Chapter 98 – Mission Log: Military Strategy
Morg adjusted his grip on the rifle and felt the armor shift with him. The enchantment lines pulsed faint blue along his forearms, and the strength enhancement made the weapon feel lighter than it had any right to.
His left arm didn't ache and that alone was worth noting.
Three months ago, that arm had been the reason he'd stopped carrying a sword. The old injury from his watchman days meant anything heavier than a hatchet left him useless by midday. But the militia armor distributed weight differently, and the enchantments seemed to compensate for weakness he'd learned to work around.
It was the kind of small miracle that changed everything.
"Movement," Krev said from his right, voice low.
Morg followed the gnoll's line of sight toward the valley below. People—maybe a dozen—running hard through the snow. Behind them, pale shapes followed.
Draugr.
Morg counted quickly forty or so but it was hard to tell with the trees breaking up the line of sight.
"Warrick," Morg said quietly. "Get on the ridge. Jorens, with me."
The kobold moved without question, scrambling up the slope. Jorens—a younger refugee, still learning but steady under pressure—took position beside Morg and raised his rifle.
Krev unslung the launcher from his back and set it against his shoulder. The weapon was powerful and dangerous. Morg had seen what it could do during other fights. He was about to see it again.
"Refugees first," Morg said. "Clear the closest draugr. Draw aggro once they're safe."
Jorens nodded. Krev made a quiet sound of acknowledgment.
Morg raised his rifle, settled his stance, and felt the armor lock him in place. The enchantments hummed faint beneath the plating.
He exhaled and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle cracked. The mana bolt punched through the lead draugr's chest, and the creature collapsed mid-stride. Jorens fired half a second later—another hit, another body down.
The refugees heard the shots and kept running.
Morg adjusted his aim and fired again. The bolt caught a draugr reaching for the rearmost refugee and dropped it before contact. Jorens took the one beside it.
"Keep them moving," Morg muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He fired three more times in quick succession, each shot deliberate and controlled. The recoil was there, but the armor absorbed it in a way that let him reset fast.
Jorens matched his pace. The younger man had learned well. His breathing was even, his shots clean. Two more draugr went down.
The refugees cleared the kill zone and scrambled toward the tree line. Morg counted heads quickly—twelve, all moving, none left behind.
Good enough.
"Krev," Morg said. "They're yours."
The gnoll shifted his stance and raised the launcher. Morg heard the faint hum as the battery charged, saw the rune-carved projectile slot into place.
The draugr horde had noticed them now. Twenty-plus pale shapes turned in unison and started up the slope with the relentless gait Morg had learned to hate.
Krev fired.
The projectile arced high, almost lazy in its trajectory. Then it hit the center of the horde and detonated.
The explosion was fire and devastation. The blast wave tore through the clustered draugr and sent frozen limbs scattering across the snow. The rune's magic didn't just shatter bodies—it burned through cores, leaving nothing but smoking craters where the undead had been.
Morg counted eighteen down in the initial blast. Three more staggered, cores cracked but still moving.
"Mop-up," he said calmly.
Jorens was already firing. Morg joined him, and together they picked off the survivors methodically.
The last draugr fell thirty seconds later.
Silence.
Morg lowered his rifle and scanned the slope. Nothing moved except the refugees, who were still running.
"Clear," Jorens said quietly.
Morg nodded. The steady hum of his armor’s enchantments settling back into dormancy. He rolled his shoulder experimentally and felt nothing but normal fatigue.
The armor worked. The rifle worked. The tactics worked.
Warrick's voice crackled through the radio clipped to Morg's chest plate. "Contact Rurran?"
Morg unclipped the device and pressed the transmit button. "Do it. Tell him we've got refugees inbound. Twelve. No injuries we could see, but they'll need shelter."
"Copy," Warrick said.
Morg clipped the radio back and looked at Jorens. "You good?"
"Yeah." Jorens exhaled and lowered his rifle carefully. "That launcher's something else."
"It is," Morg agreed.
Krev slung the weapon back across his shoulders and started down the slope.
Morg followed, Jorens beside him, and Warrick brought up the rear with the supply packs and spare batteries.
The refugees were waiting at the tree line when they arrived—cold and exhausted, but alive. An older woman stepped forward, her expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "We thought—"
"You're safe now," Morg interrupted gently. "Threeburrow's an hour north. We'll get you there."
The woman nodded, and the tension in her shoulders eased slightly.
Morg gestured toward the path. "Let's move."
The group fell into formation—refugees in the center, militia flanking wide. Morg took point, rifle ready but relaxed.
He thought about the farm he'd worked for three years after leaving the watch. Good, honest labor. But this—holding a line, protecting people who couldn't protect themselves—this felt like coming home.
Morg led the group through Threeburrow's outer perimeter, past the first line of wards and into the valley proper. The refugees walked in tight formation, still tense despite the safety.
Ygrana waited at the gate with Thessa beside her. The goblin shaman stood with her arms folded. Thessa held a bundle of blankets and a small medical kit.
Morg raised a hand in greeting. "No injuries, but they've been running hard."
Ygrana stepped forward and scanned the group. Her yellow eyes lingered on the older woman, then moved to the children clustered near the back.
"Thessa," Ygrana said quietly.
The younger goblin moved immediately, distributing blankets and offering water from a leather flask. The refugees accepted both with visible gratitude.
Ygrana turned her attention back to Morg. "Good work."
Morg nodded. "Forty draugr. Krev's launcher handled most of it."
"We saw the smoke," Ygrana said. "Half the valley did."
"Effective," Morg agreed.
Ygrana's mouth curved slightly. "That it was." She paused. "Mazoga and the others returned while you were out. They're with Ironha now."
Morg blinked. "Maz is back?"
"Just arrived. Ironha insisted on checking them over." Ygrana's tone carried quiet approval. "If anyone can order folks like Maz around, it's her."
Morg allowed himself a faint smile. He'd watched Ironha give a class on field medicine two weeks ago. The elf healer had a way of speaking that made even the most stubborn fighters listen. Clear, calm, and completely unmovable when it came to safety.
Maz wouldn't stand a chance.
"Good," Morg said. "She needs someone who won't let her brush things off."
Ygrana inclined her head in agreement, then turned back to the refugees. "Thessa will take you to the shelter. Food, beds, and warmth. Rest comes first, then questions later."
The older woman stepped forward. "Thank you. All of you."
Ygrana nodded and something in her posture softened slightly.
Morg watched Thessa lead the group toward the eastern tunnel entrance, then glanced back at his team.
Jorens stood near the gate with his rifle slung across his back, still alert. Warrick had already started checking equipment—radio, spare batteries, launcher projectiles. Krev leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his scarred muzzle relaxed but his eyes tracking movement across the valley.
Good people.
Morg raised his voice slightly. "We're done for today."
All three looked up.
"Get some rest," Morg continued. "Warrick, log the engagement with Rurrak. Krev, check your launcher. Jorens, clean your rifle and recharge the batteries."
They nodded in unison.
"Good work," Morg said. "All of you."
Jorens grinned. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time," Morg confirmed.
The three split off—Warrick heading toward the command post, Jorens toward the equipment shed, Krev making his way to the supply cache where launcher projectiles were stored.
Morg watched them go, then turned toward the western tunnel entrance. Dulric would want a full report on the armor.
Morg reached the western tunnel entrance and descended into the cooler air below. The passage was narrow but well-lit, with glowstones set into the walls at regular intervals. He passed two kobolds hauling a cart of raw froststone, both nodding respectfully as he went by.
The sound reached him first—rhythmic hammering and the faint hiss of heated metal meeting water.
Morg stepped into the workshop.
Dulric stood near the central forge, his attention fixed on something Grimhald held. The slate-blue kobold turned a froststone slowly under a magnifying lens while Tikkit sat at a nearby workbench, etching precise marks into another stone with a fine-tipped tool.
Dulric looked up as Morg approached.
"Militia report?" the dwarf asked.
Morg nodded. "Twelve refugees secured and no casualties."
Dulric set down the stone he'd been examining. "The armor?"
"Held perfectly," Morg said. "Strength enhancement worked through the entire engagement. My left arm felt fine the whole time."
That's the last thing I needed to know," Dulric said. "Scout variant should be ready next week."
Morg raised an eyebrow. "That fast?"
"What your wearing told us what works," Dulric said. "Now we build on it." He paused. "Different problem set. Lighter plating, movement runes instead of strength. Quieter. The glow's getting solved too — can't have scouts lighting up the dark."
Morg considered that. "And the heavy suit?"
Dulric's expression shifted. "That one's still giving Carl headache."
Rurrak left the infirmary with Ironha's parting instructions still echoing in his ears. Rest and don't do anything strenuous, let your body recover. He'd nodded through all of it and thanked her properly, but he wasn't heading back to his quarters to rest. Not yet anyway.
He needed to see Rurran first. Give him the full report—everything from Glasshold, the contacts they'd made and how the Adventurer's Guild had responded. Rurran would want details and Rurrak wasn't about to make his uncle wait for information that might affect the Threeburrows safety.
He moved through Threeburrow's tunnels, his boots quiet against the stone. The air smelled faintly of forge smoke and frostleaf tea. Someone was cooking ashroot stew in one of the side chambers—he caught the scent and felt his stomach remind him he hadn't eaten since morning.
Later.
The tunnel opened into a wider passage where storage alcoves had been carved into the walls. Rurrak recognized the space—used to be empty when he'd left two months ago. Now it held crates stacked neatly, labeled in Kraggir's precise script. Hearthgrain. Deeproot. Preserved meat.
Trade goods from Foroughfore.
He turned the corner and nearly walked into someone standing motionless in the middle of the corridor.
Krev.
The gnoll didn't move. His attention was fixed entirely on the object cradled in his arms—a compact, sleek weapon with bronze plating and a battery housing visible along its frame. Krev's scarred muzzle was relaxed, his yellow eyes soft in a way Rurrak had never seen before.
It looked like love.
Rurrak stopped. "Krev?"
Krev's ears flicked. He looked up slowly, blinking as if waking from something, then grinned "Rurrak. Heard you were back."
"Just now," Rurrak said. He glanced down at the weapon. "What is that?"
Krev's grin widened. He lifted the launcher slightly, almost reverently. "This little thing?" He patted the bronze casing like it was a favored hound. "My new weapon. With this by my side, no draugr horde stands a chance."
Rurrak stared at him. Krev had always been steady—reliable in the way a good fight. But this was different.
Rurrak laughed despite himself. "You're in love with that thing."
"Maybe," Krev said without shame. He adjusted his grip and traced one claw along the enchantment lines etched into the barrel. "Took down thirty draugr in one shot."
Rurrak shook his head slowly. Two months away and now Krev was carrying something that could do that much damage. He wondered what else had changed.
"Where can I find Rurran?" Rurrak asked.
Krev tilted his head toward the eastern passage. "Command post. He's been coordinating patrol schedules with the settlement commander Kesh. You'll find him there."
"Thanks."
Krev nodded once and returned his attention to the launcher, already adjusting something on the battery housing with care.
Rurrak left him to it.
The eastern passage sloped downward before leveling out near the central hearth chamber. Rurrak passed two goblins hauling water buckets and a kobold carrying armfuls of leather. They nodded as he went by, and he returned the gesture without stopping.
The command post sat just beyond the hearth chamber—a carved alcove that Rurran had claimed months ago for coordination work. Rurrak had been there plenty of times before. It never changed much. Maps, supply lists, patrol schedules pinned to the walls with carved bone markers.
He rounded the final turn and saw two humans standing near the tunnel entrance.
Rurrak slowed.
They were young and wore the kind of patched, layered clothing that marked them as refugees. One held a woven basket filled with root vegetables. The other carried a wooden pail, probably heading to the kitchens.
They noticed him at the same time.
The one with the basket straightened slightly. Rurrak had seen that reaction before. Humans who weren't used to gnolls yet but were trying.
He nodded once in their direction.
The man with the pail nodded back. "Evening," he said quietly.
"Evening," Rurrak replied.
They moved past him without further conversation, and Rurrak continued toward the command post.
More humans. Not just passing through—living here.
Rurrak shook his head again and kept walking.
Rurrak heard the radio before he reached the entrance.
Two voices, overlapping but distinct. One calling in patrol positions, the other working through supply figures from Foroughfore.
He stepped through the entrance and stopped.
The command post he remembered had been a carved alcove with maps and patrol schedules.
This was different.
Two operators sat at separate stations, each with a radio unit and a ledger open beside them. Neither looked up.
Rurran stood at the far wall, back to the entrance, attention on the map. Same map Rurrak remembered, but someone had added a grid. Patrol routes marked in different colors. Draugr sighting tallies beside each corridor.
Rurran's claw moved to the eastern pass and added a mark.
He turned and blinked at Rurrak.
"Ironha let you go already?"
Rurrak exhaled. "She did."
Rurran's burnt-copper eyes moved over Rurrak once.
"Either you're in better shape than I expected," Rurran said, "or she's getting soft."
"I don't think she's getting soft," Rurrak said.
"No." Rurran turned back to the map. "She isn't." He gestured beside him. "Come. Give me your report while I work."
Rurrak stepped closer to the map but didn't touch it. His attention moved from the grid markings to the two operators at their stations, then back to Rurran.
"Before I report," Rurrak said, "I need to know what's happened here."
Rurran's ears flicked. "Fair." He gestured toward the operators. "Start with those."
Rurrak's gaze followed the gesture. The two humans worked without looking up, one marking coordinates while the other adjusted the radio dial.
"Radios," Rurran said. "Kesh brought more of them from the settlement, and Kraggir handed them out to every patrol leader. We can coordinate in real time now."
Rurrak nodded slowly. He'd seen the radios before leaving. Using them like this — two operators, constant traffic, real time — was something else.
"Good thing, too," Rurran continued. He turned back to the map and tapped the eastern pass. "Draugr activity's gotten worse. A lot worse."
Rurrak studied the map. The markings told the story clearly enough. Clusters of tallies along the northern ridges. Heavy concentration near the Waste boundary. Multiple horde sightings logged in two months.
"How bad?" Rurrak asked.
"Forty-strong hordes moving through the passes," Rurran said. "Seventy near the ridge routes. Three patrols pinned down before backup arrived. Nearly lost people."
Rurrak's jaw tightened. "That's not random wandering."
"No," Rurran said. "It isn't."
One of the operators spoke into his radio, confirming patrol rotation near the southern gate. Rurran waited until the transmission ended before continuing.
"While you were gone," Rurran said, "Ygrana, Kraggir, and I met with Edda and Kesh. We solidified the alliance. Formally."
Rurrak tilted his head. "Formally?"
"We combined our military forces," Rurran said. "Threeburrow and the settlement operate as one defensive unit now. They've been supplying weapons, armor, and equipment. We've been providing scouts, terrain knowledge, and labor."
Rurrak glanced at the map again. The patrol routes extended farther than he remembered. More coverage. Better coordination.
"It's worked," Rurran said quietly. "The equipment they've given us—rifles, launchers, enchanted armor—it's saved lives. Without it, we'd have lost half the settlement by now."
Rurrak exhaled through his nose. He'd left Threeburrow barely holding. He'd come back to something different entirely.
"Edda pushed for it first," Rurran said. "Taking in refugees. Humans displaced by the draugr activity." He was quiet for a moment. "I had reservations. Ygrana didn't. Kraggir didn't." His eyes moved back to the map. "They were right." He turned to face Rurrak fully. "Edda's people didn't owe us anything. They helped us anyway. Shared what they had. Now someone else needs help. Seems right that we don't look away."
Rurrak met his uncle's burnt-copper gaze. The weight behind the words was plain enough.
Rurran exhaled. "But enough about me." His tone shifted. "What do you have to report from Glasshold?"
Rurrak sighed.
"Less than I thought.”