This isn't my first rodeo when it comes to fanfic in general, but it is my first Lego Movie fanfic. I want to be active in the fandom. So enjoy.
This story takes place in between the first and second Lego Movies. There will be OCs involved, based on my minifigure collection from home. The only content warning I have to issue is one for brick-based violence at times :P
The story might contain Emmetstyle because canon says so, and maybe Bennikitty because I think it's cute. Yeah.
In most cases, Sir Chester the knight would have welcomed an interruption to his mentor's speeches about loyalty and honor, but not when that interruption happened to be an orc attack. His spine stiffened when he saw the green-skinned figures in their leaden helmets appearing as dots on the hilltops a hundred feet away. He gave a start. Actually, before today, he'd never laid eyes on the mythical troll warriors from the outlying regions of Middle Zealand.
"No need to be too scared of them," said his mentor. "There are many of the orcs and troll warriors, but they are weak."
"Why are they always attacking us? I'm always hearing stories about orc invasions."
"Greed. They're drawn to weapons and shiny things, and Middle Zealand has plenty of both. Weren't you taught this as part of your training?"
"I might have forgotten that part."
"I hope you haven't forgotten how to fight, at least."
Orik was Chester's mentor. Of course, most knew him as the famous Golden Knight. The victor of hundreds of battles and hero of many quests. He feared little, except his future, now that age had forced him to retire from grandiose heroism. Now his duty was to train up Chester to succeed him. He lifted his visor, gold-toned like the rest of his armor, to get a better look at the advancing enemy. A horde of about twenty orc ruffians were charging down the hills, headed for the watchtower he guarded with Sir Chester and a company of maybe ten common soldiers.
He cursed the small size of the royal army. It took months to train a civilian into a soldier and years to train a soldier into a knight. Those green imps from the outlands could churn out a hundred of themselves in a week. He scanned the approaching army of hostiles, trying to predict their strategy for this attack on royal land. Sir Chester swallowed hard and moved in next to him.
"Are you ready?" the older knight asked the younger.
"Not really," Sir Chester replied. "I don't know if I've been trained well enough for this..."
"Then this can be your final exam." Sir Orik drew his sword, four feet of gold-toned steel, from its scabbard. "Come. We have a tower to defend."
The two knights led the charge down to the plains below. Shouts and stomping feet sounded in their wake as the other soldiers followed them into battle. The orcs, or troll warriors, stampeded onto the plains in a swarm of green skin, brown leather, and iron weapons. Their ranks were disorganized, save for a slightly larger orc wearing a bright copper helmet, who barked out orders. The general, the warlord, whatever he wanted to call himself as a leader. Orik recognized him; Chester did not. The older knight, disregarding his age, threw himself towards his old foe.
Dagohir saw Orik coming from a mile away. The two had gone head to head countless times before; there were no secrets between them anymore. The orc warlord answered Orik's swinging gold sword with his own rusty machete. The blades clattered together, throwing a few sparks. No bitter banter was exchanged, however. Neither of them was the sort for that. They slashed and lunged, equally matched in skill.
"How many times am I going to have to fight you?" Orik growled, making a swing at the orc, who parried it in an eye's blink.
Dagohir made no response. He struck out with his machete, but it only glanced off the shoulder guards of the Gold Knight's armor. He muttered something unpleasant in his native Trollspeak.
He wiped some sweat from his flat green forehead."Let's make this one the last time."
"At least that's something we can both agree on," said the Gold Knight.
Meanwhile, Chester found himself staring down a group of three orcs, who advanced on him with spears drawn. He raised his iron sword with a shaking arm. When the orcs thrust their weapons at him, he dodged out of the way as instructed and launched himself at the first orc. Before it could react, he stabbed it with his sword, then pulled the blade back off. The dead orc fell to the ground. Its two comrades growled and lunged their spears at Chester again. How the knight wished he had a shield just then! He veered away from their attacks once more, and he beat the sharp spearpoints away with his sword.
"Orik taught you well!" one of the troll warriors said.
"Uh, thanks?" How was Chester supposed to respond to his enemy complimenting him on the battlefield?
"Ha-ha!" The other orc lunged its spear at Chester, taking advantage of the distraction. The spearpoint ripped through the knight's sleeve and cut his arm. He cried out in pain and gripped his arm.
"Hey!"
"Don't get distracted, boy!" taunted the first orc. "I guess Orik didn't teach you well enough."
Angered, both at himself and at the orcs, Chester ignored the wound on his arm to finish fighting. He blocked the incoming spears with his sword, then dove in and slashed his blade down on one of the orcs, slicing a big gash across its chest. The other went in to help its comrade, only for Chester to relieve it of its head. The final orc standing held its chest, growling.
"You..." was all it said before Chester finished it off. He slid his helmet up slightly and wiped the sweat off his brow, looking at the three dead trolls warriors at his feet. Not too bad, really. Now that the adrenaline had worn down, his arm hurt again. It would need a bandage later. But he had to keep ignoring it, for the battle was not yet finished.
Around the young knight, the other soldiers battled the small army of remaining troll warriors. Some men had fallen as casualty, but it seemed that the good guys were winning. The orcs drew back slightly, their morale brought down by losing the upper hand. Chester sighed in relief and scanned the battlefield for Orik.
He gulped. The Gold Knight was in a melee with a bigger, stronger orc wearing a copper helmet. The general of the orc army...Chester had heard the stories. The two combatants knew each other's moves, to the point where their movements looked more like a choreographed dance than a fight. Unlike Orik, the years had had little effect on Dagohir the orc. He was just as spry as he'd been in the Gold Knight's glory days. Already Orik's attacks came on more slowly than Dagohir's, something that troubled Chester greatly. He wasn't ready to see his mentor be struck down during his very first battle as a knight.
Someone shouted a battle cry behind him. He gasped and spun around just in time to avoid getting his throat cut by a knife-wielding orc. He cut his enemy down with a sword slash and looked around for other approaching foes. The royal soldiers held the line, pushing back the orc army. Green bodies littered the ground. Perhaps victory was just around the corner after all.
Orik swung his great golden sword, panting. Dagohir just laughed, barely short of breath.
"You're too old for this, Orik," the orc jeered. "If I can defeat you, I'll have won this battle no matter what. I've wanted to for a long time."
"I'm sure you have." Orik struck at his machete, hoping to knock it out of his hands.
They exchanged a few more blows. Then a younger troll warrior came charging up the hill.
"General!" they gasped. "We're losing men fast."
"What?" Dagohir had been too absorbed in his mano-e-mano to notice that.
"I think we have to retreat. We're losing. Badly."
Dagohir said something obscene in Trollspeak. "Sniveling cowards...Fine, then. We'll retreat."
"Are you surrendering?"
Dagohir ignored him, screaming to his soldiers instead."Fall back! Company, retreat!"
The troll warriors turned and ran back to whence they'd came, leaving cheering royal soldiers in their wake. Chester raised his sword to the sky and shouted for joy. The enemy hadn't even gotten near the tower. What a great result! He felt so accomplished.
"You were saying something interesting about defeating me?" Orik teased Dagohir. "Or do you want to finish this quick?"
"Oh, shut up," Dagohir growled. "Forget what I said before. I'll fight you again. I'll fight you until the day we both die!"
He spat on the ground near the Gold Knight's feet, then ran after his fleeing soldiers. The company of royal soldiers parted to let him leave. Orik gave them no orders to attack or even detain Dagohir, so they let the troll warlord leave on his own terms.
Chester hurried up to Orik's side. "You're letting him leave? Why?"
"He said it himself. We'll fight some other day." The Gold Knight removed his helmet and shook out his graying hair. "He and I have fought each other since before you were born. I respect him too much to just let one of the soldiers off him on the field. If I defeat him, it's in battle with the honor of a warrior. You know how that works, Chester."
"Well, yeah," said the younger knight, "but still. You had such a chance to finally get rid of him."
"Chester." Orik's tone was firm. "Do not debate this with me. The battle is over; no need to argue over it. Besides, it's almost time for dinner."
Chester also pulled off his helmet, revealing his mousy brown hair. He dabbed some sweat off his face. He and his mentor approached the company of royal soldiers to take a record of casulaties. There had been some, unfortunately, and now they had to be accounted for. Each fallen soldier had to be given the highest honor for their service.
"Good work today, Chester," Orik said. "From what I glimpsed of your action on the battlefield today, you are a fine knight. Just as I suspected."
"Are you congratulating yourself?" Chester asked with a lopsided smile. "You were the one who trained me, after all."
Orik laughed. "Well, perhaps just a little."
Dagohir pushed weeds and thornbushes and dead saplings out of his way as he marched through the depths of the woods. These were the Wailing Woods at the edge of Middle Zealand, a forest where few dared venture. A few of his soldiers followed him through the brush, especially his lackey Gruntgut. When the foliage got too thick, Dagohir cut it away with a swipe of his machete. He muttered, in his native Trollspeak, every curse and cuss word he knew. He hated to lose battles, and he hated to lose soldiers. What would the other warlords think of him for losing a simple tower attack?
Finally, he broke past a tree line and came to the foot of a rocky cliffside. A dark cave opening yawned in its side, grown over partially with ivy. But he knew better than to think the place was unoccupied.
"This is the place," Dagohir told his followers. "Now wait here."
"Can I come?" Gruntgut pleaded. The smaller troll warrior grabbed hold of Dagohir's leather shirt.
"I suppose," the warlord conceded, "but you can't cling to me like a child. Have some dignity, for love's sake."
"Sorry." Gruntgut let go of him. The two troll warriors walked up to the mouth of the cave. Dagohir slid his machete into its scabbard and motioned for Gruntgut to leave his hand axe at the door. So he leaned it against the rock wall, and then they both entered the cave.
They passed through a short tunnel before coming to a cold chamber. A few candles barely lit the room, casting an eldritch glow over the shelves of magical items stocked inside. An empty cauldron sat in the center of the chamber. An undead skeleton horse waited in the corner, using its hind hoof to scratch at its nose.
"Ah, Dagohir," said an undead skeleton wearing a long black cape with a hood. "How did the battle go?"
"The way you wanted it to," said the warlord, sounding almost hurt, "but not the way I wanted. I hope you're happy, Reaper."
"'Happy' isn't quite the right word." Reaper's red eyes glimmered under the hood. "'Pleased' might be more appropriate."
Dagohir rolled his eyes. "I sacrificed my soldiers and part of my reputation for this plan of yours. It had better be worth it."
Reaper sighed and pulled a cloth bag from the pocket of his cloak. He tossed it towards Dagohir. The pouch skidded across the floor and stopped at the troll warrior's feet.
"If you've cheated me..."
"Relax. I'm a skeleton of my word."
Dagohir grunted, but picked up the pouch and opened it to examine its contents. Lots of shiny gold coins and some jewels greeted him. He nodded grimly.
"Worth it?" Reaper asked.
"Sure." Dagohir strung the pouch onto his belt. The gold and gems were worth at least the same as whatever treasure he'd get from sacking the tower. "I just want to know why you needed my help. Why not butcher your own skeleton warriors for this?"
"I don't have that many," Reaper answered, rather testily. "To make skeleton warriors, I have to raid cemeteries without being seen, find whole skeletons and not random bones, use up my limited magical resources on necromancy spells to reanimate them, and then train them myself to be soldiers. This takes far more time, effort, and resources than you realize. All you have to do is recruit ruffians from the wilderness. Your race is practically born and raised to fight."
Dagohir grunted. "Fair enough. So I attacked one of the royal guard towers and lost the fight on purpose. Now what?"
"False security, that's what," Reaper replied. "It won't be long before news of the victory reaches their King Dominic at his castle. They will not expect anything to happen so soon after an incident like this. Which makes this the optimal time to carry out the rest of my plan."
"I thought you already had a plan! What would that even be?"
"To change my destiny—all our destinies," Reaper answered. "I see the story play out all the time; in fact, it happened just today. Tell me, Dagohir. When was the last time the undead skeletons or the troll warriors won a war here in New Zealand? We have won battles every now and then, but have we ever gotten to rule from the King's Castle?"
Dagohir shook his head. "Uh, never."
Reaper slammed his bony hand on the rim of the cauldron. "Exactly! It's the same across all the themes. The Castle army always defeats us skeletons and orcs. The Space Police always catch the Blacktron and Black Hole Gang. The Rock Raiders and Power Miners always fight off the rock monsters. The Imperial Armada always has better weaponry than the Pirates. The Jedi will beat the Sith every time. When Batman and the Joker go head-to-head, Batman wins invariably. Need I go on?"
"I get the idea."
"The deck is always stacked against us 'bad guys.' When I'm in charge, though, things will be different. I say it's high time the villains came out on top for once."
"But...isn't that what we usually try anyway?"
"No, we haven't, because we've never thought outside of the box. We need to be aware of the storytelling at play. We can't respond to things as they; we have to be proactive. If us villains will ever win, we have to be surprising."
"I don't think your plan is going to work."
"Don't be so quick to judge, orc," Reaper said. "Are you going to stay with me in my plan? Or do you want to keep fighting predestined battles?"
The orc's hand moved away from the handle of his machete. "...Go on."
"I've got an idea, Dagohir, and I think it will help our cause greatly. You see, the world's greatest heroes have the gathering of the Master Builders to keep organized. We villains have no such luxuries. We're scattered, disorganized, and it's only the more advanced of us that even know about other themes."
"That's true." Dagohir had yet to encounter any other troll warriors that knew about the existence of other themes. He himself hadn't heard about them until he met Reaper.
"Why not make an assembly of villains? If we can gather the elite rogues, monsters, and villains of all the themes, imagine the potential. Great minds, great power, great ideas. We could be the Master Destroyers."
"I like the idea," said the troll warlord, "but we'd never be able to do it. The Master Builders would sense something was up. They might even call on the Special to put a stop to it."
"Don't worry about that," Reaper assured him. "I already know what I'll do about him."