Chapter 9: The Warning and the Warband

Sorin and the prisoners reappeared just outside the Forest of Hakor, the bright flash of teleportation fading into the quiet of the night. The city of Elan lay ahead, its towering walls illuminated by the moon’s soft glow. Relief swept over the group, but Sorin barely had time to savor it.

“We need to keep moving,” he urged. “The goblins won’t just let us go. They’ll be after us soon.”

The prisoners quickened their pace, their shackles rattling as they trudged toward the city. Every step felt heavier with the weight of exhaustion, but the promise of safety drove them forward. Surprisingly, no goblins gave chase—a fact that unsettled Sorin more than it reassured him.

By the time they reached Elan’s massive gates, a pair of guards stood waiting. Their torchlight flickered over the ragged group.

“Ey, Moffie,” one of the guards muttered. “Isn’t that the lad we caught sleeping in a dumpster?”

“Aye, Jeffers, I think you’re right,” the other guard replied, squinting at Sorin. “Oy! What’s this? A jailbreak?”

Sorin stepped forward. “It’s me—Sorin. We escaped from the goblin encampment in Hakor. Dozens of prisoners are still trapped. The goblins are preparing for an attack.”

Jeffers barked a laugh. “An attack? Goblins? You’ve lost your mind, mate.”

“I’m serious,” Sorin snapped. “They’re armed, organized, and planning to raid Elan before marching on the Aerwyni dwarves. We have to act.”

A dwarven prisoner, Korovh, stepped up, his eyes blazing with determination. “My wife and son are still back there,” he growled. “Let us in, or I’ll tear these gates down myself.”

Moffie and Jeffers exchanged looks before sighing. “Fine,” Moffie muttered. “We’ll take you to Captain Cailean. He can sort this mess out.”

The group was led to the city’s Tavern, where the blacksmith Jayrn met them outside. The burly man wordlessly unlocked their shackles, his soot-streaked hands working with practiced efficiency. Sorin rolled his sore wrists, a flicker of relief washing over him.

Inside, the warmth and scent of fresh stew hit them like a wave. Beyorjn, the tavern keeper, bustled about, setting out food and ale.

“Eat,” Beyorjn said gruffly. “And then talk.”

Sorin and the prisoners tore into their food, exhaustion dulling their senses. The fire’s glow was comforting, but Sorin’s mind remained on the goblin threat. His fingers curled around the edge of the table, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.

Then, the door swung open.

A group of guards entered, led by a grizzled man clad in gleaming highsteel armor. His sword, with its blue sheen, reminded Sorin of ice.

“I’m Captain Cailean,” the man said, scanning the group. “I’ve heard your story. Now tell me everything.”

Sorin stood, wiping his mouth. “The goblins have hundreds of warriors in Hakor. They’re well-armed—some of it our own weapons. Their leader plans to attack Elan first, then the dwarves.”

Cailean’s eyes narrowed. “And the prisoners?”

“They’re being held deeper in the caves of the Dungeon Heart,” Sorin said. “We barely made it out alive.”

The captain turned to the prisoners, interrogating them one by one. Korovh and Hashan confirmed Sorin’s story, detailing the goblin’s growing power.

After a moment, Cailean straightened. “Then we march. I need volunteers for a warband.”

Sorin, Korovh, and Hashan stepped forward instantly. “We’ll go.”

Cailean nodded. “Good. We leave soon. Get armed.”

Jayrn returned with armor and weapons, helping Sorin don a set of chainmail and leather plates. He hefted a sword, testing its weight. It wasn’t his old weapon, but it would do. Korovh, with dwarven expertise, adjusted Sorin’s gauntlets while tightening his own armor.

As the warband assembled outside Elan, Sorin looked around. A mix of seasoned soldiers and fresh volunteers stood ready, their faces a blend of fear and determination.

“Ever fought goblins before?” a soldier named Angus asked.

Sorin smirked. “More than I’d like.”

“Then we’ll watch each other’s backs,” Angus said, clapping Sorin on the shoulder.

The forest loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. Their boots crunched over dead leaves as they marched into the night, toward the battle waiting for them.

The war had begun.