They were pushing the goblins back. A sliver of hope returned. Maybe they could win this. But then the goblins' true nature revealed itself. The one who was kicked off the wall didn't fall; she pushed off it with an acrobatic flip, landing behind the bandit who had kicked her.
As the lead bandit scrambled to his feet, slipping in his own blood, he saw it. Two goblins would engage one of his men, their movements a blur, keeping him constantly on the defensive. Then, the other four would converge on another target, overwhelming him with sheer numbers and coordinated attacks. A tactical dismantlement.
One bandit cried out when a dagger slipped under his guard, piercing his side. He stumbled back, clutching the wound, and was immediately set upon by two more goblins, who began flanking him, their blades darting in.
The lead bandit raised his sword, but the goblin with the whip was on him again, her weapon lashing out, entangling his arm so he couldn't raise his guard. The other goblins were on him in an instant, their crude weapons finding every gap in his armor. He went down in a frantic, panicked struggle, the fleshy floor swallowing his screams.
The final bandit was cornered. He was bleeding from a dozen small cuts, his energy spent. He saw the goblin archers calmly nocking their arrows, aiming to cripple. The goblin with the whip approached slowly, her head cocked, a cruel, almost bored expression on her face. She was a hunter, and he was her exhausted prey. He had lost. They all had.
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From the roof of the manor, Lyssandra watched the carnage unfold across her domain with a detached interest. The symphony of screams and the slashing sounds of slaughter was music to the ears. It was the sound of her power, her control.
'Everything is falling into pieces,' she mused, a pleased smile touching her lips. 'Just as it should.'
Her gaze drifted from chamber to chamber. In one, a gang of bandits was being systematically dismembered by her ice slimes, their frozen bodies shattering on the stone floor. In another, her goblins children were herding captured survivors, their weapons poking the terrified men into a tight, cowering group.
Then her attention sharpened. In a larger, circular chamber, two figures were still putting up a fight. A pair of bandits, back to back, were defiantly holding their ground.
'Hmmp? He has potential.' A flicker of genuine interest sparked in her eyes. She leaned forward, her long, blonde hair cascading over the edge of the roof, getting a better view.
These were no mere ruffians. One was an older, grizzled man, his movements economical and precise, his face a mask of grim determination. The other was younger, leaner, his fear barely concealed beneath a veneer of frantic aggression.
They were fighting her hobgoblins. A pair of hobgoblins, armed with crude axes and large, wooden shields, were circling them. The fight was a controlled, sadistic dance.
The younger bandit would lunge with a wild swing, and the hobgoblin would casually deflect it with his shield, his movement lazy, almost contemptuous.
The older bandit would try to exploit the opening, only for the other hobgoblin to step in, his axe swinging in a slow, heavy arc that forced the veteran back.
They were not trying to kill them. That was clear. The hobgoblins were toying with them, treating the battle as a sport.
The dynamic of the fight shifted in an instant.
The older bandit, seeing a momentary opening, exploded forward. His movements, once steady and conservative, became fluid and deadly the moment he switched from the broken axe to a sword.
A feint to the lower body drew the hobgoblin's defense exactly where he wanted it. Then the old man immediately redirected the cut, the weapon sweeping upward in a bright arc. The strike landed cleanly on the shoulder, shearing through leather and biting deep.
The hobgoblin grunted, a deep, guttural sound of surprise and pain. It staggered back, its arm momentarily numb.
'Enough of this,' Lyssandra's thought echoed in their minds, a command that brooked no argument. 'End the fight and keep him alive.'
The injured hobgoblin's demeanor changed instantly. The lazy contempt was gone, replaced by brutal efficiency. It dropped its shield, and with its good arm, grabbed the younger bandit by the throat, lifting him off his feet with terrifying strength.
As the younger bandit was captured, the hobgoblin with the axe turned its full attention to the veteran. But the man was a seasoned warrior.
He didn't panic though. Seizing the moment, he pressed his momentary advantage, his sword a blur of steel, aiming for the hobgoblin's throat and eyes. The hobgoblin was forced to retreat, parrying and dodging, its shield held up high.
The veteran was skilled, his movements precise, his footwork impeccable. He was a tornado of controlled motion, and it took all the hobgoblin's focus just to survive.
But then from the side two more hobgoblins joined. They simply moved to flank the swordsman, their arms held wide, their expressions blank.
The veteran saw them. His blade was fast, but not fast enough to fight in three directions at once. He spun, his sword lashing out, keeping the newcomers at bay for a few seconds. But the wounded hobgoblin was already recovering, its good hand finding its axe.
Now he was trapped. The wounded hobgoblin came in from the front, while the other two began to close the distance from the sides. He tried to break past one, but a heavy shield slammed into him, knocking him back.
He parried a blow from the axe, but as he did, one of the other hobgoblins lunged and grabbed his sword arm. Its grip was like iron.
The veteran's eyes widened as he realized they weren't trying to kill but to capture. He struggled, kicking and twisting, but the third hobgoblin was on him, its massive fist slammed on his face. The fight was over. They dragged him down, his body thrashing, until he was finally subdued, his weapon clattering from his grip and onto the floor.
"First phase done," Lyssandra announced, her voice cutting through the groans of the captured bandits inside her head.
"I got the gist of the mana generated from the dead inside the dungeon." A wave of her hand, and a flicker of dark energy pulsed from the system interface.
"Now for the other test." She looked down from the rooftop, spotting a small, swift goblin messenger scurrying around.
"Did the thing I ordered get finished making?" she called out, her voice carrying an authority that made the goblins below freeze for a moment.
The messenger skidded to a halt and looked up. "Yes, Great One! The 'pillory' thing you ordered has all been finished!"
"Very well." With that, Lyssandra didn't bother with stairs or doors.
She leaped from the rooftop, her bodysuit-clad form a dark streak against the fleshy red walls then reappeared in an instant on the second floor, the level of the dungeon she had let her underlings use.
Here, the air was packed, and the architecture was crude and functional. The hobgoblins lived here, their barracks and training grounds orderly and disciplined. But the centerpiece of the floor, the project she had been so eager to see, dominated the vast cavern.
In the middle of the second floor, arranged in neat, terrifying rows, were dozens of brand-new pillories. Each one was made from the dark, resilient wood found only in the Withering Jungle, polished to a glossy, almost black sheen. They stood empty, waiting for their first occupants.
Lyssandra clapped her hands once, a sharp, commanding sound that silenced every noise in the cavern.
"Bring them out."
On cue, hobgoblins began leading out the surviving bandits. There were about twenty of them, a mix of the terrified, the defiant, and the broken. They had all been bandaged, crude but effective poultices applied to their wounds to ensure they wouldn't bleed to death.