It's mid-afternoon when the commotion reaches our camp—shouts, the pounding of running feet, and the unmistakable clash of weapons. I'm reviewing maps with Gorthal when one of our goblin scouts rushes in, yellow eyes wide with excitement.

  "Master! Humans on east perimeter! Being chased by other humans with weapons!"

  I exchange glances with Gorthal, whose ritual scars pulse with interest. "How many?"

  "Ten villagers, maybe," the goblin reports. "Twenty bandits following. Our patrol intercepted, waiting for orders."

  Perfect timing. We've been building this monster army for days, and now we have a chance to test it in a controlled situation—and potentially gain some goodwill in the process. Having nearby settlements see us as protectors rather than threats would be strategically advantageous.

  "Send word to hold position," I order. "Gorthal, gather fifty orc warriors and thirty goblin archers. Let's see what this is about before we start killing."

  The blood-priest grins, his tusks gleaming. "Good opportunity to test formation three."

  Minutes later, we're approaching our eastern perimeter where our patrol—ten enhanced goblins under one of Nerk's lieutenants—has formed a protective barrier between a group of ragged-looking humans and their pursuers. The villagers look terrified, and not just of the bandits—the sight of our approaching force, led by a towering blood-priest and his orc warriors, nearly sends them running again.

  The bandits look more professional—leather armor, decent weapons, disciplined spacing. Their leader, a scarred man with a shaved head and a nasty-looking flail, holds up his hand to halt his men as we approach. His eyes narrow as he assesses our unusual company.

  "This isn't your business, whatever the fuck you are," he calls out. "These people owe protection money to Black Scar Company. They haven't paid."

  I step forward, Gorthal looming behind me like a green-skinned shadow of death. "These people are now under my protection. Leave."

  The bandit leader laughs, though I notice his eyes dart nervously to our growing force as the goblin archers take position on a small rise, arrows nocked. "And who the fuck might you be?"

  "Someone who controls monsters," I reply simply. "Someone whose patience is limited."

  As if to emphasize my point, Gorthal draws Blackjaw's axe from his back, its black metal surface seeming to drink in the afternoon sunlight. The blood-priest performs a small ritual, slicing his palm against the blade edge. The axe begins to glow with crimson energy, and the orcs behind him growl in anticipation.

  The bandit leader's confidence visibly falters, but he's either too proud or too stupid to retreat immediately. "Look, we don't want trouble with... whatever this is. But our boss expects payment from these villages. We don't collect, he kills us. Simple business."

  One of the villagers, an older man with a farmer's weathered face, steps forward despite his obvious fear. "Please, sir... monsters... whatever you are," he addresses me uncertainly. "Black Scar's been bleeding us dry for months. Lord Keenan does nothing. We couldn't pay this time, crops failed in the eastern fields. They burned Davrik's house as warning, said they'd take his daughters next."

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  Keenan again. The corrupt lord from Hillbrook whose "advisor" was a Death Knight. Interesting connection.

  "You have a camp?" I ask the bandit leader, ignoring the farmer's plea for the moment.

  The man shifts uncomfortably, clearly recognizing the situation has deteriorated beyond his control. "Look, we're just following orders—"

  "Where. Is. Your. Camp?" I repeat, signaling Gorthal to step forward. The blood-priest moves with predatory grace, the glowing axe held casually but prominently.

  "Redwater Crossing," the bandit leader admits reluctantly. "Old fort ruins. Bout two hours northeast. But there's sixty more men there, well-armed. You'd be smart to—"

  "Gorthal," I interrupt, "formation three. Non-lethal containment."

  What happens next is a testament to our training over the past weeks. With mechanical precision, our forces execute a containment maneuver—goblin archers laying down suppressive fire that deliberately misses but forces the bandits into a tighter group, while orc warriors rapidly encircle them in an unbroken ring of muscle and steel.

  The bandit leader realizes too late that retreat is impossible. Within moments, his twenty men are completely surrounded, outmatched, and outclassed.

  "Here's what happens now," I tell him, satisfied with the demonstration. "Your men surrender their weapons. You personally lead us to Redwater Crossing. If you cooperate, you live. If you don't..." I gesture to Gorthal, who grins malevolently, tusks gleaming.

  The bandits surrender with minimal resistance, recognizing the overwhelming force arrayed against them. As our goblins collect their weapons, I turn to the villagers, who watch the proceedings with a mixture of fear and cautious hope.

  "Where are you from?" I ask the older man who spoke earlier.

  "Meadowvale, sir," he replies, still eyeing our monstrous forces warily. "Small farming village, two hours west. These others are from Riverbend, just south of us. We were coming to Hillbrook to beg Lord Keenan for protection, but..." he gestures to the captured bandits, "they caught us on the road."

  "Keenan won't help you," I tell him bluntly. "He's profiting from your suffering."

  The villagers exchange glances, this confirmation of their suspicions clearly disturbing them.

  "What... what will you do with us?" a younger woman asks, clutching a small child to her chest.

  What indeed? These humans could be useful. Not just as potential informants about the region, but as the beginning of a different kind of reputation for my monster army. One that might prove strategically valuable.

  "Nothing," I reply. "You're free to return to your villages. But first, you're going to watch what happens when someone threatens those under my protection."

  I turn to Gorthal. "Prepare a larger force. We're going to Redwater Crossing to eliminate this 'Black Scar Company.' These villagers will witness it, then spread the word about what happens to those who prey on the weak in our territory."

  The blood-priest's ritual scars pulse with anticipation. "Full combat deployment?"

  "Yes. One hundred orc warriors, fifty goblin archers, both ogres. We'll leave adequate forces here to maintain camp security." I turn back to the trembling villagers. "Today, you'll see why it's better to have monsters as allies than humans as lords."

  As Gorthal marshals our forces and secures the captured bandits, I consider the opportunity this presents. A decisive victory against these bandits will serve multiple purposes: testing our army's capabilities in actual combat, establishing our reputation in the region, and sending a message to Lord Keenan that his corrupt arrangements are no longer viable.

  It's time to show what my monster army can do.