Chapter 49: Goblins Vs Orcs?
Kragg sat on his throne, his wide frame making the seat seem small. The other orcs in it with him stayed quiet, watching closely. Everyone in the room knew what was happening here would not stay hidden for long. Sooner or later, word would spread. And with humans now involved, it would spread faster than ever. What they had to do was be prepared for the worst-case scenario but how far were they willing to go?
Kragg’s mind had carefully explored multiple outcomes. He knew the humans would come through again, and when they did, he wanted to control what they saw and what they believed. He planned to welcome them with the same "kindness" as before, but twist the story so the humans looked down on the goblins. Whatever the goblins whispered didn’t matter. To Kragg, humans were still weak and easy to fool. He had prepared food, drink, and even women to impress them, because he believed the human heart could be bought with charm as easily as with strength.
Borg, watching from the side, felt his blood boil. He could feel the eyes of the other orcs stabbing into him, heavy with judgment. His fists tightened as anger burned inside him.
"What is Kragg thinking!? He should never have let the humans through!" Borg growled. His head rested in the lap of his partner, but his tone was harsh.
Shava gently stroked his hair and whispered, "If he stopped them, wouldn’t that look strange?"
"No!" Borg snapped.
"The humans don’t care about goblins! He should have told them what to think before they even saw anything for themselves!" Borg was adamant he knew best but of course, he dare not say these words to Kragg directly.
Shava sighed softly. She knew Borg’s anger came from youth and pride. Orcs never begged for help, not from goblins and especially not from humans. To show weakness in front of outsiders would shame them forever. But Borg could not see that. He was too wrapped up in his own rage.
What he didn’t see—or pretended not to see—was the truth of his own power. Borg only sat here as a chieftain because he had betrayed his sister. She had once led the tribe with strength and vision. But she had spoken dangerous words—words about peace with goblins, words about a future without endless bloodshed. To Borg, that was a sin too great to forgive. He hated the goblins too much to ever see them as anything but filth.
So he handed her over. Along with her followers, many of them women, he gave them to the goblins. What followed was horror. Children were born from that betrayal. Byung’s generation was proof of it. At the same time, many orcs—both women and men—simply vanished, gone as though the world itself had swallowed them. It was nothing less than genocide.
The goblins had always been known to mix with other races, but their children always took after goblin blood. It was clear now that many orcs had been lost this way. Too many children had been born for it to be chance. The numbers spoke for themselves.
--
While Borg stewed in his anger, Drekk was busy weaving his own plan. He had already filled the humans’ ears with lies. He told them the orcs wanted to wipe them out. It was a seed he knew would grow. Humans would not ignore a threat to their lives. They would turn against the orcs, maybe even strike first. And if humans joined with goblins, the orcs would stand no chance. Their tribes would be crushed, their lands taken, and the goblins would rise from the ashes.
To Drekk, this was his chance for glory. If his lie held, if it turned the humans against their enemies, then his own people would finally see him as the hero he wanted to be.
The humans left with their carriages full of goods, but what they carried was far more dangerous than ore or food. They carried Drekk’s words, poisoned and sharp.
Yet Drekk’s thoughts were restless. He wondered about the other mines. If it was harvest season, more humans would soon arrive. Other races might come too. Then his control of the story would fade, and everything could fall apart.
What Drekk did not know was that someone had already decided his fate. Murkfang was watching. Quiet, patient, but deadly.
--
Far down the road, the humans gathered at their meeting point. They waited for the others to arrive, resting near their carriages. That was when a figure stumbled out of the distance—a thin goblin, weak and starving, barely able to walk.
The humans stiffened. Some muttered about killing it before it got too close, but its frail form made them hesitate.
"Hey! What are you doing here?" one of them called out.
The goblin lifted its head. It was Murkfang.
Unlike most of his kind, Murkfang had a sharp tongue. He had used it before with goblin women, but this time was different. These were humans. There should have been a wall of language between them.
But there wasn’t.
Murkfang spoke. His words were clear, smooth, and shocking. Perfect English spilled from his mouth. The humans froze. To them, it was like hearing a dog speak. No one could understand how this goblin had learned their tongue.
Murkfang had waited for this chance. He knew Drekk had gone too far, and soon it would be his turn. If he wanted to live, he had to strike first. He had learned something important from the orcs: information was stronger than steel. Lies could break armies. Stories could win wars.
And now he planned to use that lesson.
If he twisted the humans’ view, if he made them doubt Drekk’s words, then Drekk would be left with nothing—waiting for allies who would never come.
The humans stared at Murkfang, confused and unsettled. Everything they thought they knew about goblins cracked in that moment.
And from then on, the story began to shift around Murkfang.