Chapter 68: Tud’or’s Decision.
Swoosh!
A fireball split cleanly in two, its blazing halves sweeping past Grash’s side as Lan’ka and Tud’or could be seen behind it.
Their expressions were grim, their bodies tense as they stared across the battlefield at Grash. The flames shooting behind him illuminated his broad figure, but they did little to conceal the terrifying calm on his face.
Grash was becoming an unstoppable force.
His destructive lightning spells were powerful enough to tear through almost anything placed before him, yet his greatest advantage was not even his magic. It was the way he combined that overwhelming destructive power with decades of brutal combat experience.
Going defensive against him was useless because Grash could simply break through whatever defense they erected. Attacking him was equally foolish because unless their offensive power could match his own, every opening they created would only give him another opportunity to counterattack. Even worse, his technique was refined enough to turn every mistake into a fatal one.
Lan’ka and Tud’or had already exchanged several attacks with him, yet neither had managed to land anything substantial.
Instead, they found themselves retreating constantly.
Bang!
The earth cracked as a lightning blade slammed into the ground where the two kobolds had stood a moment earlier. Lan’ka and Tud’or jumped in opposite directions, the electrical discharge spreading across the dirt and scorching the surrounding grass.
Lan’ka landed heavily and immediately twisted around, his eyes narrowing at the goblin who was already advancing toward him.
"Don’t get cocky!" Lan’ka roared.
He slammed his foot into the earth and thrust his right hand forward.
"Earth Magic: Rock Fist!"
The ground answered his command.
Chunks of earth violently tore themselves from the battlefield and rushed toward Lan’ka’s right hand. Rock and soil wrapped around his unusually thick fist, layering over his knuckle and forearm until both hands had swollen to nearly twice their original size. The added weight should have slowed him down, but Lan’ka had long since learned how to make his physical strength work alongside his magic. He planted his feet firmly, twisted his waist and swung his enormous fist forward with enough force to send the surrounding air trembling.
Grash simply ducked.
The massive rocky fist passed over his head by inches. At the same time, the goblin’s body rotated beneath Lan’ka’s arm, his battle axe coming around with terrifying speed. A sharp blue flash erupted along the edge of the weapon as it tore through the air.
Pfft!
"Aaaaaaagh!"
Lan’ka’s scream ripped across the battlefield.
Blood erupted from his arm as the axe severed through the rocky covering and tore into his flesh beneath it. Half of Lan’ka’s hand dropped heavily onto the ground, followed by chunks of earth that broke apart and scattered across the dirt without restraint. Blood poured from the ruined stump almost immediately, splashing over his remaining arm and dripping between his fingers as he stumbled backward.
For a moment, Lan’ka could only stare. His breathing stopped and his mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened.
Then the pain arrived.
His face twisted violently as he clutched the mangled end of his arm, a cold gasp escaping his lips before another scream threatened to tear itself from his throat. His knees nearly buckled beneath him, but he managed to remain standing for barely another second before falling onto one knee.
Grash did not care. The goblin chieftain was already charging toward him.
There was no hesitation in his movements, no pause to admire the wound or opportunity for Lan’ka to gather himself. Grash understood that a wounded enemy was not someone to pity. It was someone to kill before they could recover.
"MOVE!"
Tud’or’s roar shook the air as something blazing descended from above.
Grash’s eyes immediately shifted upward as what appeared to be a comet made entirely of flames hurled toward the battlefield behind him. The sheer heat rolling from it forced the goblin to abandon his killing strike. He twisted his body and dove sideways just as the flaming mass slammed into the ground.
BOOM!
The earth shattered.
Flames surged outward in every direction, throwing dirt, stone and burning fragments into the air. Grash rolled across the ground before catching himself on one hand and immediately looking back toward his enemies.
Tud’or emerged from the explosion.
The kobold rushed toward Lan’ka, his expression hardened by urgency. Lan’ka was still kneeling, one hand clamped over the stump of his severed arm as blood continued pouring through his fingers.
"Hold on!" Tud’or shouted.
He dropped beside him and raised his palm.
The kobold’s hand immediately turned scorching red.
Without hesitation, Tud’or grabbed Lan’ka’s wounded arm.
A sizzling sound filled the battlefield.
"Aaaaaagh!"
Lan’ka’s scream tore through the air as cauterizing heat seared the wound shut. The smell of burning flesh and blood spread through the battlefield, thick enough to make the stomach churn. Lan’ka’s body shook violently as he fought to keep himself from collapsing completely, his remaining hand digging into the ground until his claws carved lines through the dirt.
Tud’or held him firmly until the bleeding finally slowed.
Then they heard footsteps. Both kobolds looked up and saw Grash approaching.
The goblin chieftain walked through the lingering smoke with his axe hanging beside him, his expression as calm as if he were merely taking a stroll rather than standing in the middle of a battlefield.
Lan’ka glared at him from the ground.
"Motherfucker."
Grash showed no reaction.
"Magical beasts are powerful," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the battlefield, "but their greatest weakness will always remain their physicality. I fought with just my axe for over a decade before I even acknowledged the relevance of magic. I knew blood before I knew spells. That is why your kind will never defeat me."
His words carried contempt, but beneath that contempt was something far more personal.
Conviction.
Goblins could be considered among the weakest of the lower races. Their bloodline was distantly linked to the Orcs, but the connection was far weaker than the relationship between kobolds and dragons. They possessed little natural affinity for magic, and among the lower races, that weakness had made them the subject of ridicule for generations.
Goblins were bullied, exploited and even dismissed.
Grash had grown up surrounded by that reality, and from a young age he had decided that he would not accept it. He would change the narrative surrounding his race.
So he fought, trained and bled.
While other goblins spent their youth accepting the limitations imposed upon them by birth, Grash spent his youth throwing himself into battles that should have killed him. He fought monsters larger than himself, challenged warriors who possessed advantages he could never hope to obtain naturally, and pushed his body far beyond what most goblins believed possible.
During his younger years, he had even led several expeditions into the Grave of Roses, long before the Red Scripture was discovered.
By the time the Red Scripture finally appeared, Grash was already known throughout the Eastern region of the evergreen Forest as the only Goblin Warlord.
That title had not been gifted to him. He had earned it and magic had only come afterward.
To Grash, magic was never the foundation of his strength. It was an addition. Another weapon to sharpen the abilities he had spent his entire life developing. His axe, his body, his instincts and his experience remained at the center of his fighting style.
That was why he refused to believe that someone like Tud’or or Lan’ka could defeat him.
They had been born with magic.
Within their first or second year of life, their innate abilities had already begun manifesting. Grash had been born with nothing and yet he had still climbed to where he stood.
Tud’or’s expression darkened at Grash’s words.
He knew the goblin was not entirely wrong. He also knew that arguing about it would accomplish nothing. His gaze shifted away from Grash and toward the other side of the battlefield.
Tong’a was still fighting.
The old kobold was surrounded by three opponents who had quickly learned not to underestimate him. Vines erupted from the ground around his body, wrapping around his limbs and dragging him from one position to another before attacks could land. It was an impressive technique, and under normal circumstances, Tong’a’s experience would have allowed him to overwhelm enemies who were much younger.
But his body was old. Every movement was slower than it had once been. He could see every spell demanded more from him and the three opponents surrounding him had become increasingly cautious.
They no longer rushed blindly into his attacks. They watched his movements, waited for his vines to reveal his next position and attacked the moment they saw an opening.
Tong’a was struggling.
Tud’or’s eyes narrowed. He understood the situation immediately. It was just like Ka’z warned, they could not win this battle.
Not like this.
"Get out of here," Tud’or ordered.
Lan’ka turned toward him.
"Take Tong’a with you. I’ll hold them off."
Lan’ka’s expression immediately changed. He stared at Tud’or as if the kobold had just spoken nonsense.
If all three of them were already struggling against their opponents, how could Tud’or possibly hold Grash and his goone off alone?
Tud’or didn’t wait for an answer.
He pushed himself to his feet and began walking toward Grash. This was a battlefield. Decisions were made here. They were not debated until everyone was satisfied with the consequences.
Tud’or knew what he was doing. He also knew that if he gave Lan’ka time to argue, his closest friend and sworn brother would refuse.
"You can’t be serious!" Lan’ka barked.
He tried to stand but his body betrayed him.
Pain exploded through his injured arm and Lan’ka immediately fell back onto one knee, his face twisting violently as his teeth clenched together. His breathing became ragged, but he refused to stay down. He planted his remaining hand against the ground and pushed himself upward again.
His legs trembled but he forced them straight.
Lan’ka was about to shout at Tud’or again when a pained groan reached his ears. His head snapped toward the sound.
The old kobold was being dragged sideways by his own vines, his body struggling to keep pace with the battle around him. Two arrows had embedded themselves in his arm, and blood stained the old kobold’s clothing as he attempted to maintain control over his magic.
His face was twisted with pain. Even from this distance, Lan’ka could see the exhaustion written across it.
Lan’ka’s jaw tightened and he looked back toward Tud’or.
He was already walking toward Grash, who was advancing toward him at the same time. Neither of them bothered to accelerate. They simply moved toward each other with the understanding that their next exchange would determine who remained standing.
Lan’ka knew what Tud’or was doing and he hated it. But he also knew that Tong’a needed him.
Lan’ka looked at Tud’or one final time before lowering his gaze.
"Be safe," he mumbled.
Then he turned and charged toward Tong’a. The pain in his arm screamed at him with every step, but Lan’ka ignored it.
The old man needed his help.