Goblin Nation

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It looked like a wolf, but it was the size of a mountain pony, stocky, and covered with coarse, black fur streaked with blood. Despite his keen hobgoblin senses, Direfang had not heard it approach. He’d been alerted only when it snarled as it loped toward him, inches-long fangs glistening from saliva and back legs propelling it off the loam and into him, the impact knocking his axe free and slamming his head against the hard ground. The beast pinned Direfang’s shoulders to the earth and sunk its teeth into his thick neck.

Its breath was as foul as stagnant water, and its body reeked of long dead and rotted things. The odors hit the hobgoblin like a pounding wave. Direfang fought for air and tried to shove his arms up to pitch the dread thing off him. But it was stronger and heavy, its nails digging into the hobgoblin’s chest as it clamped its jaws tighter. Direfang hadn’t had time to call out a warning to his companions, though he heard others’ warning cries as he struggled-shrill, angry, frightened hoots from the goblins who had been toiling with him. Some called for everyone to flee, others to join the fight; one shouted hoarsely that Direfang needed help. But no one came to the hobgoblin’s rescue.

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