Drog's Raid Begins
The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning torches. The human caravan trundled along the dirt road, its wooden wheels creaking under the weight of supplies. Guards clad in steel armor rode alongside it, their hands resting on sword hilts, eyes scanning the surrounding darkness.
Drog crouched low in the underbrush, his broad, muscular frame hidden beneath a thick layer of mud and leaves. His breath was steady, but his heart pounded like a war drum. His warband—an eclectic mix of goblins, orcs, and lizardmen—lay in wait around him. Some twitched in anticipation, others held onto their weapons with white-knuckled grips.
"Steady," Drog murmured, barely above a whisper. The goblin beside him, Tizzik, flinched at the sound, his bony fingers tightening around his poisoned daggers.
"Too many knights," Tizzik hissed. "We strike now, we die fast."
Drog grinned, baring his tusks. "Then we don't die."
With a sharp motion, he raised his hand and let out a low growl—the signal. Shadows moved. The night erupted.
A dozen arrows sliced through the darkness, finding their marks in unarmored throats and exposed flesh. Choking gurgles replaced idle conversation as human guards collapsed. Before the remaining soldiers could react, the warband surged forward.
Drog barreled through the tall grass like a living battering ram, his massive axe catching the torchlight before it came crashing down on the nearest knight. The impact rang out like a bell, the force behind it crumpling steel and bone alike.
"AMBUSH!" A human voice shrieked, but it was already too late.
The warband fell upon them like starving wolves. Goblins, Drog's kind, swarmed under shields, slitting tendons and stabbing at weak points. Lizardmen moved with unnatural speed, their curved blades carving through flesh. The orcs swung their weapons with brutal efficiency, each strike felling a man.
But the humans were prepared.
A blast of white-hot magic seared the air as a robed figure raised a staff. Drog barely managed to hurl himself aside before a bolt of energy scorched the ground where he had stood. He snarled, rolling to his feet.
"Kill the mage!" he roared.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The battle raged. Blood soaked into the dirt. Metal clashed against metal, screams of agony and rage filling the air. Drog relished the chaos, but something felt off.
His warriors were faltering. Not all of them—but enough.
He saw it. One of the goblins, a scrawny thing named Rik, stood frozen. His dagger trembled in his grip as a human knight loomed over him, sword raised.
"MOVE!" Drog bellowed, but Rik didn't react.
Steel flashed.
At the last second, another goblin shoved Rik aside, taking the blade meant for him. A sickening crunch followed as the knight finished the job, wrenching his sword free. The goblin slumped to the ground, lifeless.
Rik gasped. His legs buckled. He turned and ran.
"Coward," Drog growled, watching Rik disappear into the trees. His hesitation had cost them dearly. Worse, the humans had noticed the moment of weakness.
Reinforcements were coming. He could hear the distant thunder of hooves, the rallying cries of fresh soldiers.
A decision had to be made.
"Drog," Tizzik shouted, sliding up beside him, eyes wild. "We go or we die!"
Drog clenched his jaw. His mission was to take the supplies. But his warriors—his warband—wouldn't survive a prolonged fight.
His hands tightened around his axe. Leonhart will kill me if I fail. No. Worse… he'll be disappointed.
Drog let out a frustrated snarl. "Fall back! Grab what you can and MOVE!"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The retreat was messy. They had managed to snatch sacks of grain, crates of weapons, and a few barrels of salted meat, but the price had been steep. The warband limped back to the monster city, bruised and battered.
The monster city loomed in the distance, torches flickering atop its walls. Drog staggered through the gates, dragging one leg behind him. His armor was slick with blood, not all of it his own.
The warband followed, weary but alive.
He should've felt victorious.
He didn't.
They had succeeded. But at what cost?
He could still see the goblin who had died for nothing. Still feel the sting of Rik's cowardice. Still hear the distant sound of hooves pounding against the earth, marking the moment he had been forced to abandon the fight.
And now, he had to face Leonhart…
Drog barely had time to breathe before he feltthe sudden weight of golden eyes locking onto him. He looked up.
Leonhart stood at the entrance of the fortress, arms crossed. His face was unreadable. There was no anger in his expression.
That was worse.
For the first time in a long while, Drog felt small.
He opened his mouth, but Leonhart spoke first.
"Inside. Now."
Drog swallowed and obeyed.
The war room was empty except for the two of them. The silence stretched, thick with tension.
Drog swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck as he approached. " "Look, I know it wasn't clean, but we got the-"
Leonhart held up a hand. Drog fell silent.
For a long moment, Leonhart just stared at him, gaze cold, calculating. Then, he spoke.
"I gave you one order: strike, take, survive." His tone was even, too even. "You failed the last part."
Drog bristled. "We had no choice. One of the goblins—"
"I don't want excuses." Leonhart's voice was quiet, but it cut through Drog's like a blade.
Silence stretched between them
Finally, Leonhart spoke again.
"Next time, there won't be a next time."
Drog stiffened. There was no need for further explanation.
Leonhart turned away, his cloak billowing behind him. "Rest. Recover. We'll talk strategy tomorrow."
Drog let out a heavy breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He had expected fury. Expected a punishment.
Instead, he had been given something far worse: cold disappointment.