Malcolm put his hand up, silently signaling for the crawling men to stop their advance. Behind him on the grassy hill slope, the faint shuffling and clinking ceased. A light murmur rose from the mass as they jostled for a view. Keeping his head as low as possible, Malcolm glanced over the crest of the hill at the camp below.

The first rays of morning light illuminated the Tribes’ camp. Countless black leather tents stretched over the fields, haphazardly placed in the rolling ground. Armedious’ taunting red and gold banners loomed over the area, gently flapping in the light winds. Cook fires dotted the site, smoldering away in their pits. On the right side of the camp, large pigpens and horse paddocks covered the fields, surrounded by a wooden fence. The animals milled around, waiting for their morning meal.

A large tent lined the back edge of the camp, several hundred feet in length. Instead of the black hides of its surroundings, it was made of a light tan fabric that gentle swayed on the thin poles. Long flaps hid its contents from view. Malcolm strained to get a look inside, leaning his head over the hill. A corner of the tent flipped up, revealing a wooden object for a split second. We should check that out, Malcolm noted, hoping he would remember once they made it down. If they made it down. After a few seconds, Sven pulled him back roughly.

“Best to be keepin’ yer head down,” the Goblin muttered, taking a glance at the camp himself. “There be a few guards patrollin’.” With a peek, Malcolm confirmed Sven’s statement. A few dozen Tribesmen circled the tents, their warning horns hanging loosely at their sides.

Nodding he understood, Malcolm put his hand up, flicking his middle and ring down fingers twice. Behind him, a man imitated the sound of a quick owl hoot. Two more sets of hoots answered from either side of the group. Mentally, Malcolm ran through Sven’s plan, making sure he remembered each step.

Sven had divided the force into five attack groups, affectionately named Toes, with himself and Malcolm in command of the center. The five Toes had spent most of the night slowly spreading over the hills, advancing toward the Tribes’ camp. Now, they were lined up on the crest of the last hill, waiting for the signal to attack.

“The Toes are ready,” Malcolm told Sven. “We go on your signal.”

The Goblin thought for a second, looking into the darkness on either side of them. “Now,” he muttered back.

Malcolm gave the signal again. This time, the imitator gave a quick quail quack. A shout ran up as the two outmost Toes poured from either side of the field, weapons held high. For almost a minute men leapt from behind the hill, eager to join their comrades. Their neat leather armor rustled with every step. The smoke of newly lit sputtering torches trailed behind them, filling the field with a sooty aroma.

Roused by the noise, Tribesmen began to emerge from within the camp, staggering from their tents. Sentries frantically blew horns and beat on tents, waking as many as they could. Malcolm watched anxiously as his forces made first contact, ripping through the few dozen Tribesmen that had gathered. They tore through the far edges of the camp, collapsing tents, and burning wagons. The sounds of battle drifted across the plain as steel screeched on steel, and men screamed.

“Best be gettin’ ready.” Sven said, tapping Malcolm’s arm. He pulled on his mask, adjusting the white leather until he could see through the eyeholes. The painted grin almost disappeared in the dim light. Malcolm sat up, turning around to the address the men behind him. Several hundred stern faces stared back, stretching onwards until he lost sight of them in the darkness.

“Get ready to move!” Malcolm called, raising his voice over the sounds of battle behind him. A murmur of agreement answered, followed by clicking and rustling as the men checked their gear. Near the rear of the force, torches burned to life.

Satisfied, Malcolm turned back to the camp. His two forces had drawn most of the Tribesmen to the left and right edges of the camp, leaving a wide swath of the center exposed. Only a small group of Tribesmen avoided the battle, instead choosing to stream towards the long tent at the rear of the camp.

Malcolm waited a few seconds, giving more time for the enemy to be drawn to the edges of the camp. “CHARGE!” He shouted, leaping over the hill. Immediately Sven took his side, sprinting over the grass as fast as his little legs could go. Malcolm risked a glance back. Behind him fanned out the rest of the force, forming a shallow wedge. A shout rose from the force, feeding the advance.

The center of the line reached the camp unobstructed, cutting down the few remaining Tribesmen as they stumbled from their tents. Immediately, the wings of the wedge swung out to help their comrades on the flanks. The Tribes, sandwiched between the two forces, fell in droves, littering the field.

Malcolm glanced around, watching as his men decimated the Tribes. He grinned a little, patting Sven on the back. “It’s working great!” he complimented.

Sven grunted, surveying the area. “Somethin’ ain’t right.” he muttered, staring at the long tent. “Do we be knowin’ what be in there?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t think so. I was going to check later.”

Sven winked his nose behind the mask, causing the eyeholes to fold. “Tell the humans to be useful.” He grunted, poking a finger behind him.

Malcolm glanced back, remembering his duties. Several dozen men stood around, waiting for his command. “Fan out in pairs!” Malcolm ordered. “Search the tents!”

The men nodded, spreading out in every direction. They began kicking over tents, tossing aside the thick furs. Those with torches set fire to the poles, using the hides to fan the flames.

An arrow whizzed over head. It imbedded itself in a tent pole over Sven’s head, its long iron tip almost brushing his ear. More shafts slammed the ground, piercing the small group. The men rushed for cover, hiding behind the tents.

Malcolm grabbed Sven, pulling him to the ground. Another volley flew over, disappearing into the dim light. A series of wet thuds filled the air as the arrows found their marks. Malcolm silently cursed himself for being so careless. What was he thinking, stopping in middle of the camp. Beside him, Sven tugged at his mask, struggling under Malcolm’s arm.

Carefully the two crawled away, keeping low to the ground. Shaft after shaft flew by, dotting the ground either on side of them. Some punched through the leather tents, or hung imbedded in a wagon or upright in the ground. Men fled the barrage, racing for the edges of the camp.

Finding an upturned wagon at last, Malcolm crouched behind it and poked his head out, searching for the source of the assault. Gigantic creatures, three times as tall as the tallest man, towed carts of archers through the camp, crushing tents and fallen soldiers. The bowmen fired away endlessly, cutting down man after man. As the carts neared the fighting, burning barrels of oil were tossed over the side of the cart, rolling a burning trail across the camp.

The flames cut swaths through the fighting, separating each wing into isolated groups. A thick black smog rose in plumes, blotting out the already dim light.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Malcolm felt the panic rising in his chest, his heart beating faster and faster. Beside him Sven gazed over the battle field, taking in the same sight.

“What are those things!?” Malcolm shouted, taking another look at the creatures. Their misshapen heads bobbed above the tents, rising and falling with every heavy step.

“Trolls,” the Goblin spat, his voice thick with hatred. “Nasty, nasty, nasty things! They be workin’ for whoever be feedin’ them. Worst toes I was ever seein’!”

Malcolm took a second look at the creatures. Vaguely humanoid, their cracky gray hide flexed from the weight of the wagons they towed. Long leather shoulder straps tied them to the carts. Their large faces looked like they were made of squished clay. Two long fangs protruded from their lower jaw, ending just before their tiny, off center nose. They looked over the camp from two gigantic eyes, so large they almost touched in the center of their head.

In each of their four-fingered hands, they clutched a small tree trunk, which they used with devastating effect to clear a path for the wagons. Every so often, an unfortunate man caught in the path was thrown in the air, hitting the ground with a crunch.

Malcolm watched as his men were forced to give inch after inch of ground, behind the waves of arrows. The wagons moved back and force, mercilessly poking holes in any defensive action.

Sven grabbed Malcolm’s arm, shaking him away from the action. “We be needin’ to move!” he shouted, pulling the human. He poked over his shoulder at a wagon bearing down on them. The Troll lumbered along, readying his club to strike at the wagon. The archers took little notice, being fully preoccupied to the sides. Malcolm rolled to the side, losing sight of Sven as the Troll came between them, smashing the wagon into splinters.

Drawing his sword, Malcolm crept behind the Troll, careful to stay out of its sight. Once he was within striking distance, he swung, slamming his blade into the beast’s calf. The cold steel let out a harsh clank, almost jumping from his grip. Gaining control, he hacked again, aiming for a tendon at the ankle. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sven doing the same, stabbing with his dagger.

The Troll roared as Malcolm’s blade shattered on its leg, imbedding a few small shards of steel through the hide. It whipped around, swinging the wagon behind it. A thin drip of blue blood rolled down its heel, soaking into the dry land.

The archers hung on for their lives as the cart tipped, spilling them out over the ground. Immediately, Sven leapt on them, his blade slashing in every direction.

Malcolm clutched his sword hilt, running a finger over the six inches of jagged blade still attached. This will have to do. he realized, jumping out of the way of the Troll’s club. The beast beat the earth, denting the ground with every blow. The leather straps flapped behind it, slapping against its hide.

Ducking under the tree trunk as it flew by, Malcolm jabbed at the Troll’s feet, trying to pierce through a weak point. The shattered blade bounced harmlessly off the skin, leaving only the tiniest of marks behind. The Troll turned in circles, trying to find Malcolm as he ran between its immense legs. It snorted, sending a plume of hot breath that kicked up dust.

This isn’t working. Malcolm realized, backpedaling to avoid the beast’s left foot. He scanned the area, looking for Sven. The Goblin was finishing the last of the archers with a slash to the leg, dropping the men.

“Sven!” Malcolm called, shoving his blade in between the beast’s toes. The blade caught a weak point and managed to cut through the skin, sinking up the hilt in the Troll’s tendons. The beast roared in agony, whipping its foot away from Malcolm before he could retrieve the weapon.

“Human!” Sven shouted, tossing one of the archer’s short swords. The blade twisted in the air, landing with clank by Malcolm’s feet. Its attention caught by the sword, the Troll spun around to face Sven. The Toe Goblin sneered, waving his little arms at the beast. His slingshot flapped in his hand.

“Hey Trolly!” he shouted. “I wouldn’t be wantin’ your toes! They be too nasty!” he cackled to himself at the joke. In a blur, he pulled a rock from his belt and pelted the beast in the nose. The stone hit the Troll with a thud, ricocheting off and into a tent.

The Troll charged, dragging its long club behind it. It roared, a deep, guttural bellow that shook the air. Sven taunted the creature again, firing another rock at its face. “Your toes be the only thing that be uglier than you!”

Seeing his chance, Malcolm dove for the blade Sven had tossed, grinning with relief as his finger closed around the leather wrapped hilt. He ran for the rear of the Troll, hoping he would reach it before it reached Sven. The Goblin continued the his barrage of words and projectiles, darting around the area between every shot.

Sliding beside one of the enormous feet, Malcolm drove his blade as hard as he could between the toes. The sword caught for a second on the skin before slicing through the foot and into the ground. The Troll bellowed, lifting its foot as high as possible. Dropping the club, it grasped uselessly at the blade, trying to pull it loose.

While the beast wheeled around, Sven ran up, slicing his dagger into its other foot. His little blade cut through the weak hide, cutting a deep slice. The Goblin pulled his blade away, wiping it on the ground.

Without thinking, the Troll tried to pull its other leg up. It teetered for a second, before falling back with a ground-shaking thud. Bellowing, it fell on its back, flailing its fists into the ground.

Malcolm felt the faintest twinge of remorse as he watched the beast struggle, small rivers of blood pouring from its feet. Sven moved to finish the creature, but Malcolm put up his hand to stop the Goblin.

A volley of arrows snapped him back to awareness. They rained from every direction, littering the ground and troll’s stomach. Three large wagons bore down on them, their archers preparing for another round. The Trolls pulled with extra strength, enraged by their fallen kind.

Most of the conflict on the outer wings had resolved, with only a few small bands of soldiers still standing. The rest either lay on the ground, or had retreated back to the hillside, where they formed a dark mass against the dim morning light.

The archers fired again, their arrows tipped with flame. The shafts crackled and burned, shattering into a pile of coals on impact. All over the camp, swaths of fires smoldered away, roasting the leather tents. The thick smell of burning fur filled the air.

“Sven!” Malcolm shouted, hauling the Goblin away from the Troll. “We need to retreat!” The Goblin ripped off his mask, shoving it in a pouch. He stared after the rest of his force, their back turned to the battle as they ran for the cover of the hills.

“Cowardly humans!” he spat, reluctantly following Malcolm. Behind them, the arrows pummeled the ground, leaving a burning trail. As Malcolm and Sven neared the edge of the camp, the barrage ceased. The archers turned their carts away, satisfied their enemy would not return.

The trip up the hill was sorrowful. Sven marched in silence, his face twisted in anger. Malcolm tried to help as many of the men as he could. Most of the force had already passed through, but stragglers, many bearing the bloody marks of battle, limped on, leaning on the shoulders of their comrades.

At the top of the hill, the troops had gathered in groups as medics rushed from man to man, binding wounds and extracting arrows heads.

Malcolm took a look back at the burning camp, littered with the fallen. The carts swept back and forth, routing out any stragglers and sending them streaming up the hill.

Sven paused at Malcolm’s side. “It be a shame,” he muttered. “Those archers be nasty, nasty humans,” he sighed, picking at the ground with his dagger.

“Your plan would have worked.” Malcolm consoled. “You couldn’t have know about the Trolls.”

Sven continued to hack at a clump of grass, chucking the severed stems over his shoulder. “I be thinkin’… we might not be needin’ these fighter humans,” he paused, choosing his next words carefully. “They be too humanly. Her Majesticness was needin’ my Toe Goblin thinkin’. What if we be doin’ this wrong,” he paced back and forth, deep in thought. “If we be wantin’ to beat the nasty Prince, we be needin’ something new.”

“We tried something new,” Malcolm sighed. “It didn’t work. We got crushed.”

“That be because I wasn’t thinkin’ like a Goblin,” Sven argued back. “Goblins be hidin’ and stabbin’, not runnin’ head on like clumsy humans! Dividin’ the humans into Toes don’t be doin’ enough.”

“You want to go in alone.” Malcolm guessed. “Leave the army behind. In and out before they know what’s happened.”

“Correct for once.” Sven muttered, still thinking.

Malcolm sighed. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You could leave now. Get away from here. Maybe find some other Toe Goblins, and go back to your raiding.”

“What would be the fun in that?!” Sven joked, brightening a little. “If you humans be fightin’ and dyin’ there will not be any more toes for stealin’. Also,” he added dejectedly. “After the way we was leavin’ Toehalla, I don’t be thinkin’ the Almighty Toe will be wantin’ me around.” He stared out at the camp, analyzing the structure.

“Do you have a plan?” Malcolm asked, put a hand on the Goblin’s shoulder.

Sven grinned. “I be thinkin’ of somethin’.”

The morning sun rose over the burning camp, adding to the fiery glow. “Tonight,” Malcolm said, staring out. “We can leave tonight.”