General Harrick
I've commanded the Northern Confederation Militia for twenty-three years. I've repelled border raids, put down bandit uprisings, and once even held the line against a troll incursion that threatened our easternmost settlements. In all that time, I've never seen a force as disciplined as Lord Keenan's army.
They advance from the west across the plain before Northcrest in perfect formation, their ranks unbroken despite the uneven terrain. Five thousand soldiers moving as one, infantry at center with overlapping shields, cavalry on the flanks ready to swing in for envelopment, archers in the rear maintaining precise distances. Not the ragtag border force I expected, but a professional army that would do credit to the High Kingdom itself.
"They've been training for this," I mutter, lowering my spyglass. "These aren't border troops hastily assembled for a raid. This is a planned invasion force."
Captain Blackwell shifts uneasily beside me. "Could they have had help, sir? The intelligence mentioned Death Knight advisors."
"More than advisors, I'd wager," I reply grimly. "No human commander drills troops to that level of precision without years of preparation. There's something unnatural about it."
From our position on the low ridge overlooking the battlefield, I can see my entire defensive line spread before me. Three thousand militia soldiers—brave men all, but primarily trained for patrol duty and caravan protection, not pitched battle against elite forces. The Merchant Council never saw fit to fund a proper standing army. Why bother when gold could solve most problems?
And now here we are, facing professional soldiers with my militia and a band of monsters the Council hired in desperation.
I scan the northern flank where the Monster Lord's forces have taken position as ordered. Even at this distance, they're impossible to mistake for human troops. The hobgoblins form disciplined blocks of spear and bow units, their formations more reminiscent of ancient legion tactics than modern military doctrine. Behind them wait the metallic-skinned orcs, their weapons gleaming with unnatural light even under the overcast sky.
I clench my jaw, irritation rising again at the Council's vote of no confidence. After decades of loyal service, they didn't trust me to handle this threat—instead bringing in monsters to supplement my militia. As if I needed to be rescued by creatures we've spent generations defending our borders against.
"Sir," Blackwell interrupts my thoughts, pointing toward Keenan's advancing forces, "they're deploying their heavy infantry."
I raise my spyglass again. Keenan's center is indeed shifting, elite heavy infantry moving forward to spearhead the assault. Their black armor absorbs the morning light, making them appear as a dark tide flowing toward our lines.
"Signal defensive formation three," I order. "Archers to maintain distance, infantry to hold position behind the earthworks. We force them to come to us."
Couriers rush off to relay my commands. Across our line, banners dip and rise in acknowledgment as unit commanders implement the orders.
"And the Monster Lord's forces, sir?" Blackwell asks hesitantly.
"They have their assignment," I reply stiffly. "The northern flank is their responsibility. They were eager enough for this contract, let them earn their gold."
The first volley of arrows arcs high from Keenan's lines, falling among our forward positions. My militia holds steady, shields raised to catch the deadly rain. Our own archers return fire, but I can already see the difference in effectiveness. Their arrows fall with uncanny precision, finding gaps in armor and joints in shields. Ours scatter more widely, many bouncing harmlessly off the advancing enemy's armor.
"Their archers are too disciplined," I mutter, watching another coordinated volley cut down a dozen of my men. "That's not natural skill."
The infantry closes, and the first clash of steel on steel rings across the battlefield. My militiamen fight bravely, their defensive positions providing some advantage against the superior force. For a brief moment, I allow myself to hope that our preparations might be enough.
That hope dies quickly as I watch Keenan's forces implement their battle plan with mechanical precision. Their heavy infantry hammers our center while light infantry probes for weaknesses. Their cavalry doesn't charge recklessly but waits patiently on the flanks, ready to exploit any gap that appears.
"Southern flank is under heavy pressure, sir," a courier reports, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. "Captain Merrick requests reinforcements."
"Tell him to hold position," I order. "We can't thin our center or we'll collapse entirely."
Another courier arrives minutes later. "Center is falling back to secondary positions, sir. The enemy's heavy infantry is pushing through faster than anticipated."
I swear under my breath. We've barely been engaged for half an hour, and already my lines are buckling. These aren't the border troops I prepared for, they fight with unnatural coordination and seemingly inexhaustible stamina.
"Status of the northern flank?" I demand, turning my spyglass toward where the Monster Lord's forces should be engaged.
"No reports yet, sir," Blackwell admits. "Our liaison officer hasn't—"
"Find out immediately," I snap. "If those monsters have abandoned their position, I'll personally ensure the Council never pays them a single coin."
As Blackwell rushes to dispatch a messenger, I watch my center continue to give ground. Man for man, my militia fights well, but they're facing soldiers who move with perfect coordination, who never break formation even when taking casualties, who advance with relentless purpose. It's like fighting against a single organism rather than individual soldiers.
"Death Knight influence," I mutter, the realization settling coldly in my stomach. "They're being controlled somehow."
The next hour passes in a blur of increasingly desperate reports. My southern flank has been pushed back nearly a quarter-mile. My center holds, but only by committing our reserves. The ground before our positions is littered with bodies, many more of my militia than Keenan's forces.
"Northern flank report, sir!" a messenger shouts, riding hard toward our command position. "Northern flank has broken!"
My heart sinks. "The monsters fled, didn't they?" I demand, already composing the scathing report I'll deliver to the Council about their unreliable mercenaries.
The messenger looks confused. "No, sir. Keenan's northern forces are in full retreat. The Monster Lord's army has routed them completely and is now advancing into their rear areas."
"What?" I snatch the message from his hand, reading it twice to be certain. "This can't be right. Keenan's northern contingent included his elite guard and heavy cavalry."
"The report is accurate, sir," the messenger insists. "I saw it myself on my ride back. The monsters have smashed through their lines completely. The enemy is fleeing in disorder."
I turn my spyglass northward, trying to make sense of this unexpected development. Where Keenan's northern flank should be holding strong, there's only chaos. Soldiers flee in every direction as the Monster Lord's forces advance in perfect formation. The metallic orcs cut through the retreating troops like farmers harvesting wheat, while hobgoblin archers fire with mechanical precision into the routed forces.
---
Sergeant Tomas Blackthorn, Keenan's Northern Elite Guard
"Forward!" I bellow, my voice carrying over the din of battle. "Show these monsters what real soldiers can do!"
Two hundred of Keenan's finest infantry advance at my command, our black-lacquered armor gleaming even under the overcast sky. We've fought trolls before. We've put down goblin raids. These hired monsters will break like all the rest.
As we crest the small rise, I get my first clear view of the enemy line. What I see gives me pause. These aren't the disorganized bands I expected. The monsters are arranged in disciplined formations, hobgoblin archers in precise ranks behind a front line of the largest orcs I've ever seen, their skin gleaming with an unnatural metallic sheen.
"Hold steady," I call, maintaining our advance pace. "They're still just monsters. Their appearance means nothing."
So why are my hands shaking?
"Incoming!" someone shouts, and I look up to see the sky darkening.
Not just arrows, a perfect wave of them, all at the exact same trajectory, all seemingly aimed directly at my men. We raise shields as we've trained, but these arrows don't fall like normal volleys.
The man to my right, Corporal Hewitt, has his shield raised properly. The arrow somehow passes through the narrow gap between shield and helmet, a gap no wider than two fingers. It punches through his eye socket with a wet sound. He drops without a word.
On my left, Ellis takes an arrow that curves, actually curves in flight, to slip beneath his raised shield, finding the exact spot where breastplate meets thigh protection. He falls screaming, blood pulsing from severed arteries.
"Close ranks!" I order, the surviving men shuffling to fill the gaps. "Advance at steady pace!"
We push forward, shields locked, just as we've drilled hundreds of times. Fifty yards to the enemy position now. We'll close and end this with steel.
At thirty yards, a figure emerges from behind the orc line. Even from this distance, I can see he's not like the others. His metallic skin bears intricate patterns that pulse with crimson light. In his hands, an axe that seems to drink in the surrounding light.
"Blood-warriors, advance!" his voice booms across the field. "Show them the power of the Blood Sage!"
The metallic orcs charge with shocking discipline, not the wild rush of typical monsters but an organized advance in perfect formation. My soldiers brace for impact, shields locked, spears braced.
When the collision comes, it defies everything I know about warfare.
Their leader, this "Blood Sage", strikes first. His axe cleaving through Sergeant Horan's shield, armor, and body in a single blow. The sergeant, a veteran of fifteen years who once survived a direct hit from a troll's club, is simply... divided, top to bottom, his bisected halves falling away in a spray of blood.
The other orcs hit our line with similar effectiveness. Their weapons glow with crimson energy that somehow passes through our shields as if they weren't there. I watch in horror as Guardsman Tyler's sword connects solidly with an orc's chest, only to leave a shallow cut that seals closed almost immediately.
"They're not dying!" someone shouts, panic rising in his voice.
"Hold formation!" I counter, but it's already too late.
An orc breaks through our front rank and seizes Corporal Whitman by the throat. The monster's hand, gods above, it's like living metal, crushes his gorget like parchment. Whitman's legs kick feebly as he's lifted off the ground, his face purpling. Then the orc simply tears his head off, spine and all, blood fountaining from the ragged stump of his neck.
I try to rally my men, but how do you fight creatures that shrug off mortal wounds? One orc takes a spear through its abdomen, a killing blow by any standard, but instead of falling, it grabs the shaft with both hands, breaks it off, and keeps advancing as the wound visibly closes.
Another soldier, Fletcher, manages to slip his blade between an orc's ribs. The creature doesn't even slow, simply backhanding Fletcher with such force that his helmet crumples like an eggshell, brain matter splattering those nearby.
"Fall back!" I finally order, seeing half my unit already dead or dying. "Defensive withdrawal!"
As we begin our retreat, the hobgoblin archers loose another volley. These arrows aren't aimed randomly but target specific men—officers, sergeants, specialists. Somehow, they can identify rank at this distance.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
I feel a sudden impact as an arrow punches through my pauldron, finding the precise gap where it meets my breastplate. The pain is astonishing, but I remain standing, trying to organize our withdrawal.
This isn't combat, it's slaughter. In fifteen years of warfare, I've never seen casualties mount so quickly, nor an enemy so impervious to our weapons.
"Full retreat!" I shout, abandoning any pretense of orderly withdrawal. "Fall back to—"
The arrow takes me in the throat, fired from an impossible distance, finding the one vulnerable spot in my otherwise excellent armor. As darkness creeps in from the corners of my vision, my last thought is that we were doomed from the start.
These aren't monsters as we understood them. This is something else entirely. Something new.
Something terrifying.
---
Knight-Captain Reginald of the Iron Fist, Commander of Lord Keenan's Heavy Cavalry
"Riders of the Iron Fist!" I call, raising my lance high. "Those are mere monsters ahead of us! Show them the might of true knights!"
Three hundred of Keenan's finest knights wheel into position behind me, armor gleaming, destriers snorting with anticipation. The sight would strike terror into any foe, we've broken armies with less than half our current strength.
I scan the northern battlefield, assessing the situation. The elite infantry is in retreat, pressed hard by what appears to be orcs with strange metallic skin. Beyond them, disciplined ranks of hobgoblin archers maintain steady fire into our withdrawing forces.
"We'll target the archers," I decide. "Break their support, then flank the orc formation."
A textbook cavalry maneuver, one we've executed flawlessly in a dozen battles. The hobgoblins are caught in the open, perfect prey for a decisive cavalry charge.
"For glory and Keenan!" The battle cry erupts from three hundred throats as I lower my lance and dig spurs into my warhorse's flanks.
The charge begins, our formation perfect despite the uneven ground. The hobgoblins grow larger in my vision with each thundering hoofbeat. At fifty yards, I expect to see panic in their ranks. There is none.
Instead, I see something troubling. The hobgoblin commander, distinguished by elaborate armor and a plumed helmet, signals with quick hand gestures. Immediately, his forces execute a perfect formation change, front ranks kneeling with spears braced while rear ranks maintain archer positions.
"Abort charge!" I shout, suddenly recognizing the danger. "Wheel right!"
My order comes too late. Our momentum is too great, the formation too committed. We crash into their spear wall at full gallop, with predictable results.
The sound is indescribable, horses screaming as they impale themselves on braced spears, knights being catapulted from dying mounts, armor crashing against armor as riders behind collide with those falling before them.
My own mount takes a spear directly in the chest but its momentum carries us through. For one glorious moment, I think we've broken their line.
Then I see what awaits us beyond the initial spear wall.
A company of those metallic orcs has formed a second line, weapons ready. At their center stands a figure that sends a chill through my blood despite my years of battlefield experience. An orc unlike any I've seen, its metallic skin covered in glowing patterns, an axe in its hands that pulses with unnatural energy.
"Blood-warriors!" the creature bellows in a voice that somehow carries over the chaos. "Let their blood fuel our rituals!"
They meet our breakthrough cavalry with systematic brutality. My knights, many unhorsed or riding wounded mounts, are surrounded and methodically butchered. Sir Halwood, a knight who once held a bridge against twenty bandits single-handedly, swings his mace at an orc's head. The weapon connects solidly, but the orc barely flinches before driving a crimson-glowing blade through Halwood's visor.
Sir Tennys charges the leader directly, his lance aimed perfectly at the creature's chest. The Blood Sage, as I hear the other orcs call him, steps aside with shocking agility, grabs the lance shaft as it passes, and uses Tennys's momentum to pull him from his saddle. Before the knight can rise, the Sage's axe falls, splitting armor and man from shoulder to hip.
Meanwhile, hobgoblin archers who survived our initial charge have regrouped with astonishing speed. They loose arrows into our disorganized formation, each shaft finding a vulnerable point with uncanny accuracy, the gap between helmet and gorget, the armpit joint when a knight raises his weapon, the narrow eye slits of our visors.
I rally those knights I can, forming a defensive circle as our casualties mount. We might still break free if we—
Storm clouds materialize as if from nowhere, swirling directly above our charging column. At their center hovers a figure, a transformed hagraven, her wings spread wide, arms raised toward the heavens in obvious spell-casting.
"Weather witch!" I shout in warning, but my voice is lost in the sudden crack of thunder.
Lightning strikes all around me, each bolt finding a knight with precision that defies natural explanation. Sir Halwood takes a direct hit that melts his helmet to his skull. Sir Werren's horse is struck, the animal collapsing instantly and crushing its rider beneath its bulk.
Then comes the rain, not natural water, but a downpour so intense it reduces visibility to mere feet. The ground beneath us turns instantly to mud, causing horses to slip and soldiers to tumble from their saddles. And through this deluge, the hobgoblins' arrows continue to find their marks with inexplicable accuracy, as if the storm affects only our vision, not theirs.
Outside, the metallic orcs advance at normal speed, weapons raised.
The slaughter that follows is methodical and complete. Three hundred knights, the pride of Lord Keenan's army, reduced to butchered meat inside a magical storm. We can't even defend ourselves properly, our feet stuck in the mud as we’re picked off one by one.
As the Blood Sage approaches my position, axe dragging through the bloody mud, I try to raise my sword in one final act of defiance. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.
"Your blood will serve a greater purpose," the Sage intones, metallic skin patterns pulsing faster.
His axe rises, then falls. I feel a moment of searing pain, and then nothing.
---
Death Knight Lord Valen
I have served the darkness for three centuries. I have led armies against elven fortresses, dueled high mages of the ancient lines, and broken the will of nations with my mere presence. Few beings on this continent can claim to have faced me and survived.
Yet as I approach the northern section of the battlefield, I feel something I have not experienced since my mortal days: uncertainty.
"These are not ordinary monsters," I observe to my companions, Knights Morgath and Servidus. "Observe their formations."
The metallic-skinned orcs advance in tight, disciplined ranks under the command of a larger specimen whose body bears glowing ritualistic patterns. Behind them, hobgoblin archers maintain perfect firing lines, systematically eliminating officers and specialists with supernatural precision.
Most concerning is the transformed hagraven hovering above it all. Where she flies, the very weather obeys her will. Storm clouds gather in clear skies, lightning strikes with impossible precision, and gale-force winds blow in direct contradiction to natural patterns, somehow affecting only enemy formations while leaving her allies untouched.
"Mere mortal creatures," Servidus dismisses. "Their flesh will part beneath our blades like all others."
"Do not underestimate them," I caution, but he is already moving toward the nearest orcs, his enchanted greatsword leaving trails of darkness in the air.
I watch as Servidus engages the first line of orcs. His blade, capable of cleaving through stone and steel alike, strikes with enough force to bisect any mortal creature.
The blade connects with an orc's shoulder and bites, but not deeply enough. What should have been a killing blow merely opens a wound that begins closing even as Servidus withdraws his weapon.
The orc counterattacks with shocking speed. Its weapon, glowing with crimson energy I now recognize as blood magic, meets Servidus's parry with force that staggers him. The second blow slides past his guard and connects with his breastplate. Black armor that has withstood dragonfire for two centuries cracks under the impact.
"Impossible," Morgath whispers beside me.
Before Servidus can recover, three more orcs join the first, surrounding him with coordinated precision. Their weapons strike in sequence, each blow precisely timed to exploit the opening created by the previous attack.
Servidus falls, a Death Knight who has survived three hundred years of warfare, defeated in less than thirty seconds by creatures that should be beneath his notice.
"I will end this," Morgath declares, raising his hands to channel necromantic energy.
The wave of death magic ripples outward, a spell that has withered entire infantry companies in past battles. The orcs falter momentarily, their advance slowing as the dark energy washes over them.
But then something unexpected happens. The blood patterns on their skin flare brightly, and they resume their advance with apparently undiminished vigor.
"Their resistance to necromancy is unprecedented," I observe, reassessing our approach. "We must—"
My analysis is interrupted as the sky directly above us darkens with unnatural speed. The hagraven hovers a hundred feet above, her arms weaving patterns of elemental magic that make the air itself respond to her will.
Lightning strikes Morgath without warning, the bolt targeting the precise center of his breastplate where a vulnerability in our necromantic defenses exists. His necrotic flesh smolders as the electricity courses through him.
Before he can recover, the winds around us intensify, forming a vortex that lifts him bodily from the ground. I watch in disbelief as my fellow Death Knight is carried upward, struggling against forces that should not affect our undead forms with such physical power.
At the apex of his unwilling ascent, a second lightning bolt strikes, this one shattering his armor entirely. Black ichor sprays from a dozen wounds as he falls back to earth, landing with a sickening impact that further damages his already compromised form.
"Retreat," I order, a command I have not given in centuries. "These are not mindless monsters. They've been prepared specifically to counter our capabilities."
As we withdraw, the massive orc leader calls out: "Dead thing! Your master's time approaches. Blood magic remembers how to end you!"
Ignoring the taunting, I make my strategic withdrawal. Lord Malachar must be informed immediately. The Monster Lord does not command mere beasts, but something new, something that may fundamentally change the balance of power across the continent.
And perhaps, something that might threaten even the eternal dominion of death itself.
---
Lord Commander Rathmire
"Northern flank is collapsing, sir," Draven reports, his professional composure cracking. "The Death Knights are calling for reinforcement."
Something cold settles in my stomach. Death Knights don't ask for reinforcement. They simply don't.
"Send the reserve infantry," I order, though I already suspect it's too late.
My spyglass reveals the unthinkable, Lord Valen and his companions in retreat. Two Death Knights are missing. Even Valen himself moves with unsteady steps, his once-pristine armor now cracked and smoking in several places.
"This can't be happening," I whisper, my world collapsing around me.
Death Knights don't bleed. Death Knights don't retreat. Death Knights don't lose to orcs and goblins.
But these aren't ordinary monsters. Through my spyglass, I can now see the full extent of the disaster unfolding. The metallic orcs advance in perfect formation under the command of their leader, this "Blood Sage" as I hear him called in the reports. Behind them, the hobgoblin archers maintain perfect discipline, coordinated by what appears to be their own commanding officer, a goblinoid whose tactical gestures result in immediate, flawlessly executed maneuvers.
And above it all hovers that transformed hagraven, her magic manifesting as wild storms that defy natural law, lightning that strikes with surgical precision, winds that buffet only enemy formations while leaving allies untouched, sudden downpours that turn solid ground to mud beneath cavalry charges.
A messenger arrives, breathless and wide-eyed with terror. "The monsters have broken through our northern flank completely, sir! They're advancing directly into our rear positions!"
The implications hit me like a kick to the gut. With our northern flank shattered, our entire battle line is compromised. My central formation, still engaged with the Confederation militia to their front, now faces the prospect of being attacked from behind by this unstoppable monster force.
"Central command reports enemy advancing into their rear areas," Draven shouts, abandoning all pretense of calm. "Our supply lines are cut. Lord Commander, we must withdraw the central forces immediately or risk total encirclement."
The rational part of my mind knows he's right. The northern flank has completely collapsed. If I don't withdraw now, my entire army could be trapped between the Confederation militia to their front and this monster army to their flank and rear.
But retreat means failure. Failure means facing Lord Keenan's disappointment. And Lord Keenan's disappointment is often fatal.
"Central forces will hold position," I decide, grasping at the final straws of potential victory. "Southern flank will accelerate their advance to compensate. We can still break their center before the monsters can fully exploit our northern weakness."
Draven stares at me, clearly wanting to object but too disciplined to question a direct order. "Yes, sir. Central forces hold. Southern advance accelerated."
For fifteen agonizing minutes, I watch as my southern units push forward with redoubled effort, making real gains against the Confederation militia. If they can break through quickly enough, victory might still be salvaged.
But the monster army moves with terrible purpose. The hobgoblin archers now direct their fire into the exposed flank of my central formation while the metallic orcs advance inexorably into our rear positions. Soldiers fall in disturbing numbers, each arrow finding a throat, an eye, a joint in armor with impossible precision.
The hagraven summons a storm directly over my central formation, lightning striking commanders with unerring accuracy while winds strong enough to lift armored men disrupt all attempts at organized resistance.
"Central formation is collapsing, sir," Draven reports, no longer bothering to mask his dismay. "The militia has ordered a general advance. We're being pressed from two sides now."
I stare at the battlefield, watching as two years of planning and preparation disintegrate in less than two hours. My northern flank is completely routed, now just scattered groups of fleeing soldiers pursued by the implacable monster army. My center is collapsing under pressure from front and flank. Only my southern units still maintain some semblance of order, but they're now dangerously isolated.
"Order a general retreat," I finally command, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Priority to preserving command staff and special units."
"Yes, sir," Draven replies, the relief in his voice painfully evident. "Withdrawal pattern three?"
"No," I decide, watching as the monster army continues its methodical advance. "Full retreat. Fastest routes back to our border positions. This is no longer a battle, it's a rout."
As the orders go out, I take one final look at the battlefield. What was once a disciplined army of five thousand now exists only as scattered groups of fleeing men.
And somewhere at the center of this unstoppable force must be the figure our intelligence mentioned only briefly, the human they call the Monster Lord.
I'd dismissed him as a curiosity, probably a minor hedge tamer who'd managed to bind a few creatures to his will. Now, watching the ruins of my army flee before his forces, I understand how catastrophically wrong that assessment was.
This is no ordinary monster band. This is no random mercenary company. This is something new, something that just changed the nature of warfare across the continent.
And as my command group begins its own withdrawal, I am struck by a terrible certainty: Lord Keenan will have me executed for this failure. But after witnessing what I've seen today, I almost welcome that fate.
Because if the Monster Lord decides to expand his territories beyond the swamps, if he chooses conquest rather than mercenary contracts, I don't believe there's an army on this continent that could stop him.
