Ogre King Methalain

Tiny, arrogant Narnian kings with their bright blades and army of unnatural beasts. They stood across the battle plain dividing our armies. Shining in metal and blood-red cloth and they thought that they could stop me. They said I cannot come, cannot have their land. Who were they, these pale kings, these cocksure whelps that swear by a cat and wear his symbol? Who were they to defy me, Methalain, King of Mount Roon? What kind of land had two kings? What kind of land needed two queens? What kind of king would be fool enough to share his power with females, let alone allow a brother to live? How could anything so insignificant and cheap as these kings think they could win against my might?

"No prisoners," I ordered my generals. "Just bring the Narnian kings to me."

They took that as orders to attack and I did not correct them. The Giants had said Narnia would never attack first and it seemed they spoke the truth. Cowards! I despised them even more.

My troops surged forward with a yell that shook the mountains to their very bones. Across from me, the so-called High King of Narnia gestured with his sword. His army did not move, clearly paralyzed with fear and awe. I laughed at them and my aides laughed with me. I had never eaten Centaur or Human. I was looking forward to both.

But then from above came a shrieking sound and grotesque winged beasts bombarded my charging soldiers with stones. The lesser king gave a shout and archers secreted in the hills on all sides let loose with a rain of arrows that decimated my troops and drove then wild with pain and fear.

A rock struck the officer standing but three away from me, crushing him into the earth. I lunged away disgracefully, knocking my iron crown askew. Had it been anyone else the Ogres around me would have been laughing, and their silence made it all the worse. I picked myself up and looked at the smashed body of my kin. It could have been me. My people do not use such paltry weapons. We use spears and swords and clubs. We strike when an enemy is in range, not from afar.

My Ogres swarmed over the field, shouting their war-cries and shaking the earth with their steps regardless of the archers. Narnia's deceitful little ruler gave a command and the army poured forward as a whole, a solid wedge of animals and beasts. I ordered more of my people forward, striking those who did not move quickly enough with my fists, cursing them roundly for being despicable cowards to be oudone by children and animals.

Looking back to the field just as the Narnian army collided with mine, I saw their lines hold firm and whatever discipline my soldiers had crumble beneath the steady direction of the kings. Spears and swords and hooves and teeth and talons ripped into my soldiers with a terrific roar. I watched, and in that instant, I knew there was only one hope for victory.

I stared at the Humans across the plain, hating them and everything they stood for. They were clever and dishonorable, these kings. I had not anticipated this, this rout by these Talking Animals and strange, vile beasts. It angered me until I saw nothing but red. Blood red. Emblazoned with a golden lion.

For this affront, I would kill Narnia's kings myself.