"Warchief, everyone's ready! Let the earth tremble! Let Zod hear of us!"
"Yeah, yeah, shut it! How about we take those damn heads and not get ourselves killed… You're getting excited like a young goblin girl over a filthy flower. The Grays aren't prey. They're beasts. We'll be lucky if we come back in one piece."
Barga was who he was — but one thing was certain: he survived where others died.
He looked over the boat-bridge, lashed together with planks and thick branches. The same one Valeria had used in the battle at the Statue of the Sword God. It creaked and swayed.
Each of the three contenders had been assigned an observer, as the Great Devourer liked to call them. Banyak for Barga, San'Xa'Hu for Isai, and Mago for Kasho. The one horned man-bull slung his sharpened weapon over his shoulder and grimaced, glancing at the rabble Barga now led — a supposedly famous raider from the west, now a focused war leader.
"Five hundred of us… attacking the Great Axe tribe…" he muttered, eyeing the gathered clansmen and the hordes of youngsters drawn in by his reputation. "We'll try the old, proven strategy. We move fast along the treeline, quiet as shadows, and strike from three sides. Remember to give them a way out — those beasts will fight to the last drop of blood if surrounded. Split them up, throw them into panic — it's easier to cut off a stupid head that way…"
His closest greens — the ones he'd worked with in the west — listened and added their own input. Other units were already moving in three directions. They had to follow, heading toward the easternmost Gray settlement.
After crossing the White Stone River, they left Valar's safe territory behind. Now, with grim determination, they pushed forward at full speed. They veered sharply northeast, wolf riders at the front — watching for enemy scouts and ambushes.
All of them moved in a loose column along the dark line of trees, where the moonlight didn't reach. Only the quiet clatter of weapons, the rustle of leather, and heavy breathing betrayed their presence. Hundreds of green shadows slid through the night like a single snake-like organism — as fast as they could manage.
Which wasn't very fast to be honest!
The young and inexperienced slowed them down. Their lack of experience showed all too clearly.
Most of the five hundred had barely grown their first coarse hairs — a pack of brats. Some of them were the same ones who had once followed the Great Devourer Artax with slings, trying to heroically save the queen and turn the tide of the entire battle Koshia's forces.
They gripped their weapons too tightly, glanced around too often, tried to hide the trembling in their hands. They breathed heavily, and every snapping twig sent jolts of fear through them.
And yet — they marched as ordered.
The desire for revenge against the Grays and the lure of fame gave them courage. Weak though their race might be, after the revelation of the Sword God — worshipped by many monsters, including them — they felt the divine gaze upon them. And youth added recklessness — often a dangerous kind.
The older ones' eyes gleamed differently — quieter, heavier. They knew more.
Eight of Barga's western companions led squads of fifty. Two strong members of the Brown Bears tribe commanded two others.
A young minotaur stood out among them — regarded as someone seasoned by war, someone who had seen much. But in truth, he too was nearly as new as the rest when it came to such wild, fast raids. He had only just recently fallen into slavery in the Black Dragon Kingdom — not in glorious battle, but in a way far less fitting for the son of a White Horn chieftain.
Barga saw everything.
His infamous band was called the Black Swallow Talon — and the fact that it had once been his was, in his mind, only natural — perfectly justified! After all, which goblin would bother with such details? The former leader had always lurked in the shadows, face hidden behind a mask. Goblins didn't question. They didn't doubt.
Now, all that remained was to prove he was worthy of his legend.
Plunder the Great Axe settlement. Cut off the heads of every adult orc. Return.
Nothing difficult… Maybe he'd even earn the rank of Green General? Though he didn't care much for that.
The Grays were out there somewhere in these lands. Bigger. Stronger. Smarter. No one could deny it. They had been the backbone of the Sword God's armies back when he warred against other gods and nations for dominance of the continent.
Too long ago to remember.
"Warchief, a small village just ahead! Lots of torches — maybe even three hundred warriors on the hill! The scouts aren't sure…"
"Damn incompetents. They probably can't even count that high. Maybe they managed on the western lands, but counting? Not a chance."
"Do we strike? Or keep moving? The target is the Great Axe settlement, not this."
Barga had to think fast. The unit was already in motion. If they circled around — added a kilometer or two — they could avoid an unnecessary fight.
But the old veteran considered what would happen if that group ended up behind them…
Retreat wasn't an option. They could strip him of command — or punish him severely. Maybe even death. Who knew what kind of temper that vampiress had? Certainly not he.
"Gather our men. Get this rabble ready. Shields in front, archers in the back. Cause chaos on the flanks. You know what to do…"
His right-hand man yanked his wolf mount and sped off with the orders.
Soon chaos erupted. Organization took an hour — maybe two — including the bombardment of the settlement's high wall of mud and clay, reinforced with sticks and thick branches.
In the distance, they saw dozens of silhouettes, torches, and heard drums beating — as if a powerful, bloodthirsty force was preparing for battle.
Were they all warriors?
How could a neutral village without allies gather such strength?
Barga had no time to dwell on it. He rushed among the greens, urging them forward, bolstering them with his legend.
At last, all five hundred of his underlings formed into something resembling proper formations. They advanced through the trees toward the target, perched on a small rise, with a stream to the east they couldn't cross.
The Grays' only escape was north.
A few arrows hit Barga and his troops, but without any casualties. The young warriors' shields trembled. They shot their arrows wildly, as if they were first-timers to a siege — scattering them into walls and grass, much to Barga's anger.
Then — the gate just opened.
An old orc with a white flag stepped out — bent, frail, hands raised.
Banyak looked around, so did Barga.
They weren't dreaming.
Gray children, orc women, and old, hunched, withered orcs sobbed beneath hoods and scarves, awaiting death.
"We surrender… don't kill us, great warriors… There's no one here…"
One of the bearded elders spoke, seemingly their leader.
Goblin units rushed inside. Seven children and six elderly orcs were bound with rope and handed over to the guards.
Barga stared in horror at the drums on the walls. The torches.
And worst of all…
Straw dummies dressed in helmets. Rag-wrapped sticks. Wooden poles instead of spears. Two old bows lying on the ground.
"The warriors left yesterday… They told us to light the torches, shoot, and make noise when you arrived…"
The captured orcs spoke quickly, words spilling over themselves. At the sight of the towering minotaur and the furious elder goblins, their tongues loosened further.
"The Great Man knew the green army would come. It was his idea. Please — don't kill us. We didn't want this… we didn't…"
Barga had never heard that name before.
But hearing of humans did not fill him with confidence.
"They knew about the attack. They stalled us. They prepared well. No… this isn't how orcs fight. Something's wrong."
His thoughts churned. Each one like a club striking his spine.
"Oh no… Prepare to march! Run north like the Sword God himself is chasing you! Faster!" he roared, realization hitting him.
The minotaur's bellow tore through the sky.
The village vanished in flames, lighting up the horrors of the night. Everyone ran as if driven by a whip — almost none of them knew why. But seeing Barga at the front was enough.
With elite allies, they forced the pace.
He had fallen for it.
The lowest of tricks — childplay.
Him? The famous Barga? The trickster himself?
He couldn't accept it. That was too much for him to handle? For him?!
At the very thought of what might happen — and that it could be his fault — the image of his head being separated from his body crept into his small, wretched heart.
The night was still long ahead of them.
The road — even longer.
"Run! We're going to save the queen!" he shouted — at least now doing something worthy of his legend.