In the very first volley the little goblin saw the problem. The arrows of his fellow goblin archers quickly used their inherited magical properties, turning to spears or bolts or harpoons; while some set on fire mid-journey and others became stone or molten rocks shortly before making contact. His- or rather those of his friend did not.
Suddenly scared again the goblin glanced far below him to the ranks of the goblin infantry and saw many goblins swinging their swords like they were children with sticks- one poor soul however was left on the start line, his sword too heavy to lift. Clearly doomed, the goblin was praying furiously for it to shift.
Maybe someone had told him this would happen, perhaps it had only been alluded to. Either way the little goblin was sure he should have known about this, or that he and his cohort should have been more honest in their reasons for suddenly joining units so late on. All he knew for sure was that a nasty sense of foreboding was filling him up.
He wanted to take action, and thought about trying to get forward and put things right but there were too many goblins in between and surely too much ground to cover. And, anyway, to break ranks would surely end with an arrow lodged in the back of his head.
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