It was one of the longest nights in Valeria’s life.

  She lay gloomily against the eastern palisade. She could hear the cries of the wounded, the hiss of searing irons and boiling wine poured into open wounds, and desperate calls for mothers. The losses were overwhelming. Of her four hundred finest riders, fewer than a hundred had returned — many of them weakened and wounded.

  “May the spirits of the Inspired Warriors of the Sword God welcome them into the afterlife…”

  Isma prayed beside her, incense smoke rising into the night. Having lost his right eye during the siege, he watched with a grimace of pain as piles of allied corpses burned, and as smoking pits outside the fortress consumed the bodies of their enemies as well. Half his face was covered by a cloth, and the stump where a great hobgoblin had severed his hand still throbbed hours after the battle.

  Dawn was still far away, yet despite their exhaustion, few were able to sleep.

  Valeria could not close her eyes. The bitterness of their situation was stronger than her fatigue. She had lost half her army, and soon she might lose it all. Artax had vanished without a trace. The movements of the eastern goblins remained a mystery, and the threat of the orcs had not faded. Everyone relied on her — and she did not know if she was capable of carrying that burden.

  She could not go on like this.

  Clenching her teeth, she rose to her feet. Her heels struck the stone, her sword sheath hit her back with a sharp crack. The cold air pushed away the stench of blood, mud, and filth. The battlefield was a dreadful place — even one as small as this. What were the ancient wars of Montara like then?

  The young vampiress could not imagine it. Truthfully, she did not want to. She had seen and heard enough. She had felt enough pain and suffering, enough death and fear among those who had trusted her — while she herself knew she had, in part, deceived them. Yet she was pursuing her goals — to create a better life for herself and them as well. For now, however, the cost was immense.

  The day before, they had been fortunate. The enemy had panicked. The orcs had abandoned their attempt to force the river — overwhelmed by a rain of arrows and discouraged by the sight of fleeing allied hordes of hobgoblins and goblins.

  “Thank you, chosen of the behemoths. Without you, thousands of our people would have been enslaved or slain… You saved us all.”

  An old goblin spoke suddenly beside her. All this time, Valeria had thought he blamed her. This war had begun because of her desire to unite all the greenskins south of the White Stone River — the White Crown from the Sacred Oak in the village of Yellow Grass had filled her with too much ambition…

  She was no longer the powerful daughter of King Varyn, the Vampire King who could summon hundreds of thousands of warriors with a single word. Now she was an exile, trying to build something of her own among wild tribes, relying on the royal blood that still flowed within her.

  After hours of reflection — while fleeing through the forest and watching the dying both inside and outside the fortress — Valeria refused to let arrogance guide her again. Declaring herself Queen of the Goblins so quickly had been her greatest mistake.

  Dozens of tribes, proud chieftains, alliances, old grudges — why would they follow her? Who was she to them?

  No one.

  A false promise of better days. And even that, only for a few — the most loyal servants of Zod, who had not lost faith in his return even after five hundred years. And how few of them remained.

  Valeria knew she had to act now. If she made the wrong decision, victory would turn to ruin — and she would be forced back into a cursed life on the edge of survival, fighting every day just to see another dawn.

  “Great shaman. Gather the Green Generals and chieftains. We have a war to win…” she addressed the old Isma, overwhelmed by the sights around him. He turned, full of humility and faith, and nodded. “I will not let the deaths of so many of my warriors be in vain. I will not forget their sacrifice, nor Zod…”

  Soon, a call spread throughout the fortress. Valeria walked with her head held high, her eyes wide, overwhelmed by what she saw. Many hobgoblins had climbed inside via ladders. About 200 bodies were gathered by the eastern palisade, and slightly fewer by the southern one. Refugees from the eastern and southern villages, arriving at the last moment, filled every available corner. Some looked at her with suspicion; others bowed. Rumors of her fight the previous night had already reached them.

  “Your Highness…” a goblin child with long, milk-colored hair blocked her path. “My father is dying… he wants to speak to the Queen… Please. Will your Highness grant his request?”

  It couldn’t be. The vampire’s lips trembled. The corners of her mouth turned downward. Her breath slowed, as if something had pierced her lungs. It was Gege from Goge village — the daughter of Godo, who had once saved her life. In a way, it was because of him that she had encountered Artax. He had been the seed of this story. Had she died then, without his help, there would have been no southern goblin alliance, no war…

  “Take me to your father, Gege. We don’t have a moment to lose.”

  The child nodded, then ran toward the place where Isma had recently helped lay her brother to rest, so that after death he could cross the River of the Dead to feast and fight forever in the Land of the Sword God. Now altars had been raised there, pig pens plowed under, and huts full of life built. Most of the Goge and Mora goblins had settled there, but not only them. In the largest of tents, noble chieftains and well-known goblins gathered to say farewell to the dying Godo. His neck was bandaged, blood seeping through, and the entire right side of his body looked crushed by a hammer.

  “Your… Highness… It is… an honor—” he rasped, trying to rise, but Valeria quickly leapt to his bedside, pushing past others, holding him tenderly so he would not strain himself. “Aghh…” he groaned in pain.

  She felt his aura fading, flickering in places, as though he were still fighting despite having no chance. Only the God of Darkness knew how he had survived so long with such injuries… A tear ran down the Silver-Haired One’s cheek. She remembered those happy moments with his tribe, their shared outings, his care. That day, when she had gone alone to defeat the human hunters of goblins and had nearly died… Everything.

  “When the enemies breached the eastern palisade, Godo led volunteers to aid the main forces… It’s my fault… If I had broken through sooner, none of this would have happened! Forgive me, Godo! Forgive me, my friend!” cried the Green General Mago, tears streaming down his face. He wasn’t just saying goodbye to a friend. He was saying farewell to someone who had been like a brother to him.

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  “Don’t worry,” Valeria said gently. “I’ll take care of your people. I’ll make sure Gege grows into a wonderful goblin!”

  Old Godo no longer had the strength to respond clearly; he only nodded, tears spilling from his white eyes. His heavy lids drooped lower and lower. Eventually, silence fell.

  At the very end, leaning on the youths Ganbo and Doirak, Isma entered. Everyone present rose. A funeral hymn rang out. The scent of incense filled every corner. Godo’s spirit could depart in peace. His ancestors were already waiting for him. Proud and grateful.

  Valeria, so eager for action, felt her spirit falter. It wasn’t anger that filled her — it was grief. Grief that she wasn’t stronger. If she had even half the strength of one of her older brothers at her age, things would have turned out differently…

  At that moment, she regretted being the black sheep of her family. A rightful heir, born with the holy golden eye, incapable of wielding the mighty vampire blade Nocturne, weak for a higher vampire, and below average in magic talent and aura control… No wonder her uncle had decided to drive her away and claim the throne for himself. She could not lead goblins, let alone a powerful vampire kingdom surrounded by enemies and rival powers.

  Time passed like a raging torrent. Soon, the red light fell over the fortress from the east, revealing even more horrors — burned buildings, shattered swords, and crushed, bloodied bodies as far as the eye could see. All the remnants of a night spent cleaning up the battlefield.

  “Your Highness. It’s time. Everyone is waiting,” said Isma, standing among many sullen goblins. Their faces were stormy, full of disappointment and anger.

  Without a word, they all moved toward the place where Hakku had once held dominion over the fortress and dozens of nearby villages, terrorizing them with tribute and violence. Inside, the full five Green Generals were present: Doirak, Borg, Zoggo, Gyrd, and Mago — though Mago was deeply sad and seemingly absent. Isma took his seat at the center, where someone of high rank would sit. The absence of the Great Keymaster Godo was felt by all. Though he had not been a mighty warrior, he had been renowned for giving the green light to the rebellion and bringing the Great Devourer and the Chosen of the Behemoths to slay the vile half-ogre, half-orc Hakku.

  Valeria passed among the chieftains and warriors, who watched her silently. She washed her body and cleaned some of her clothing, though the stains from blood and mud from the night’s battle still remained. Then, in a commanding voice, she addressed everyone.

  “You are the most loyal servants of Zod. Yesterday, we triumphed. This land ran with the blood of heretics who held the ancient behemoths and the King of Monsters in contempt!”

  A loud cheer echoed through the hall. Zoggo slammed his spear on the floor, Borg smiled faintly and scratched his sword-wounded side. Many whispered among themselves, others raised shouts of victory. Yet some did not have the heart to celebrate.

  “Yesterday, we bid farewell to the Great Keymaster Godo of the Goge tribe… Honor his memory! His spirit will never die! He will watch our deeds! Let us not fail him! Let us not fail Zod! Let us not fail ourselves!”

  Sharp gazes turned toward her face, and soon, cries erupted from dozens of throats:

  “For Zod!”

  “Death to the heretics!”

  “Avenge the death of Godo!”

  In the dimly lit room, flickering candlelight made the goblins’ shadows stretch as if they could conquer the world. Valeria forced a smile. She was not in the mood for jokes. Not now.

  “The new Great Keymaster will be Shoma! The leader from the west who knelt before me! Before Zod. The great stores and granaries of the western villages will give us strength and power for the battles to come!”

  The fat goblin bowed slightly. He looked like a walking disaster. He had grown thin and weak from the long march and the battle, in which his troll, Nut, had been of great help. His furious blows with a wooden club and his determination had saved hundreds of goblin lives… Valeria knew this well. Half the alliance had already forgotten his previous misdeeds.

  “Thank you, Your Highness…” he said quietly, stepping back, blushing as his face came close again to her boot.

  Then came a time for assessment and planning. According to initial counts, they had lost 477 goblins from the garrison and 1,495 from the army that had marched to relieve the fortress from the west. A true catastrophe — almost 2,000 lives! At best, with new volunteers and the most desperate conscription, they had barely 3,500, maybe 4,000 warriors at their disposal — without leaving a garrison in the fortress.

  With these numbers, only panicked defense and waiting for the end were possible. Next time, the enemy would take the fortress by starvation, or strenghten their columns so that no unexpected attack could break their supply lines — without which prolonged siege against an approaching army of unknown size would be too risky.

  Many argued, hurling the harshest insults, some leapt at each other or even fought. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife. The shouts only pained the sensitive ears of the vampire, and offered no reassurance. At that moment, she recalled Aurevian’s teachings, the war games she had played with him, and discussions of great battles from the past. Though perhaps neither army was large enough to alter the world’s history, this war was the most important in her short life as a higher vampiress. She had to win.

  “We will not let our enemy trap us to wait while we starve here, killing each other for the last scrap! We will meet them on the field, on the plain where the White Stone River bends sharply south, and the ancient statue of the Sword God watches over countless treetops… The Sword God will grant strength to his valiant worshippers, and the God of Darkness will blind our foes!”

  Perhaps she had gone mad, betting everything on a single move, but she would not do otherwise. After her only friend vanished, after he disappeared without a trace, she would at any cost create what they had planned to build together. With him — or without him.

  Deep in her slowly beating heart, she felt that Artax had abandoned her, but to accept it would be too great a blow. She wanted to live in the illusion, even if it were the greatest folly she had ever believed. She vowed that he would regret it when he returned, seeing her as someone who had achieved so much, who had proven her descent from an ancient lineage…

  They spent the day planning, deploying forces, and consulting with those who had come from the east. With a few prisoners too…

  Valeria learned that the enemy forces were commanded by the cruel Koshia, who had sold his soul to win this war. A few minutes of torture was enough for even the most defiant goblins of the enemy to reveal the dreadful truth: the Red Serpent’s worshippers had sold goblins into slavery, handing over weak goblin villages in exchange for fine armor, weapons, supplies from human city-states, and support from the orc tribe of Broken Skulls.

  Now she understood why so many enemies didn’t carry rusty or bronze weapons like her people. Chainmail on some hobgoblins made sense too. Sudden cooperation with orc units explained even more.

  Suddenly, when the smallest enemy prisoner revealed a most unexpected secret, the vampire’s eyes lit up. A smile appeared on her face, her aura rippled over her hardened muscles.

  “We can win…” she murmured under her breath. Isma, standing beside her, smiled with his remaining eye.

  Ahead lay two days of marching, to reach the ground where they would provoke battle. Failure was not an option.

  Zoggo and Valeria stood in reserve near the White Stone River, with Mago full of fighting will just in front, leading a strong unit of 500 goblins. Doirak Ironside commanded the center, seeking vengeance for the deaths of his companions, and behind him in reserve were Shoma with Nut and 800 reserve goblins to put out fires on threatened fronts. Before them lay dense forests and tall grasses. The center would decide the outcome of the battle at the Statue of the Sword God…

  Isma watched from the highest hill, acting as supreme commander. Slightly forward to the south, with Borg in front and Gyrd further on the southern plains harassing with raids and skirmishes, he felt that today he would avenge the wrongs done to his ancestors…

  Collaboration with the city-states could not go unpunished for the eastern goblins. Isma knew that no matter what, he had to win this battle. One-eyed, one-armed… it did not matter! The spirits of their ancestors were watching. And the Sword God’s monument on the hill beside them, twenty meters tall, too!

  Valeria could hear the river, feel the morning breeze from it… With or without Artax, she had to win today. For herself. For the goblins. For Godo and little Gege…

  The Silver-Haired One had made her decision.