The goblin baggage train stretched for over a mile, a sprawling line of wagons laden with supplies, pulled by horses and pushed by slaves. The reports had been accurate – there were few visible guards in the vicinity. Only a handful of armed goblins could be seen for every few wagons. Hetman Petrovich observed the scene, lighting his pipe as he contemplated the situation. "It would seem that the reports were right," he commented. "There are barely any guards with them."

  The Ataman of the scouts, who was nearby, nodded in agreement. "Yes, it appears that the guards are mainly there to keep the slaves in line. The goblins have sent most of their warriors ahead, possibly expecting the orcs to provide a screening force."

  A smile crept across Hetman Petrovich's face. "Fortune has smiled upon us," he declared. The orders he had received via the semaphore were clear: delay the enemy while the dwarves engaged with the orcs. "The Dragoons will charge first, fire a volley, and perform a Caracole. The Reiters will follow behind them and eliminate the remaining guards. The Hussars will screen and hunt down any stragglers." He took several puffs of his pipe, contemplating the upcoming battle. "Our mission is simple: kill the goblins, free the slaves, loot the supplies, and burn any wagons we cannot take. Leave a few wagons for the slaves to utilize."

  The Ataman nodded, understanding the plan. "By forcing the goblins to allocate more warriors to guard their supplies, their advance will be slowed. This should buy the dwarves the time they need."

  The stage was set for a decisive strike. The Dragoons, mounted on their powerful steeds, formed up at the front of the cavalry formation. They tightened their grips on their pistols, readying themselves for the charge. The Reiters, with their sabers and lances at the ready, took their positions behind the Dragoons, prepared to engage the remaining guards. The Hussars, known for their swift and agile tactics, positioned themselves on the flanks, ready to screen and eliminate any goblin stragglers.

  With a resolute nod, Hetman Petrovich raised his sword high. The signal was given, and the cavalry surged forward, the ground trembling beneath their horses' hooves. The Dragoons charged with thunderous force; their pistols leveled at the vulnerable goblins. As they closed in on their targets, they unleashed a volley of pistol fire, adding to the chaos and confusion.

  Following closely behind, the Reiters swiftly moved in, engaging the remaining goblin guards with their sabers and lances. The clash of steel echoed through the air as the Reiters fought with precision and ferocity, quickly overwhelming their foes. Meanwhile, the Hussars expertly maneuvered, picking off stragglers and ensuring none escaped.

  The goblins, caught off guard and overwhelmed, were unable to mount an effective defense. Amidst the chaos, the enslaved humans, dwarves, and others—long beaten and chained—seized their moment. The fear that once shackled them broke like rusted iron. Some tore lengths of chain free, others grabbed sticks, stones, even their bare fists—and with eyes blazing and voices raised, they fell upon their goblin masters.

  The goblin guards, few and unprepared, shouted in panic as their former slaves turned on them. A human woman, hair matted with sweat and dirt, drove a splintered wagon spoke into the throat of a goblin overseer. Nearby, a dwarf slave headbutted a goblin into the mud, bashing in its skull with a jagged rock. Another goblin, trying to flee, was dragged down by two gnome children who clawed and bit like feral creatures.

  The rage of the enslaved was absolute. Where once they cowered, now they roared. The goblins, caught between the hammer of the cavalry and the rising fury of their former captives, were utterly overwhelmed. Freedom was taken by their own hands, in blood and defiance.

  As the cavalry's onslaught continued, the wagons, once laden with supplies, now became the spoils of war. Some were looted for immediate use, while others were set ablaze to deny the goblins any chance of reclaiming them.

  The Hetman watched as the victory unfolded, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face. The successful assault on the goblin baggage train had achieved its desired outcome – it would force the goblins to divert their warriors from the frontlines to protect their vital supplies. The delay caused by the Hetman's cavalry would grant the dwarves the precious time they needed to engage with the orcs and secure their defenses.

  X---X

  Meanwhile, back at the fort, the atmosphere was tense. The mounted rangers had been dispatched the previous evening to harass the orc camp and provoke a chase. The defenders had positioned their bedrolls near the walls, ready to man the defenses at a moment's notice. In the gatehouse, Garrok sat with Sergeant Ironheart and the guards, sharing coffee as they waited.

  Suddenly, the tranquility was shattered by the distant sound of gunfire. Garrok looked at Ironheart, his heart pounding in his chest. "They're coming," the sergeant declared grimly. "Sound the alarm, muster the defenses." Without hesitation, the alarm was rung, sending a resounding signal throughout the fort, alerting the defenders to prepare for battle.

  From the tree line, the mounted rangers came charging out, hotly pursued by the orc warriors. The thunderous hooves and battle cries echoed through the air, filling the hearts of the defenders with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Garrok quickly readied his rifle, joining the guards who were swiftly taking their positions.

  The first shots flew through the air, aimed at the orc pursuers. The mounted rangers skillfully maneuvered their mounts, and rifle shots found their targets amidst the chaos. The orcs, fueled by their desire for vengeance, continued their relentless chase, undeterred by the bullets that found their mark.

  As the orcs drew closer, the defenders readied their Thundavirs and took aim. Garrok watched intently as the first rank of thundaveers unleashed a volley of gunfire, the deafening roar of the weapons drowning out the cries of battle. The sound of lead balls tearing through flesh and bone filled the air, followed by the anguished cries of wounded orcs. The sheer force of the impact caused some of the orc warriors to stumble, while others fell lifeless to the ground.

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  With their initial charge disrupted by the gunfire, the orcs found themselves momentarily disoriented, causing the orcs behind to bunch up with the orcs in front, leaving them as easy targets for the artillery. The 6-pounders in the gun towers opened fire, their thunderous blasts shaking the ground. Round shot tore through the tightly packed orc ranks, creating a path of destruction in its wake. Orc bodies were sent flying, dismembered by the devastating impact. The defenders cheered as the orc warriors, caught off guard by the barrage, stumbled and fell.

  Emboldened by the success of their artillery, the defenders continued their assault. The thundaveers, reloading with practiced efficiency, fired volley after volley into the orc horde. The air was filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the symphony of gunfire, creating a chaotic and deadly orchestra.

  Garrok, his eyes fixed on the battlefield, felt a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. The orc warriors were relentless, charging forward despite the devastating losses they had suffered. Until a horn was sounded, and the orcs retreated. The defenders let out a resounding cheer. A giant orc riding a black-furred dire wolf came forward, observing the battlefield. His plated chainmail was festooned with ornate trinkets.

  "Who’s the fancy prick there?" the sergeant asks. "I reckon that would be the chieftain," Garrok replies.

  "Oh, I see, then in that case, do your thing big man."

  Garrok snorts in annoyance, Lord Gunnarson’s nickname for him had been adapted by the rest of the dwarves. He strode to the parapet, making sure to posture boldly and remain as visible as possible—carefully positioning himself so that any wandering eyes would remain fixed on him.

  He stands tall, making his profile as visible as he can, and takes a deep breath.

  “Ugthar-mogul!!!” (Unworthy Dog) he bellows while pointing his finger at the chieftain, his voice echoing across the field. The chieftain and the orcs suddenly grow quiet, surprised that someone at the fort speaks their tongue.

  “Ugok gruk du'kosh naz'gul!” (You dare show your face here!)

  “Ugthar thraka vuz'gul!” (A failure of a chieftain!)

  The orcs shift uneasily, grumbling and muttering among themselves. Garrok’s taunts sink deep—shaming an orc leader in front of his warriors was no small insult.

  "Gash-nagol uk'grom ghashrak-ruk og mog tar ghash naka'rog!" (How dare a half-blooded mongrel speak to me with such arrogance!) the chieftain roars back, fury flashing in his eyes.

  Garrok steps forward, shoulders squared, his hatchet gleaming in the sunlight. “Ugok rak'grom naka'gor? Ugruk og gash thraka, torgash'me og mog, og mok'gol!” (You dare dishonor me? Come and face me, coward! Fight me!)

  The orcs’ murmurs grow louder—some exchanging doubtful glances. The insult clearly stung. Slowly, the chieftain raises his axe and points it at Garrok.

  “Lok'nar,” (Agreed/Accepted) Garrok growls back.

  The gates creak open. Sergeant Ironheart, understanding the plan, gives a curt nod. “OPEN THE GATES!”

  Garrok strides out onto the field, hatchet in one hand, double-barrel holstered, making no move to ready his firearm. The chieftain, perhaps expecting Garrok to hide behind his gun, snarls in contempt, spurring his dire wolf forward into a charge.

  “Predictable,” Garrok mutters under his breath.

  Hidden nearby beneath a brown cloak, Tink lies prone in the ditch, SPAG air rifle at the ready, eyes tracking the charging chieftain and his mount.

  “I’ve been here all night. I’m cold, I’m dirty—this better work, you big lug,” she grumbles.

  As the chieftain closes the gap, Tink squeezes the trigger. The soft “Pfft” of the SPAG discharging is barely audible. The shot strikes true—into the foreleg of the dire wolf. With a pained yelp, the beast trips and crashes into the dirt, sending the chieftain sprawling.

  From the orcs’ perspective, it looks as though the wolf had betrayed its rider—a dire omen in their culture. Orc warriors stare, wide-eyed, murmuring to one another.

  "Ragh, og mog durthaz gil'throk! Og mog nek'gar og gol'kosh, kaz og krathog gashrak, rukkaz gil'gash?" (Behold! His wolf forcefully dismounts him! He is not a worthy rider—would you still follow him?) Garrok’s voice cuts through the crowd like a blade.

  Discontent ripples through the orcs. Some begin backing away. Others lower their weapons. But the chieftain, blinded by rage, staggers to his feet, killing his injured wolf with a single furious swing of his axe. He turns, pointing his bloodied blade at Garrok.

  "Mog'gul, og nek'gar kaz og shegol, throk og krathog uk'grom! Kosh'kaz dalgash og gil'throk!" (I know not what magic you used, but you will pay for this disgrace!)

  He charges Garrok on foot, roaring his fury. The two circle one another—the chieftain’s axe sweeping low, Garrok dodging, the spike of his hatchet narrowly missing the orc’s side. Blow after blow is exchanged, the duel growing fiercer as the tension on the field tightens like a drawn bowstring.

  Garrok pivots, positioning his back deliberately toward the orcs, presenting the chieftain’s rear quarter to the hidden Tink.

  “NOW!” Garrok barks.

  Tink’s shot is clean, the bullet lodging just beneath the chieftain’s helm at the base of his neck—paralyzing him instantly.

  The orc stiffens, his axe falling from limp fingers. Garrok steps in without hesitation, bringing the edge of his hatchet across the chieftain’s neck in a clean, brutal stroke.

  The severed head falls into Garrok’s waiting hand. With a roar, he raises the head high, the chieftain’s blood dripping down onto the packed dirt.

  “RAAAGH!!!” Garrok bellows.

  The orcs, stunned into silence, watch their leader’s headless corpse crumple to the ground. Slowly, weapons lower. Grumbles rise. And then one by one, orc warriors begin turning away—retreating into the trees without a fight.

  A cheer rises from the fort’s walls. Dwarves stomp their boots and bang their shields, the Direwolves howled, Gnomes gave high pitched cheers and elves raised their elven sabers high in salute.

  The chieftain was dead. The orcs were broken. And the fort still stood.

  Garrok strides back to the ditch, offering his hand to help Tink up from her hiding place. She punches his arm with a weak glare.

  “Are you alright there?” Garrok asks.

  Tink huffs, brushing dirt off her sleeves. “I’ve been lying in the cold mud for hours. I can’t feel my rump. How do you think I am?”

  Garrok chuckles. “You look quite fetching covered in dirt.”

  Tink lets out an indignant squeak, hammering his arm with her tiny fists. “Don’t you dare, you big lug! I’m not in the mood!”

  “Oh, not in the mood, eh?” Garrok smirks. That mischievous glint flickers in his amber eyes.

  Before Tink can react, Garrok scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder. “Hey!” she squeals, kicking her legs and pounding on his back. “Put me down, you jerk!”

  Garrok delivers a playful swat to her backside. “Not so stiff now, are you?”

  The cheers from the walls only grow louder mixed with laughter as Garrok marches back toward the gates, carrying the fuming gnome over his shoulder—all while Tink shouts colorful threats the whole way back.

  The battle with the orcs was done.

  Now, all focus is turned to the goblins.

  Caracole- The caracole maneuver was a tactical cavalry maneuver, it involved a series of coordinated movements by a unit of cavalry, typically in a formation of horsemen armed with firearms, to engage the enemy in a rotating or wheeling fashion. The cavalry unit would initially advance toward the enemy in a line or column formation, often at a trot or canter. The horsemen would be armed with firearms, such as pistols or carbines, and have ammunition prepared for reloading. As the cavalry unit neared the enemy, they would execute the caracole maneuver. The first rank of horsemen would ride forward while slowing down or halting to discharge their firearms at the enemy. After firing, they would either retreat to the rear or move to the flanks of the unit, making room for the next rank to advance and repeat the process. The cavalry unit would continue rotating in a wheeling motion, with each rank successively advancing, firing, and then moving aside to reload. This rotation allowed for a continuous stream of fire directed at the enemy, while also presenting a constantly shifting and unpredictable target.

  Ataman- the elected chief of a Village or Military force. Their rank is below that of a Hetman. For simplicity's sake, think of the Hetman as a General, and the Ataman as a captain.