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. As the cavalry's onslaught continued, the enslaved humans, dwarves, and other captives seized the opportunity to revolt. With newfound hope and courage, they fought back against their goblin oppressors, seeking to reclaim their freedom.

Amidst the chaos, Hetman Petrovich's gaze never wavered. His orders were clear, and his troops executed their mission with ruthless efficiency. As the goblins fell, the slaves were liberated, joining the fight against their former captors. 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.

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.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

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 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 throughout the field. The chieftain and the orcs suddenly become quiet, surprised that someone at the fort is speaking in their language.

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

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

The orcs are staring at each other, grumbling and whispering.

"Gash-nagol uk'grom ghashrak-ruk og mog tar ghash naka'rog" (How dare a half-blooded mongrel speaks to me with such arrogance.) The chieftain bellows back.

“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 chieftain points his axe at Garrok.

Garrok nods “Lok'nar" (Agreed/accepted) he simply says and makes his way down to the gates.

“OPEN THE GATES!” Sgt. Ironheart commands. As Garrok walks out holding his hatchet but leaves his double barrel holstered. As he crosses the drawbridge, he signals with his left hand. Nearby, in the ditch, a figure lying prone on the dirt and covered by a brown cloak readies their rifle.

“I’ve been here all night, I’m cold, and I’m dirty. This better work, you big lug.”

Garrok points his hatchet at the chieftain and bellows a challenge, and the chieftain returns the challenge in kind. However, instead of dismounting and fighting on foot, the chieftain charges on his wolf.

"Predictable” Garrok mocks.

As the chieftain draws closer, the figure fires their rifle.

“Pfft” nearly silent, the SPAG rifle shot a round, identifying the figure to be Tink.

The round strikes the wolf on the leg, causing it to trip and throwing the chieftain off.

From the view of the orcs, it would seem that the wolf suddenly threw its rider. Considered a bad omen among the orcs, it cemented their belief that the chieftain was no longer worth following.

"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 yells at the other orcs as he points to the fallen form of the chieftain. The orcs grumble, and a few of them start leaving.

In his anger, the chieftain abruptly stands, grabs his axe, and proceeds to the whimpering wolf. He raises his axe and kills the wolf with one swing. He turns and points his bloody axe 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 approaches Garrok, and they circle one another. The Chieftain swings his axe at Garrok, and he dodges. Garrok thrusts the spike of his hatchet, and the chieftain dodges to his right. They keep circling and exchanging blows until Garrok has his back to the orcs, leaving the chieftain’s back open for Tink.

“NOW!” Garrok yells as he goes for the chieftain’s head.

Tink shoots a round, hitting the chieftain behind the neck, lodging the bullet in his spine, paralyzing him.

Garrok’s hatchet easily slices through the chieftain’s neck, decapitating him. From the orcs' view, the chieftain trips, leaving him open for Garrok to decapitate him.

Garrok picks the chieftain’s head up and presents it to the orcs.

“RAAAGH!!!” He bellows.

The remaining orcs raise their weapons in salute and turn to leave. The dwarves whistle and cheer.

With this, the orcs will no longer be a problem. Now they can focus on fighting the goblins. Garrok proceeds to the ditch and helps Tink get up. “Are you alright there?” he asks.

She punches him in the arm. “Do I look like I’m okay?” she grumbles. “I’m shivering from the cold, I’m dirty, and I’m so stiff that I can hardly feel my rump.”

Garrok chuckles, “I don’t know, Tink, you look quite fetching covered in dirt.” He teases.

She lets out an indignant squeal and proceeds to lightly hammer him with her fist. “Don’t you dare tease me, you big lug. I’m not in the mood!” she pouts.

Garrok chuckles. “Oh, not in the mood, are you?” Tink has a sinking feeling as she sees the mischievous glint in Garrok’s eyes. Without warning, he picks her up and throws her over his shoulder.

“Hey!” Tink squeals and starts hammering his back. “Put me down, put me down, you jerk!”

Garrok just smiles and gives her rump a mighty smack. Tink lets out an indignant yelp.

“Not so stiff now, are you?” he teases as he carries the red-faced Tink back to the fort while she keeps yelling obscenities. Much to the cheers and amusement of the fort’s defenders.