Dawn's light cast a somber glow over the battlefield that had been the goblin village. Smoke from dying fires mingled with the morning mist, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Kaelrith stood in his true form at the edge of the clearing, surveying the aftermath of the battle with a critical eye.
Goblins moved among the fallen, searching for any kinsmen who still clung to life. Soft cries of grief arose whenever a familiar face was found among the dead. A few yards away, a cluster of orc survivors silently gathered their own fallen warriors, laying them out and closing their staring eyes. In the fragile light of morning, the triumphant fervor of victory had tempered into a quiet, weary reality. They had won, but the cost was written in every blood-soaked patch of earth.
Grak limped over to Kaelrith, wiping black smoke from his brow. He and several uninjured goblins had spent the last hour dousing stray fires and pulling wounded goblins to a makeshift infirmary in one of the larger huts. Despite exhaustion and the gash on his arm, the old goblin's posture was proud. "My lord," he reported hoarsely, "we are tending to the wounded as best we can. Nearly fifty of our fighters fell…" His voice hitched, but he continued, "and twice as many are injured.
Kaelrith nodded solemnly, accepting the casualty report. The goblins had suffered greatly, but they had not broken. He looked to the side where Boruk now approached. The orc chieftain walked with a noticeable limp; his burns were wrapped in damp cloth bandages and one arm hung in a sling. Even in pain, Boruk's demeanor was restrained and respectful.
Boruk thumped a fist to his chest. "Great One," he said, forcing himself to meet the dragon's gaze for a moment before lowering his eyes. "Allow me to gather my dead as well. We customarily burn our honored warriors on a pyre, so their spirits ride the smoke to the afterlife. Those who died here… many were proud fighters. They deserve that much."
For an orc like Boruk, asking permission for anything was a humbling gesture. Kaelrith noted it and rumbled an assent. "We will honor all the fallen—goblin and orc," he declared. "Prepare the pyres. I shall light them myself."
Within the hour, two large pyres were erected at the far end of the village clearing. The goblins worked in grim silence to stack logs and broken timbers salvaged from the barricades. On one pyre they placed the bodies of their kin, each corpse handled with reverence. On the other, the orcs laid out their dead. The great berserker's body was lifted by six orcs and set at the center, his massive arms crossed over his sundered chest. The unconscious orc Shaman, who had somehow clung to life despite his grievous wound, was carried to the side—still breathing, albeit barely. A hobgoblin guard kept a spear trained on him, just in case.
When all was ready, the survivors gathered in a wide circle around the funeral pyres. Goblins muttered traditional prayers to the Great Flame, asking that their ancestors welcome the brave souls home. The orcs bowed their heads, some whispering rites to their own gods of war and death. It was a rare, peaceful mingling of two peoples who had been enemies just a day before—united in shared loss under the gaze of a dragon.
Kaelrith loomed before the pyres, his presence dwarfing everyone else. His scales glowed a dim orange in the firelight as he inhaled deeply. No one spoke; all eyes were upon the dragon.
With a roar that echoed off the mountains, Kaelrith exhaled twin streams of golden flame. The fire licked across the bases of the pyres and whooshed upward in an inferno. Wood popped and crackled as the intense heat consumed it. Within moments, the flames engulfed the bodies laid to rest atop each structure. A collective wail rose from the goblins—high-pitched keening for their loved ones. The orcs added their own low, mournful drone, a funeral dirge in a tongue older than men.
Kaelrith's flames burned hotter and cleaner than any mundane fire. The bodies were swiftly reduced to ash that swirled upward on thermal currents, disappearing into the morning sky. Many goblins and orcs alike watched the ascent of the ash and smoke, imagining the spirits of their fallen carried upon it. More than a few found comfort in the notion that their comrades were escorted by dragonfire itself—the holiest of fires, some whispered.
Stepping back, Kaelrith allowed the flames to run their course.
When the fires finally died down to smoldering embers, Grak raised his arms for attention. "Today, we mourn," the goblin chieftain rasped, voice raw. "Tomorrow, we build anew—for we have won a great victory." He turned and knelt before Kaelrith's towering form. "All thanks to our lord, the Great Flame . He has delivered us and given our fallen the highest honor."