The creature was easily four times the size of a normal goblin — its skin dark green, muscles bulging, jagged fangs jutting from its lower jaw like tusks. Bones and crude metal adorned its shoulders like armor. Its yellow eyes gleamed with malice.
A hobgoblin.
Oliver's grip on his spear tightened.
"So there's the chief…" he muttered.
'And if there's a chief, there's bound to be a shaman too.'
He crouched low behind a pile of broken wood, eyes sweeping the chamber. There were at least twenty goblins — guards, archers, and the shaman standing near the throne, a crooked staff clutched in its bony hands.
He needed to think — plan.
A frontal assault would be suicide.
But then the hobgoblin moved.
