I was at my workbench, assembling a fresh batch of paper cartridges, when the fort’s peaceful rhythm was shattered by the urgent pealing of the alarm bell. A grim hush fell over the settlement, broken only by the clatter of boots on stone as Rangers, laborers, and engineers rushed toward the commotion, weapons half-drawn and nerves taut.

  A patrol staggered through the main gate, battered and bloodied, dragging wounded comrades behind them. At their center, bound tight with rope and a sack over its head, was a small captive—squirming and cursing in guttural tones beneath the cloth.

  The most gravely wounded were whisked away to the infirmary as Captain Firebeard himself strode onto the scene, his expression a carved mask of iron resolve. His green eyes swept over the gathering, locking onto the patrol leader.

  “Report,” he ordered, his voice like a whetstone on steel.

  The patrol leader saluted, breathing hard. “We spotted a group of orcs escorting several robed figures and a covered wagon. When we engaged, the orcs fell quickly to our guns—but the robed ones… they fought back with guns of their own.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd, disbelief mixing with unease.

  “Guns?” Firebeard’s voice sharpened. “Goblins armed with firearms?”

  “Aye, sir,” the patrol leader nodded grimly. “Crude, but effective. One of our own took a ball to the shoulder. They weren’t expecting us to hold ground, though. We dropped several before they retreated. Managed to capture this one on their way out.”

  At the captain’s signal, a soldier yanked the sack from the prisoner’s head, revealing a goblin—no taller than a meter and change, wiry and scarred, his dark green skin marred by burns and bite marks. Yellow eyes gleamed beneath a brow hardened by violence and hate.

  The goblin bared sharp teeth in a sneer. “I am Janizary,” he hissed. “We will break you. Your men will kneel beneath our lash. Your women… will bear our young.”

  Gasps echoed from those who understood the weight of the word Janizary. I caught sight of Tink, her face pale as milk, trembling where she stood. She had heard the stories. All of us had. The Janizary were not just soldiers—they were goblins promoted from the disposable masses, elevated through brutality and bloodshed into an elite caste. Paid. Armed. Free to claim slaves of their own, not simply scavenge the leftovers.

  Captain Firebeard’s face darkened. Without a word, he stepped forward and struck the goblin hard across the jaw, sending the creature sprawling into the dirt.

  The scout leader cleared his throat and presented a bundle of captured equipment: a powder horn, a pouch of shot, a curved scimitar—and to the astonishment of all, a long gun.

  It had a 30-inch barrel with a curved buttstock, its wood dark and worn, adorned with crude decorative carvings. But the lock mechanism was deceptively simple—not the flint of our own guns, but a twisted cord of rope soaked in oil, blackened at the tip from use.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The captain’s brow knit as he studied the piece. The goblin laughed, bloody teeth shining.

  “You like my tüfenk, dwarf?” the goblin spat the word like poison. “We took many of your precious ?ark Yay pistols during the last raid—along with your women. Our smiths and artificers learned well. Our sons are strong.”

  At that, Tink swayed where she stood. Her knees buckled—but I was already beside her, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Nyx and Fang, my dire wolves, prowled closer, baring their teeth in silent promise. She leaned into my side, shivering but steadying herself.

  The captain’s glare could have melted stone. “Get this filth to the stockades,” he growled. “Summon the Greybeards. We’ll see how long his bravado holds under their care.”

  His eyes did not waver from the captive as he turned to the scouts. “Bring the weapon to Master Smith Garrok. I expect a full report.”

  The goblin's laughter followed him as they hauled the prisoner away.

  Hours later, after Tink was settled, I was summoned to the citadel by Captain Firebeard himself. The officers were already gathered, their faces grim, waiting for my assessment.

  I laid the goblin’s tüfenk carefully on the table between us, its blackened cord still smelling faintly of oil and smoke.

  “As you suspected, Captain, it’s a matchlock—a design older and simpler than our flintlocks. But don't mistake simplicity for crudeness. This is a straightforward, yet surprisingly sophisticated piece of work.”

  I gestured toward the cord. “Instead of flint striking steel, it uses a slow-burning, oil-soaked match cord to ignite the powder. Fewer moving parts, easier to maintain, and much simpler to produce in bulk. Exactly the kind of weapon you'd expect from a force that prizes numbers over precision.”

  The dwarves grumbled among themselves, their pride as master craftsmen visibly stung at the thought of such cut-rate engineering taking lives on the field. I offered a half-smile, a touch of dry humor in my tone.

  “Naturally… not the work of a proper dwarven smith.”

  That earned a few chuckles and eased the tension.

  I continued, pointing out the weapon’s flaws: the slow ignition process, its reliance on a constantly burning match, the safety risks of exposed flame, and its vulnerability to weather. “It’s reliable enough at short range, but you won’t find any sharpshooters wielding these. In short: slow ignition, external dependence, safety concerns, and limited effective range.”

  I tapped the barrel lightly. “But that’s what makes it dangerous. Not the quality—the quantity. Cheap, easy to make, easy to train with. If the goblins are producing these in numbers, and training their Janizary in their use… we may face volleys like our own in battles to come.”

  The captain nodded grimly. “Thank you, Master Smith. Your insight is… sobering.”

  “We broke the prisoner,” Firebeard said, voice low and grave. “The Greybeards saw to that.”

  The room fell silent.

  “The Kapudan Pasha of the Goblin Corsairs,” the captain continued, “is making a play. He intends to build a port here—secure the trade routes, control the region. The nearby orc tribes have already been bribed—gifts, gold, promises of tribute. The Janizary escort we intercepted was carrying one of these ‘gifts’ to an orc chieftain… the same chieftain who led the attack on the first expedition.”

  The lieutenants burst into discussion, voices sharp, trading strategies, concerns, and warnings. I listened, the weight of it settling deep into my bones.

  The captain raised a hand, silencing the room.

  “I’ll draft the full report tonight,” he said, his voice tired but steady. “It’ll take hours to send through the communication orb—but the high council must be informed.”

  Then, softer: “Tomorrow, we plan.”

  As the meeting adjourned and I made my way back through the quiet fort, the night felt heavier. The future darker.

  But beneath that weight, there was steel in my spine.

  Let them come.

  We’d be ready.

  Ottoman Empire from the late 14th century to 1826. They were among the first to widely adopt the use of Firearms.

  Kapudan Pasha- Admiral of the Fleet. The holder of the rank enjoyed the title of Pasha.