The northern settlement of Highridge comes into view as our aerial formation crests the final mountain pass. My first thought is that we're already too late.
Raiders swarm around the walled town like angry wasps, their numbers even greater than the reports suggested. The outer farms and smaller buildings have been put to the torch, smoke rising in thick columns around the settlement perimeter. Civilians crowd behind the hastily reinforced walls while a meager defensive force maintains position along the battlements.
"There must be two thousand of them at least," Princess Eliana says from behind me, her voice tight with concern.
"More like three," I correct grimly. "Looks like they've recruited additional forces on their way here."
Crystallis banks sharply as an arrow volley rises from the raiders below, who've spotted our approach. The projectiles fall well short of our altitude, but the message is clear: we aren't catching them by surprise.
"We need to reach Lord Harrowmont's forces inside the settlement," I call back to my lieutenants. "Gorthal, keep the blood-warriors in holding formation. Nerk, prepare to take command of Morkath's trolls once they arrive."
"Moonmere wetlands approximately one mile north-west," Nerk confirms, his tactical eyes already mapping the battlefield. "Optimal approach vector identified."
We descend rapidly toward the besieged settlement, Crystallis's massive form drawing both cheers from the defenders and a renewed arrow volley from the raiders. The wyvern flight follows in tight formation, metallic orcs prepared for immediate deployment.
The settlement's main courtyard has been cleared to allow our landing. As Crystallis touches down with impressive precision, I see a group of armored figures hurrying toward us, led by a bear of a man I recognize from the palace banquet: Lord Harrowmont.
"Dismount carefully," I tell Princess Eliana as Crystallis lowers herself to make it easier. "Stay close to me until we assess the situation."
Her face is pale but determined as she slides down from the saddle. "I won't get in the way."
Lord Harrowmont reaches us, exhaustion evident beneath his formal greeting. "Monster Lord, your arrival is most timely. The raiders struck with unprecedented coordination. We've lost the outer farmsteads but managed to evacuate most civilians behind the walls."
His gaze shifts to Eliana, surprise overtaking his battle-weary expression. "Your Highness? I wasn't informed you would be accompanying the Monster Lord."
"These are my people too, Lord Harrowmont," she replies with quiet authority. "The crown must stand with its subjects in their hour of need."
Something in her tone silences any further objection he might have had. Instead, he bows with genuine respect. "Your presence honors us, Princess."
"Status report," I interject, bringing the focus back to the immediate crisis. "How long can your defenses hold?"
"Hours at most," Harrowmont admits grimly. "We have four hundred fighters spread along the walls, mostly militia with limited training. The raiders have been probing for weaknesses, and their warlord is preparing for a coordinated assault."
"Their warlord," I press. "Have you seen him? Reports mentioned a powerful weapon."
Harrowmont nods, leading us quickly toward the nearest section of wall. "Follow me. You'll want to see this for yourself."
As we climb the stairs to the battlements, I get my first clear view of the raider encampment. Their forces have organized into disciplined units, a far cry from the chaotic band I expected. Supply wagons, siege equipment, even primitive field fortifications, this is no simple raid but a methodical military operation.
"There," Harrowmont points to a large tent at the center of the encampment, where a massive figure has emerged. "Their warlord. Calls himself Vraknoth the Uniter."
Even at this distance, the figure is imposing, at least seven feet tall, clad in mismatched armor adorned with tribal symbols. But what catches my attention is the weapon in his hand: an enormous battle axe with a crystalline head that pulses with unmistakable energy.
"Definitely a fragment," I confirm, feeling the crystal lens at my chest warm in response to the distant artifact. "That explains how he's united the tribes."
"Can your drake destroy him from the air?" Lord Harrowmont asks bluntly. "One decisive strike might shatter their morale."
"If it were that simple, I'd have done it already," I reply. "Fragment weapons often provide protection against such attacks. We need a more strategic approach."
I turn to Morrigan, whose attention is fixed on the western horizon. "Any sign of our reinforcements?"
"Moisture patterns indicate imminent emergence," she confirms. "Moonmere wetlands showing characteristic displacement ripples. Trolls arriving precisely on schedule."
"Good," I nod. "Nerk, take your wyvern and assume command. Wait for my signal before engaging."
Nerk mounts his wyvern with fluid efficiency. "Optimal attack formation already calculated. Fragment-wielder designated as priority target for specialized neutralization."
"Be careful," I tell him. "That axe isn't just for show."
As Nerk's wyvern launches from the battlements, Lord Harrowmont watches with evident confusion. "Your goblin rides to battle alone? Against three thousand raiders?"
"Not alone," I correct, turning to Morrigan. "Tell Morkath it's time."
She nods, her evolved form momentarily still as she communes through our bond network. "Message delivered. The trolls are ready."
"What trolls?" Harrowmont demands. "There are no trolls within fifty miles of Highridge."
I just smile. "Watch the wetlands to the north-west."
Princess Eliana has been studying the raider encampment with shrewd assessment. "Their formation is vulnerable from the flank. If an unexpected force were to emerge from that direction..."
"Exactly," I confirm, impressed by her tactical insight. "Now we just need to draw their warlord out at the right moment."
The defenders along the wall have noticed our presence, word spreading quickly that both the Monster Lord and the crown princess have arrived. I can see hope replacing desperation in their eyes, though they can't possibly understand what's about to happen.
A young militiaman approaches, bowing nervously. "Begging your pardon, but the people are frightened. Rumors are spreading that we'll be overrun by nightfall."
Princess Eliana steps forward. "I'll speak to them. They need to know the crown stands with them."
"It's not safe to leave the walls," Harrowmont objects.
"I'm not hiding while my people suffer," she replies firmly. "Monster Lord, may I borrow one of your lieutenants as escort? I believe their presence would be reassuring."
"Morrigan," I decide, knowing her evolved form will make quite an impression. "Keep the princess safe while she rallies the civilians."
As they depart for the town square, I turn my attention back to the battlefront. The raider warlord has returned to his tent, but increased activity suggests they're preparing for a major assault. Nerk's wyvern is now just a distant speck circling above the western wetlands.
"Your plan," Harrowmont says quietly. "Will it work?"
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"It already is," I reply, pointing toward the Moonmere marshes.
At first, the movement is subtle, ripples spreading across the wetland surface, reeds bending against the wind. Then the water begins to churn as if boiling from below. Raiders stationed near the marshes notice too late, shouting warnings that are quickly drowned out by the sound of hundreds of massive forms emerging from the swamp.
Trolls, four hundred strong, rise from the waters with synchronized precision that trolls should not possess. Their massive forms, enhanced by Morkath's evolution and guided by Nerk's tactical direction, form battle lines with military discipline rather than their typical chaotic approach.
"By the ancient dawn," Harrowmont whispers, awe overtaking his battle-hardened expression. "Where did they come from?"
"I told you," I say, unable to keep a smile from my face despite the serious situation. "The wetlands."
The raiders' response is immediate but disorganized. Their western flank, never expecting an attack from the supposedly impassable marshes, scrambles to form defensive positions. Horns sound across their encampment as commanders attempt to redirect forces.
The trolls advance in a wedge formation, their regenerative capabilities making them ideal shock troops as they smash into the raiders' western flank.
What happens next can only be described as methodical devastation.
---
Lord Harrowmont
In my thirty years as a northern lord, I have witnessed raids, battles, and sieges that would turn stronger men than me into quivering wrecks. I've led charges against howling barbarians, held mountain passes against overwhelming numbers, and stared down enemies who would sooner gut me than hear my terms.
None of it prepared me for what I now witness from these walls.
These aren't trolls as I know them. Gods above, I've fought trolls before, lumbering, stupid brutes that attack in chaotic mobs, dangerous but predictable. These creatures move like a trained army. Their massive bodies, some standing taller than two men, advance in perfect lines that would make my best veterans weep with envy.
"Impossible," I breathe, watching raiders sail through the air as troll fists send them flying like children's toys.
The goblin king swoops overhead on his wyvern, directing this unholy assault with signals that immediately translate to movement on the ground. When raiders try to slip around the northern edge, the trolls shift like water flowing around rock. When swordsmen charge the southern flank, they turn as if they'd rehearsed this very scenario.
Most terrifying of all is their resilience. A troll takes three arrows to the chest that would drop a man instantly. The beast simply yanks them out and keeps coming while the wounds close before my eyes.
"This isn't natural," one of my captains mutters. "No troll fights like this."
"They're being controlled somehow," another suggests, fear plain in his voice.
"Not controlled," the Monster Lord corrects quietly. "Guided. There's a difference."
I barely hear him. I'm too busy watching the western flank of Vraknoth's army crumble like a sandcastle in the rain. Raiders who've terrorized our borders for generations now flee in blind panic, abandoning weapons, supplies, and their own wounded without a backward glance. Tents collapse, wagons overturn, war cries turn to screams.
Then a bellow cuts through the chaos like a war horn. A massive figure storms from the central tent, battle axe held high. The weapon's strange crystal head pulses with unnatural light that washes across the entire field.
"Vraknoth is coming!" I call out to the Monster Lord.
"That's exactly who I was waiting for," he replies with unsettling calm.
"Your trolls won't stand against that axe," I warn. "I've seen it cut through good northern steel like butter. Men who should have lived died screaming when that blade touched them."
He merely smiles. "Who said anything about using trolls?"
The Monster Lord turns to his metal-skinned lieutenant. "Gorthal, challenge time."
The creature's response chills my blood, his voice seeming to come from several throats at once. "Blood Sage welcomes worthy opponent."
Without hesitation, the metal creature leaps from our wall, a thirty-foot drop that should break any normal being's legs. He lands with the grace of a hunting cat and strides toward the raider lines, alone against thousands.
"He'll be torn to pieces," I protest.
"Watch," the Monster Lord says simply.
Vraknoth spots the approaching figure and roars another challenge, his cursed axe flaring brighter. His men scramble back, forming a rough circle as the metal creature approaches.
"Is this all the defenders send against me?" Vraknoth's voice booms across the field. "One metal-skinned freak to face Vraknoth the Uniter?"
The one called Blood Sage stops at the edge of this makeshift fighting ring, his own strange axe held casually, as if this were merely a friendly sparring match.
"Not sent," he answers, his unnatural voice making several nearby raiders step back. "Chosen to claim worthy weapon from unworthy hands."
Rage twists Vraknoth's features. He charges forward like an enraged bull, his cursed axe cutting through the air toward his opponent's head.
What follows makes mockery of everything I know about combat. The metal creature doesn't just dodge; he seems to flow around the attack like smoke. Vraknoth's axe passes through empty air, and then the metal one strikes back so quickly my eye can barely follow.
Their weapons meet with a crash like thunder, sending a visible wave across the battlefield that knocks raiders off their feet and kicks up dirt and grass in a perfect circle around the fighters.
"Gods above," I whisper.
"That's just the beginning," the Monster Lord says, sounding almost amused.
The fight intensifies, the cursed axe against whatever unholy weapon the metal creature wields. Each blow releases bursts of light and strange energies. Vraknoth fights with the savage strength that let him unite the tribes, but the metal one seems to be merely testing him, studying his movements with cold precision.
"He's playing with him," I realize aloud.
"Gorthal is assessing the axe's properties," the Monster Lord explains. "He wants to understand it before claiming it."
"Claiming it? The warlord still lives!"
"For now."
Above us, shadows pass as the crystal drake launches from our walls. I'd nearly forgotten this terror with everything happening below.
"Your dragon joins the fight?" I ask, wondering what fresh hell awaits.
"Crystallis is providing backup," the Monster Lord says. "Though I doubt Gorthal will need it."
The crystal monster circles above the duel like a massive bird of prey. Raiders cower at the sight, some throwing down their weapons and running rather than face this impossible creature.
Below, the duel reaches its peak. The metal one blocks a mighty swing from Vraknoth, their weapons locked together. The warlord's face contorts with effort, veins bulging as he strains against his opponent.
The metal creature speaks, his strange voice carrying across the field. "Your weapon recognizes a better master. Surrender now. Receive mercy."
"Never!" Vraknoth snarls, breaking away. "The gods gave this axe to me! It belongs to my bloodline!"
"Wrong," the metal one replies with terrible calm. "Your weapon seeks power, not bloodlines."
With that, the metal creature's skin flares with blinding light. He moves faster than anything his size should move, getting inside Vraknoth's guard before the warlord can blink. Their weapons meet again, but this time the crystal head of Vraknoth's axe cracks with a sound like breaking ice.
"Impossible!" Vraknoth roars, fear plain in his voice.
The metal one presses forward relentlessly. Each blow seems to weaken Vraknoth's hold on his weapon, the strange glow pulsing wildly as if the axe itself is trying to break free.
The end comes suddenly. The metal creature feints left, then spins with impossible speed. His black axe strikes not at Vraknoth's weapon but at his forearm. Bones shatter with a sickening crack, and the cursed axe falls from useless fingers.
Before it can touch the ground, the metal creature catches it in his free hand.
The weapon's glow steadies and brightens, as if pleased with its new master. Vraknoth collapses to his knees, clutching his shattered arm.
"As promised, mercy," the metal one says. He turns his back on the broken warlord and walks away, now carrying two weapons of terrible power.
The raiders break completely. What started as retreat becomes a stampede. They abandon everything in their mad flight, weapons, supplies, wounded comrades, desperate to escape these unholy beings who destroyed their army in less than an hour.
From my place on the wall, I struggle to understand what I've witnessed. Three thousand raiders, the largest force to cross the Frost Ridge in living memory, broken by trolls that move like trained soldiers, a metal creature with impossible powers, and a crystal dragon that sends hardened warriors running like frightened children.
And standing beside me, controlling it all with casual commands, the unassuming figure they call the Monster Lord.
"Your forces," I begin, my voice unsteady despite my best efforts, "they're nothing like the monsters we've fought before."
"They've evolved," he replies simply.
I look at him more carefully now, noticing something strange. The markings on his skin are glowing brighter, pulsing in rhythm with some unseen force. He seems not to notice this change, his eyes still fixed on the battlefield.
"You could have conquered half the kingdom with this power," I say carefully. "Yet you came to our aid instead."
He turns to me then, and I'm struck by the intensity in his eyes. "I'm not interested in conquering anything. I just want to build something worthwhile in my own territory."
As he speaks, the glow spreads across his skin. He finally notices, looking down at his hands with surprise.
"The sixth slot," he murmurs.
The glow pulses once more, then brightens. The crystal he wears around his neck responds with matching flashes of light.
Whatever is happening, even the Monster Lord himself seems surprised by it. Perhaps there are limits to his power, things even he doesn't fully understand.
I find that strangely comforting. Not because it makes him vulnerable, but because it makes him somehow more real amid all this impossible power.
One thing is clear: the Monster Lord cannot be manipulated or controlled. He answers to no one's ambitions but his own.
Including, I suspect, the king himself.
