The goblin ran. His legs burned, his lungs felt like fire, but he ran. His thin, frail body moved with desperate speed, digging into the sand, clawing through the loose grains until he found the ancient tunnels.
He slithered inside, dragging his wounded leg behind him. The sound of battle—of snarling beasts and dying kin—faded behind him, swallowed by the crushing silence of the underground. His name is Khaz'Ra. And he is the only one left.
Khaz'Ra emerged from the tunnel, falling face-first onto the rough stone floor of the goblin den. The air here was thick and damp, filled with the smell of mold, sweat, and the acrid stench of burning oils.
The cavern stretched wide, its walls carved with symbols from an age long forgotten. Fires flickered in rusted braziers, casting long shadows over the twisted forms of goblins—hundreds of them.
Some feasted on raw meat. Others sharpened crude iron blades. All of them paused when they saw him. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Khaz'Ra liveth still?"
"Whither art thine brethren?"
"He beareth the scent of death."
But Khaz'Ra did not stop. He limped through the gathering horde, pushing past the staring goblins until he reached the great chamber—The throne of King Ghur'Zir.
The throne is not of stone, nor of gold. It's made of bone. Skulls of men and beasts alike stacked upon one another, fused with dark resin and twisted iron. Upon it sat the Goblin King. Ghur'Zir the Ever-Hungry.
His body is larger than any goblin, his back hunched and covered in jagged scars. His yellowed eyes gleamed in the dim light, his jagged teeth gnashing as he tore into a roasted bone, sucking the marrow from within.
At the sight of Khaz'Ra, he did not move. Did not blink. But his voice rumbled through the cavern like a distant storm.
"Thou returneth alone."
Khaz'Ra collapsed onto one knee, gasping. "Mine King—" he coughed, spitting sand and blood. "A slaughter. A massacre."
The goblins in the chamber leaned in, hissing and whispering. Ghur'Zir's clawed fingers tapped against his throne.
"Speak."
Khaz'Ra forced himself upright, his breath ragged. "The Sand Surfers feast upon the great serpent! We, in our cunning, sought to take our share. Yet—"
He shuddered.
"They be no men. Nor warriors. Nay—they be wolves in flesh of men! They didst hunt us, mine King. Tore mine brethren asunder as if we were naught but insects. Teeth and claw, swift as wind, fierce as flame!"
The whispers grew louder. Some goblins snarled, others growled in disbelief.
Ghur'Zir's eyes narrowed.
"And thou fled?"
Khaz'Ra's throat dried. He lowered his head."Aye."
Silence.
The Goblin King rose. The chamber fell into absolute stillness. His massive, clawed foot stepped forward. The iron rings around his ankles jingled with the movement. He descended the throne slowly, deliberately, until he stood before the kneeling Khaz'Ra.
Then, with a sudden lash of his arm, Ghur'Zir's clawed fingers gripped Khaz'Ra's throat. The smaller goblin gasped, kicking as he was lifted into the air.
Ghur'Zir brought him close, fangs bared.
"Hast thou shame, wretch?" His voice was a deep, venomous growl."To flee whilst thine kin perisheth?"
Khaz'Ra clawed at his king's grip, desperate for breath.
"P-please! Mine King—" he choked. "The wolves—monsters! We cannot—"
"We cannot?"
Ghur'Zir's teeth split into a grin.
"Thou speaketh as a coward. As prey."
His grip tightened. Khaz'Ra's vision blurred. Darkness crept at the edges of his sight.
Then—He's dropped. Khaz'Ra collapsed, coughing violently, clutching his throat.
The Goblin King turned. He walked toward the great brazier in the center of the chamber—a cauldron of burning oils, black smoke curling toward the ceiling.
He reached inside. His flesh sizzled. Burned. And he did not flinch. He pulled something from the fire.
A blade. Rusted. Crooked. Engraved with symbols of the old ones.
"The wolves feast upon our prize," Ghur'Zir murmured.
His voice echoed across the den.
"They mocketh us. They defileth our sands with their stench."
His yellow eyes gleamed with something dark. Something vile.
"This cannot stand."
The goblins screeched. Howled. Their voices filled the chamber, a chorus of hunger and fury.
Ghur'Zir the Ever-Hungry sat upon his throne of bone, his clawed fingers gripping the sharpened quill made from the fang of a desert beast. Before him lay a parchment of flayed animal hide, stretched taut and stained with a deep, rusted brown—the blood of his enemies.
The brazier burned beside him, its thick black smoke curling like a serpent toward the cavern's ceiling. His goblins watched in silence, eyes gleaming in the dim light. They knew what this letter meant. War.
Dipping his quill into a vial of dark, clotted ink, the Goblin King began to write in jagged, ancient script:
"To the Great Warlords of the Blood-Fangs, the Stone-Breakers, and the Howling Ones, our distant kin of iron flesh and war-born fury,"
"I am Ghur'Zir, rightful King of the Goblin Clans, ruler of the under-dunes, devourer of the weak, and the last scion of the Sunless Throne. I send thee this letter not in meekness, nor in begging, but in wrath—fury unquenched, vengeance unfulfilled."
"The sands grow restless. The balance of power trembles like a blade upon its edge. And I would see it shattered."
"Know ye of the jackals that roam these lands? The wretched mutts that sail upon sand, the mongrels that feast upon what they do not earn? These 'Sand Surfers,' these filthy scavengers, have butchered our kin. They desecrate our bones, mock our name, and think us but vermin to be trampled beneath their paws."
"And yet, they are but one of the festering boils upon the flesh of these lands. There are others. Others who stand tall and proud, thinking themselves mighty, thinking themselves worthy to rule, yet blind to the daggers at their backs."
"Shall I name them for thee?"
"The Iron Foot—their warlord, Boris, is a beast clad in steel, his army of rusted brutes carving through the sands, claiming all they see. But he is a fool. A fool who bleeds. A fool who tires. And a fool who believes his war is won. His pride will be his undoing."
"The Black Sun Clan—zealots, slayers, and slavers who know nothing but blood and sacrifice. They worship war itself, and yet, they are shackled by their own traditions, their own 'code of strength.' How foolish. Strength is not in honor. Strength is in deception. In cruelty. In striking where the enemy does not see."
"The Priests of the Deep Sun—mystics, whisperers, cowards who shroud themselves in prophecy and secrecy. They claim to know the will of the gods, yet they cower in their temples, afraid to taste the blood of battle. They hoard knowledge, power, relics that should be ours. They must burn."
"The Sorcerers of the East—wretched spell-casters who twist the world to their will. They think themselves beyond war, beyond struggle. But magic can be corrupted. Their alliances are fragile. Their trust is weaker than brittle stone. A mere whisper, a mere push, and they will tear each other apart."
"And so I ask thee, my distant kin, my brothers of war—will ye stand idly by? Will ye let these wretched mongrels and pale-skinned fools carve the world into their own liking, leaving us in the shadows?"
"Or shall we do what we were born to do?"
"Shall we make the sands run red once more?"
"I ask not for an army. Nay, I ask for something greater—I ask for deception. For sabotage. For war unseen. Let us stoke the fires of hatred, turn these wretches upon one another. Let the Iron Foot believe the Sand Surfers plot against them. Let the Black Sun think the Priests mock their strength. Let the Sorcerers of the East fear an attack from those they once called allies."
"We shall whisper lies in their ears, slip daggers into their ribs, and when their backs are broken, when their blood stains the dunes—then we shall rise."
"Send thy spies, thy raiders, thy tongues of silver and hands of shadow. We shall weave a web so tangled, they shall not see the knife until it rests in their throats."
"This is the will of Ghur'Zir."
"This is the will of the Goblins."
"This is the will of WAR."
"Choose wisely, my kin."
"For soon, the desert shall belong to those who take it."
Once the ink had dried, Ghur'Zir rolled the parchment tightly, binding it in thick leather and pressing his clawed thumb into molten wax, sealing it with the mark of his house—the sigil of a black sun, eclipsed by jagged teeth.
He turned to his warband.
"Mine spies, mine assassins, mine whisperers—go forth."
"Ye shall go to the markets, the oases, the fortresses and the cities. Ye shall spread the seeds of doubt, of discord, of war. Tell the Iron Foot that the Sand Surfers plan to strike their mines. Tell the Black Sun that the Priests laugh at their weakness. Tell the Sorcerers that the Iron Foot seek to plunder their relics."
"And when war ignites—when chaos doth consume these lands—then shall we strike."
His goblins screeched in unison, slamming their weapons against the cavern walls, the sound of steel upon stone echoing through the darkness.
Ghur'Zir grinned, his jagged teeth glinting in the firelight. With the Goblin King's decree sealed in wax and bound in leather, his chosen messengers of war prepared for their perilous journey. Each was a Sandspeaker, trained in the ways of deception, swift movement, and survival through the brutal expanse of the Great Dunes. But no goblin could outrun the desert on foot.
Instead, they rode upon the backs of Maurodents—towering, six-limbed beasts resembling monstrous war-rats, their hides thick with sand-hardened fur, their snouts long and writhing with twitching whiskers that sensed even the slightest shift in the dunes. Their clawed feet could dig into loose sand, their tails as thick as whips to fend off lesser predators, and their fangs were strong enough to snap bone.
The Maurodents, named after ancient desert war-beasts of the forgotten empires, were bred for endurance. Unlike horses, which would falter in the deep sands, these creatures burrowed when needed, ran tirelessly through shifting dunes, and could sniff out underground water sources.
Each of the goblin messengers, cloaked in tattered red silks, mounted their Maurodents with eerie silence. Their names were known only in whispers:
Khafis the Swift – The youngest, yet the fastest. His Maurodent, Vulture's Fang, could cross the dunes like a shadow on the wind.
Sarruk the Pale-Eyed – A ghostly goblin with sharpened teeth, his sight was said to pierce the night. His beast, Sunburrow, could vanish beneath the sand in moments.
Jiruk the Hollow-Laugh – Known for his mad cackle in battle, his mount, Gravetread, had survived many wars, its fur streaked with scars.
As the moon hung low, casting a pale glow over the dunes, the three goblins spurred their Maurodents forward, tearing across the sand, leaving nothing but a faint whisper of disturbed dust in their wake.
Their destination is the western hemisphere where the Orc encampments lay, deep within the Red Wastes.
The goblin messengers rode hard through the Red Wastes, their Maurodents' clawed feet kicking up clouds of crimson dust beneath the ever-blazing sun. By the time the moon rose, they had crossed the last dune, descending into a valley where towers of bone and iron stood like jagged teeth against the horizon.
This was Gor-Thalok, the Iron Maw, the greatest encampment of the Red Orcs, a fortress of war, built not from stone, but from the wreckage of countless battles.
Tattered banners, marked with crude sigils of wolves, spears, and crimson suns, flapped in the dry wind. Enormous pyres burned with the remains of fallen enemies, filling the air with the acrid scent of charred flesh. The sound of hammers striking steel echoed through the night as orc-smiths toiled endlessly, forging weapons for wars yet to come.
But the true guardians of Gor-Thalok were the Warbound—massive, scarred orcs draped in thick furs and chainmail, wielding weapons too large for any human hand to carry. They stood watch over the gates, their yellowed tusks protruding from war-cracked lips, their eyes glowing like embers in the dim torchlight. As the goblins approached, the Warbound crossed their colossal axes in warning.
One of the guards, a towering orc with a missing eye and a jaw adorned with metal rings, stepped forward. His voice was like thunder rolling across the mountains.
"Who be ye, lil' wretches, that creep upon our war-ground in dead o' night?"
Jiruk the Hollow-Laugh dismounted first, stretching his crooked limbs with a series of sharp pops. He grinned, revealing rows of jagged teeth.
"Ah! We be kin o' shadow an' whisper, brethren o' blood an' bone! Sent by the King o' the Deep Burrows, the Master o' Scorn, the Goblin King hisself!"
The orc squinted, unimpressed.
"Pah! What doth yer rat-king seek? If he be sendin' wretches such as ye, it must be naught but mischief an' trickery!"
Sarruk the Pale-Eyed slid from his mount, his long fingers clutching the letter wrapped in cracked leather. He held it aloft, his voice a whispering hiss.
"Nay, mighty war-thanes. 'Tis words of war, writ in blood an' oath! A call to break the chains of peace, to unshackle hate an' let the storm o' battle thunder 'pon all lands!"
The one-eyed orc narrowed his gaze, but after a long moment, he grunted and turned.
"Follow, then. An' pray yer words be worth a warrior's ear."
With that, the gates creaked open, revealing the beating heart of the Orcish war-machine. The goblins were led through the encampment, where orc warriors sharpened their blades upon grindstones, great wolves lay chained beside their handlers, and forges burned with a heat that turned the night into an endless twilight.
At the center of the camp stood a monstrous tent, its canopy made from the stretched hides of slain beasts, its poles carved from the bones of ancient warlords. The guards parted, and the goblins were ushered inside.
Seated upon a throne of welded iron and skulls is Warlord Khadag the Bloodtide, known as the Breaker of Hosts. His massive frame clad in bronzed plates of armor, his shoulders draped in the fur of a slain drake, his helmet forged into the visage of a snarling beast. His eyes burned with the fire of conquest, and his massive warhammer, "Dreadfang," rested beside him—its haft taller than any goblin.
He studied the goblins with the silence of a beast deciding whether to eat its prey or let it scurry away. Then, with a voice like clashing shields, he spoke.
"Speak. But speak swiftly. My patience be as thin as the steel o' my enemies' blades."
Jiruk stepped forward, bowing so low his nose nearly scraped the dirt. He unrolled the Goblin King's decree, reading aloud in a voice that slithered like a serpent:
"Great Khadag, Breaker o' Hosts, Terror o' the West! The goblins of the Deep Burrows hath watched the lands above, an' they see now the tides o' war grow weak! This peace, this cursed stillness, it be an insult to the gods o' blood an' battle!"
"The Sand Surfers scavenge the land like carrion crows, feastin' 'pon what they hath not earned."
"The Iron Foot thinketh themselves unbreakable, yet they falter 'gainst the horrors of the sands."
"The Black Sun Clan clutches their old ways, blind to the fire that could consume their foes."
"The Priests of the Deep Sun pray to false gods, their bones yet unbroken."
"An' the Sorcerers of the East weave their spells o' deceit, believeth they be untouchable."
"This be our time, mighty Warlord! Our time to turn beast 'pon beast, man 'pon man, clan 'pon clan! Let them be cast into the pit of hate, let them break their swords 'pon each other's throats, let them drown in their own treachery!"
"An' when the dust settles, when all be naught but ruin, the goblins an' orcs shall rise from the ashes as the only true rulers of the sands!"
The goblin grinned wickedly, his eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.
"We ask not for gold, nor for shelter. We ask only that ye help us stoke the flames. That ye whisper poison where poison must be, that ye let steel taste flesh an' fire consume the weak!"
The tent fell into silence. The Warlord sat still, his fingers drumming against the haft of his warhammer. His eyes burned with thought, a storm raging behind them.
Then, at last, he laughed—a deep, bone-rattling sound.
"Ha! Clever lil' rats, ye speak well o' war. But war be no simple game. If I lend my strength to ye, if I break the peace an' spill blood 'pon the sands, I shall take my due. My warriors shall feast on what they slay, my banners shall be the only ones left in the wind."
He leaned forward, his voice a whisper of thunder.
"Tell me, wretches—if I accept this pact, dost ye swear to kneel when the last sword falls?"
Jiruk's grin did not falter.
"Great Khadag, we goblins hath no kings save war itself. An' war be the only master we bow to."
The Warlord grinned, tusks bared.
"Then let it be done."