The human camp buzzed with activity as Hetman Petrovich observed the preparations with a keen eye. Thanks to their successful raids on the goblin baggage train, they had managed to slow the goblin advance and salvage enough supplies to sustain their forces in the field indefinitely. Standing near the edge of camp, Petrovich's expression was one of sharp calculation as he watched a group of former slaves drilling with salvaged goblin matchlock guns.

  Though the haul from the baggage train had yielded enough guns to arm a full company, they had only mustered enough hale-bodied volunteers from the freed slaves to form a platoon. Yet, firearms—unlike bows—required little in the way of strength or years of training. A few days would be all that was needed to make effective gunners of these eager hands. To maximize their firepower, the Ataman of the Dragoons, whom Petrovich had appointed to oversee their training, proposed a clever tactic: the gunners would fire in volleys while camp followers behind them reloaded additional weapons and passed them forward. This would allow the front ranks to maintain near-continuous fire.

  Petrovich nodded approvingly at the Ataman's plan. "Your idea has merit. Continuous volleys will let these folk punch well above their weight. We need to expedite their training—the window to strike the goblins from the rear and relieve the fort won't stay open forever."

  "Understood, Hetman. The men are motivated. They've had their chains broken, and now they’re eager to pay their captors back in blood," the Ataman replied.

  As Petrovich's gaze swept the bustling camp, he spotted an elderly man working intently at a field bench, spectacles perched on his nose, sleeves rolled up. It was Gunther, a renowned gunsmith they had rescued from the baggage train. Petrovich approached, curiosity piqued.

  "Gunther, how fare the matchlocks?" Petrovich asked.

  The old gunsmith adjusted his spectacles. "Sturdy enough, for goblin craft. I've repaired what I can and improved their accuracy with a few modifications. With your permission, I’d like to train a few lads in their maintenance and repair. Firearms are only as good as the hands that keep them working."

  "Do so," Petrovich agreed at once. "We'll need every weapon in fighting shape."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The plan moved into full swing. The militia gunners drilled relentlessly under the watchful eye of the Dragoons, while Gunther and his chosen apprentices worked to keep the firearms in perfect order. The camp followers, too, learned their roles, practicing loading and passing the matchlocks with speed and efficiency.

  X---X

  Meanwhile, back at the dwarven fort, anticipation hung thick in the air. Garrok’s victory over the orc chieftain had electrified morale. Now, with the orcs shattered and retreating, all eyes turned to the looming threat of the goblin horde.

  The gnomes, as ever, turned their ingenuity toward the defense. Their latest invention—the Fladdermine—was a cruel but effective deterrent. Small clay pots packed with black powder were buried near the surface outside the fort, triggered by tripwires or pressure plates connected to flintlock mechanisms. When the goblins came, they’d be greeted not by steel alone, but by explosive fire.

  Beneath the ground, the dwarven miners had been hard at work as well. Digging out countermining tunnels beneath likely approaches, they prepared booby traps and collapsible shafts meant to crush or entomb any goblin sappers who tried to dig beneath the fort’s defenses. And should the goblins attack directly, the dwarves planned to detonate explosive charges right under their feet.

  Even the exhausted enchanters played their part. Though their magic had been largely spent powering the portal, one among them, Leandra Ironbark, stood apart. A towering wood elf of impressive stature and strength, her dusky skin and sharply cut blonde hair marked her clearly among the defenders. Her piercing blue eyes were focused as she finished carving runes into the limbs of a sleek, finely crafted bow.

  Leandra, a child of a renowned elven line of smiths and woodcarvers, infused her weapons with enchantments of deadly precision. The bow she now strung hummed softly with latent magic. Nearby, Erevan, the elven enchanter who had overseen the portal ritual, approached her with concern.

  "Are you sure about this? Flying above the field on a Pegasus makes you an obvious target," Erevan warned.

  Leandra smiled confidently. "That’s the point. A moving archer in the sky forces the goblins to split their attention. If they aim at me, they won’t be aiming at the walls. Besides, I’ll stay well out of range of their crude guns."

  The defenders gave a small cheer as Leandra mounted one of the majestic pegasi, bow slung across her back, quiver at her side. The creature’s wings beat powerfully, lifting them effortlessly into the air. The sight of the elf archer soaring overhead filled the hearts of the garrison with hope.

  Preparations continued through the night. Drills grew sharper, weapons cleaner, and spirits stronger. When dawn broke, it would bring with it the goblin advance—but the defenders would be ready.

  The calm before the storm had never felt so charged with promise.