"As would I, no doubt," Tran replied after giving the matter some thought, his gaze turned momentarily inward upon the hard and unpleasant truths of survival and warfare. Then, "May I suggest a slow-acting poison? A lethal plant closely resembling snakeroot in appearance grows in this accursed valley. The effects are scarcely noticeable until the third day, when belly-cramps, chills, vomiting and diarrhea set in. After that the victim becomes incontinent and doubled-over with agony. What follows within the week is delirium, coma, and invariably, death. For this there is no treatment nor cure; at least, none that I am aware of."
"That leaves four days that their archers will be fully functional and deadly," Akaru reminded him. "It we can keep our heads down at the right moments, and fend their infantry off from overrunning our fortifications, then there is a chance, albeit a slim one, that we will live to see the Great Tower of Lund once more."
Swarming like a host of angry black-armoured beetles, hampered by the slow-witted trolls who milled about, the goblins worked their way to what was now the forefront of the battleground. Yet they were cautious, suspecting attack from Lund to be imminent, despite what the lone surviving gnome had told them.
Their leader, a fearsome goblin Warlock, clenched his iron staff and summoned its power, causing the blue stone caught in its iron talon to hiss and steam with an icy vapour from which clear drops of liquid coalesced and fell to the ground, snapping loudly upon impact, leaving frozen blemishes upon the ground that emitted tiny puffs of gelid, unnatural mist.