A light drizzle began to fall, but Gra’sha paid it no mind. As she ate her morning meal, goblins in the common hall and many other places were announcing the chieftain's will to all and sundry. The gnolls were to be driven from the clan's lands once and for all; that very day, chosen volunteers and a part of the standing garrison of warriors would carry out a decisive attack to remove the insufferable nomads.
The girl was just finishing her meal when a goblin runner, with a grave expression, handed her a small token stamped with the symbol for a call to arms: two slanted lines, symbolizing a trail. Several of her peers were receiving theirs at the same time. According to tradition, she would be allowed to keep it even if she wasn't later chosen for the permanent warband. The thought also crossed her mind that if she fell in battle, this very token would be cast into her grave in the collective burial mound. She quickly pushed the thought down, drank the rest of the refreshingly cool water, and headed with a spring in her step to the training grounds where she was to be issued her gear and orders.
She was third in line, so she didn't wait long. First, after she showed the armorer her summons token, he nodded for her to stand between two benches. His goblin assistants, standing on the benches on either side of her, started with a leather gambeson, which they quickly and skillfully pulled over her head. They tied it under her neck and cinched it with a belt at her waist to keep it snug. They told her to step forward, where other goblins tucked a hatchet—solid, but not large—into her belt on the right side, and on the left, a pouch with a leather waterskin and a ration of food. Another step, and she was handed a wooden shield faced with leather and a spear with a recently sharpened, still-gleaming head. At the last station, they pressed a soft cap onto her head, followed by an iron helmet. Then, the armorer dismissed her with a nod to the second station to receive her orders.
Overseer Dur’var was already waiting for her there. He pointed to where she should stand and told her to wait until the rest had gathered so he wouldn't have to repeat himself. Her good mood hadn't left her. Seeing her enthusiasm, the overseer patted her on the helmet and said she would be in the first rank.
The drizzle turned into a light rain, but it didn't dampen her excitement. She watched intently as others formed up to her right. Soon, more people joined the rank and stood behind her, forming more lines. She gave each a solemn nod. Many of them had familiar faces; she knew some from working together, and the rest she recognized from childhood. The last row was formed from recruits she wasn’t familiar with.
By the time all forty had assembled as required, it was raining hard. Dur’var explained that they would march at the head in two columns, and in battle, they would take the left flank, five ranks of eight volunteers each. They were already standing in those ranks, with Gra’sha at the edge of the first. A few moments later, the chieftain’s warband appeared. They were arranged like the volunteers, in ranks of eight warriors each—disciplined, imposing, and much better armed. Urg’hur’s eldest son commanded them. He stepped before the recruits and outlined the situation in a few short words.
“I am Ner’hur, and I command this expedition in our chieftain's name. You will move as assigned and fight as assigned. If a change is required, the overseer will give you the appropriate order. The scouts will set the direction of our march,” he said in a resonant voice and a tone that brooked no argument. He then looked them over and, without another word, spun his weapon in the air, signaling the march to begin.
This was all Gra’sha had been waiting for. Without looking back, she set off at a trot as assigned, making sure to keep pace with the person next to her. After a few moments, a lone goblin pathfinder appeared before them, one who knew the way to their destination. Despite this being her first expedition, she was aware of the numerous scouts who crisscrossed the territories under the clan's control. In cases like this, she expected to meet more of them as her small kin, who were observing the gnolls' movements, joined them before the battle to share the latest information on the enemy's position and numbers.
After an hour of fast marching through a sparse mixed forest, they stopped for their first break to take a few sips of water. The rain had stopped, but everyone had gotten more or less soaked. She took a better look at her immediate companions. A few warriors approached the volunteers in the last rank—they were clearly related—but the rest were a collection of recruits like herself: smaller in build and of insignificant origin. She knew many of them by sight from the crèche where all the orphans and children of the lower castes were raised while their parents were busy working double shifts. At the edge of the fourth rank, diagonally from her, she saw Mal’gor. They nodded to each other.
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Before the next halt, the outside of her clothes had managed to dry a bit, but from the sweat against her skin, she was even damper than when it had been raining. Her gambeson was quite warm, which certainly had its advantages when it was cold, but not in this weather, which was quite humid and warm. She saw that newly arrived goblins were approaching Ner'hur. He listened to them carefully, thought for a moment, and then signaled for the whole group to gather so he could announce his decision. Everyone gathered right away.
“We know where the gnolls are,” he began calmly, then continued, “unfortunately, it seems they know about us, so we can't count on the element of surprise.”
He scanned the faces of the assembled, his gaze not lingering on anyone, as if checking to see if anyone would show weakness with a grimace. Only then did he add, “This changes nothing. We will take the center and the right flank; the volunteers will take the left. I am authorizing you to eat your rations and rest for a moment. We will move out shortly.”
Everyone confirmed they understood and were given the signal to disperse. Gra’sha stood with her rank and started to eat. It wasn't much: two bites of dried meat and a travel biscuit. She washed it all down with a few sips of water, leaving half a waterskin for the return journey. When she finished, one of the goblins approached her and the rest of the first rank and explained which way they were to head. She knew well that this close to the enemy, the small scouts avoided moving out in front; warring was a job for orcs.
After about fifteen minutes, the signal was given to march. Gra’sha walked at the front, moving a little slower to avoid walking into a potential ambush. Right behind her were the next pairs of volunteers, and a dozen paces further back, the real warriors. They crossed two hills, and then an unfamiliar horn blast echoed. The first stirrings of anxiety crept into the young recruits’ hearts, though she saw they were trying hard not to show it. When they ran up the third hill, they saw them.
The whole band, with their wagons, draft animals, and units of warriors, hunters, and whoever else. Their non-combatant young were gathered by the wagons. The rest had already formed three loose ranks. She didn't have time to count precisely, but there couldn't have been more than a hundred of them. Far to their right stood a lone figure with a horn; Gra’sha figured it must have been one of the scouts who had given the signal earlier. At this sight, the volunteer group slowed slightly, shifting from a column into five ranks, but shouts from the veterans behind them immediately bolstered their spirits, and they quickened their pace again. Her heart began to pound like a drum. The veterans to their right formed three ranks to serve as the core of the charge, and two more on the far flank. The volunteers now struggled to keep up.
The first line of gnolls seemed to be made up of their largest warriors. Most had spotted, yellowish-brown fur and shifty, menacing glares. All held weapons, from axes, clubs, and studded cudgels to captured swords, cleavers, and knives. Their armor seemed to be a rather random assortment of pieces. They yapped strangely, a sound unpleasant to the ear, as if discussing how to receive the attackers. The young warrior kept a good pace. She raised her shield for protection but held her spear loosely. After a few more steps, an arrow embedded itself in her shield, and another glanced off her helmet. Her companion to the right wasn't so lucky; he took one in the neck and ran a few more steps before collapsing. Doubt clenched her stomach, but she couldn't slow her run. All that was left was to try and choose how she would attack and whose blow she would try to block. With every moment of her charge, the enemy before her grew larger. Amid the frenzy of shouts from behind and snarling from ahead, the stench of wet dog reached her. It made her nauseous, and she barely suppressed the urge to vomit. To make matters worse, from this distance, she could now see the foul gnoll directly in front of her emanating spiritual energy. Not as much as the clan's best veterans, but it was distinct even from here.
Unwilling to surrender to despair, repeating in her head that she hadn't trained all this time just to get killed in her first clash, she whispered a prayer to the spirits of her ancestors, asking them to let her slay her enemies, remembering the feeling of the grove's power entering her body and recovering her strength. She took her last three strides, making them longer. On the lunge, with a slight slide, shielding her head and side as the overseer had taught her, she thrust her spear with a roar of fury, giving vent to all her frustration and trying to drown out her own fear.
