Fortifying the Pass of Worr Croa

The archery yard keeps its rhythm, arrows thumping into straw. Then Orgi lurches in from the forge corridor, soot streaked, breath ragged, one hand clutching his ribs.

At the gate, the guards raise their spears. Ten goblins stand in the grass beyond, travel-worn and mud-spattered, most a little taller than the common sort.

Eruc angles his head, studying their boots, packs, and the raw cuts of hard travel. The newcomers do not kneel, but they do not reach for weapons either.

The drill yard falls quiet around Druk, with the forge shortage on one side and the waiting goblins on the other, both asking for a decision.

The line lands cleanly across the yard. The lead goblin’s shoulders loosen, and the others trade quick, relieved glances. Orgi straightens from his bent breath, listening hard now instead of panicking.

The goblins begin to shift in place, not fleeing, not bowing, but leaning in as a group. One glances toward the targets, another toward the forge corridor, as if measuring where they fit.

Orgi lowers one hand from his ribs and points toward the forge passage, thinking aloud in a rough, practical tone. He says the new mouths will strain the iron stores, but a few of them look used to mining and carrying.

Orgi turns at once, already counting piles in his head. He points two goblins toward the scrap racks and another toward the forge passage, his relief hardening into work.

The Lead Goblin nods fast, as if the order is a welcome test instead of a burden. Goblin 5 steps after the others, eager to prove his hands can carry weight.

Orgi lifts a hand in approval and starts barking for rope, hammers, and a cart. The yard shifts from waiting to labor, and the forge corridor becomes the center of the movement.

The new goblins straighten at that, as if a ladder has finally been set under them. The Lead Goblin glances from Orgi to the forge passage, memorizing the order.

Orgi points once toward the scrap racks, then toward the forge corridor, and the nearest goblins answer at once, forming two tidy lines. The yard keeps working, but now it works with a clear chain.

Druk lets the yard settle, then speaks to the new recruits with a hard, even voice. The words are plain, and the warning is worse. Around him, the goblins stop shuffling and listen.

The Lead Goblin gives a quick nod and starts echoing the warning down his line, turning it into discipline instead of fear. Several of the newcomers straighten their loads, already looking for work they can do well.

Druk leaves the work lines to the goblins and crosses the yard toward the animal pens. Behind him, the recruits keep hauling scrap in ordered rows, their boots crunching over cinders and gravel.

The dire pens sit below the yard wall, stout timber and iron bars ringed with old claw marks. A handler waits at the gate rail, one hand on a latch hook, watching Druk approach.

The handler jerks a thumb toward the pen, where a dark shape stalks behind the slats and snorts at the smell of strangers.

Druk reaches the pens without delay, and the handler unhooks the outer gate for him. The iron shortage hangs over the yard, but the beast line is in order for now.

Druk lifts a hand and speaks the calm spell into the pen. The restless pacing breaks at once, and the dark beast stops dead, ears easing back as its breath slows.

The handler blinks at the sudden quiet. The claw-marked fence creaks, but the animal no longer throws itself at the bars.

The calm spreads wider than the single pen. Two more beasts in the row stop pacing and lower their heads, sniffing the air instead of snorting at the yard.

Inside the nearest stall, a pale stone shard is scratched with old tally marks and a route symbol for the north road. Someone has hidden a local guide's token under the straw, and the handler spots it before it is lost in the muck.

The yard keeps moving behind them, but the pen line is now still, workable, and carrying a new clue toward the pass.