rule us. She carries royal blood… and the power of higher vampires. With her at our side, our days of pain and humilation will come to an end."
He cast the red stone.
Red won.
Gyrd burst into laughter, clapping Doirak so hard he nearly stumbled. Mago grasped his hand and patted his back.
Isma shed a single tear. He tasted blood and fire, remembered burning villages and decades of humiliation. He had survived — but unease still lingered in his heart.
That evening, Doirak personally informed Valeria and Artax of the council's decision.
The doors stood ajar. Valeria studied scattered maps. Artax lay chewing grass upon his resting place, eyes half-lidded.
True power, Doirak thought.
"What brings you here, Doirak Ironhide?" Valeria asked warmly.
"The council has decided," he said, trembling. "We march."
"Excellent!" she said. "Tomorrow at dusk. Westward! Let the traitors learn what it means to defy the Queen of Goblins."
She turned toward Artax.
"The emissary of Zod will command this punitive expedition."
Artax snapped upright.
"What!? A punitive expedition!? Me, the commander!? Have you lost your mind!?"
Valeria merely smiled, baring her fangs, and patted his neck.
"Good luck, my friend."