Finn led the way. Ronigren and the rest of the troop followed, leading their horses, the soft earth muffling their advance. An oppressive silence hung over the small clearing where the village nestled as dawn tinged the waking forest in crimson and copper hues.
They reached the edge of the treeline overlooking Alderholt. Ronigren signaled a halt. Finn, gnawing on a small, gnarled root he’d pulled from his pouch – a trick deep woodsmen used to sharpen their senses for a short time – crept forward to the very edge of the shadows, peering intently.
"Sir Knight," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It’s… strange."
"What do you see, Finn?" Ronigren pressed, keeping his voice low.
"The village is mostly cinders. The cabins, the cooperage all burned to the ground. I see bodies… what's left of them. Not many. Some half-buried in the ash." His voice faltered for a moment. "The signal pyre is a smoking heap."
A cold knot tightened in Ronigren’s stomach.
"The goblins?"
Finn nodded slowly. "They're still there. They’re focused. About two dozen of them around the old meeting hall – that one stone building near the stream. It’s the only structure still standing, apart from some outlying sheds."
"The old hall?" Ronigren frowned. He vaguely recalled it from previous patrols: a relic from a much older settlement, built of sturdy river stone with high, narrow windows on the upper story and a heavy, iron-banded oak door. Most villagers had considered it damp and unlucky. "What are they doing there?"
"They're agitated. Shrieking at each other in that gods-awful tongue of theirs. Grey-skinned, bulging eyes, just like the old tales. Their gear is crude, all mismatched leather and sharpened bone. They’re trying to get into the hall, but those high windows are shuttered tight with oak."
Ronigren processed this, dread settling in his gut. "Are there any signs of villagers inside the hall?"
Finn shook his head. "Can't tell for sure from here, sir. And the goblins – they’re not acting like they're fighting anyone inside. More like they're trying to get at something." He paused, then added, his voice dropping further, "And there’s more of them, Sir Knight. Just beyond the village, to the north, deeper in the woods. I saw movement, dozens more. They're building something. A ram, or some kind of catapult. They’re not just a raiding party.”
"The rider on the wolf Elenya mentioned?" Ronigren asked.
Finn scanned the scene again. "Don't see him. Could be in the woods over there.”
Charging in could be suicide, and likely achieve nothing if the villagers were already dead. But they couldn't just leave.
"Earlant," Ronigren whispered. "Can you get a sense of anything from the hall? Any life? Any magic?"
The squad mage closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration. A faint hum rose and fell around him. After a moment, he shook his head. "The air here is thick, sir. Like a shroud. There's a lingering echo of fear, immense pain from the village itself. But the hall… it’s strangely quiet to the ethereal paths. Shielded, perhaps, or just inert. I don't sense life from here. There’s an energy about the stones themselves, though. Very old."
"Gregan," Ronigren said softly. "Take Halsted and two others. Circle wide to the west, try to get a better count of the goblins in the woods. See what they're building. Avoid contact. Report back as soon as you can."
Gregan nodded and melted into the undergrowth with his chosen men.
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Ronigren turned back to Finn. "The goblins by the hall. Are they watchful, or focused on the building?"
"They’re damn focused, sir. But there’s a few sentries patrolling the perimeter.”
"We need to know what's in that hall," Ronigren murmured. "And we need to ascertain the fate of Alderholt's people, if any trace remains." He looked at the tense faces of his soldiers. They were outnumbered, facing an enemy they didn't understand. But they were here.
And duty, cold and unyielding, still held its claim.
A frustrated shriek broke the silence, followed by a renewed flurry of blows against the ancient oak door. Whatever they sought, they were growing impatient.
The minutes stretched. Ronigren kept his men crouching low, hidden within the treeline, keeping watch on the smoldering ruins of Alderholt and the agitated goblins clustered around the hall. The pale light of dawn was strengthening, chasing away the last vestiges of night, and with it, their cover of darkness.
Corporal Gregan materialized from the undergrowth to their west, moving with the quiet efficiency of a seasoned ranger despite his bulk. Young Halsted and the other two scouts followed close behind.
"Sir Knight," Gregan reported, his voice a low rumble. "The woods to the north are crawling with them vermin. I'd say at least another fifty, maybe sixty. They're working their green arses off."
"Working on what?" Ronigren pressed.
"Felling trees, sir. They're building ladders out of ‘em, half a dozen already near complete. And they've almost finished a ram – a big one, from a pine trunk, covered with what looks like scavenged iron."
Halsted, still catching his breath, added, "And the rider, sir… the one the girl spoke of. We saw him."
Ronigren’s attention sharpened. "Describe him."
"Taller than the other goblins," Gregan took over, "draped in furs and bone, like Finn said. Riding that massive scarred wolf. He was overseeing the ram. And… anointing it. Smearing some kind of thick, black, viscous stuff onto its head with his bare hands."
"And," young Halsted chimed in, his eyes wide, "he was carving symbols into the wood with a bone knife. Glyphs. They glowed faintly for a moment after he drew them, a sickly green light."
A chill ran down Ronigren’s spine.
He had to think fast. The goblins were clearly preparing for a determined assault on the stone hall. Whatever was inside, the enemy wanted it badly. And if they brought that enchanted ram to bear against the door, it wouldn't hold for long.
Their strengths: speed, surprise, and the shock value of a mounted charge against infantry likely unaccustomed to facing cavalry. Their weaknesses: numbers, lack of heavy armor for a sustained fight, and no real counter to the enemy's mysterious magic.
"Well," Ronigren said, his voice low but firm, drawing his officers – Finn, Earlant, and Gregan – closer. "Here's what we do. We can't fight their main force in the woods, not yet. But we should be able to disrupt their assault on the hall, buy some time, and perhaps discover what they're so desperate to get at."
He looked at each of them in turn. "Our horses are our advantage. We hit them hard and fast at the hall. We create chaos, break their ranks."
"A direct charge, sir?" Gregan asked, "Against those numbers… aren’t we risking an encirclement?"
"Not a sustained engagement," Ronigren clarified. "A shock assault. We ride through them, cut down as many as we can around the hall, then wheel and withdraw before their reinforcements from the woods can engage us properly. We scatter the group at the hall, break their siege. Secondarily, if an opportunity presents itself, we get a look inside that hall, see if there are any signs of survivors."
"Finn," Ronigren continued, "you know these woods best. You and three men remain here, dismounted. Provide cover with arrows if you can. If we're forced to retreat in disarray, you create a diversion, draw some of them off. Your safety is paramount; do not engage unless absolutely necessary."
"Earlant," Ronigren turned to the mage. "Cast something to sow confusion among them as we charge… illusions, flashes of light. Anything to magnify the shock."
Earlant considered for a moment. "I can create phantom sounds, sir. War cries from multiple directions, perhaps flashes of disorienting light just as we hit their lines."
"Good. Make your preparations then." Ronigren looked at Gregan. "Corporal, you'll ride with me on the right flank. Keep the men tight. We cut a swathe, then pull back towards the south-eastern trail. It offers the best chance for a fighting withdrawal if necessary."
He took a deep breath. "This is dangerous. We're outnumbered. But if there are Argren folk alive in that hall, we can't stand by and do nothing. We strike, we see, we survive to report. Are there any questions?"
The men were silent. They understood the risks. They also understood the alternative: abandoning Alderholt and its secrets to this monstrous force.
"Mount up," Ronigren commanded, his voice now ringing with a forced confidence. "We ride on my signal. May the gods of battle favor the bold."
As the men quietly moved to their horses, the first true rays of the sun broke over the treetops, bathing the ruined village in a stark, unforgiving light. Ronigren drew his sword, its familiar weight a small comfort in the face of the unknown.
The Feral Queen
She was forged in war, marked by magic, and exiled by her own king. Now, the fate of two worlds rests on her broken heart.
Perfect for fans of Sarah J. Maas, Holly Black, and Jacqueline Carey, Feral Queen is a sweeping romantic fantasy of resilience, found family, and the price of peace.
won’t find: Harems, LitRPG, System Stats, Dungeon Crawls