Arc VI Chapter: 2 Two Heads Are Better Than One

Harrowhall still stood, but it bled.

Deep within its stone-boned depths, far beyond the shattered Hammergate and the feasting grounds of the trolls, the last defenses gathered not in panic, not in retreat, but in grim, grinding resistance. Maggra stood at the center of it all.

The great hall she had claimed was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, its pillars thick as ancient trees. The stone floor was slick in places, darkened by blood both fresh and dried. The air smelled of rot and iron, damp earth and spent magic her magic.

Undead moved through the corridors like tireless sentinels. Troll corpses, freshly raised, dragged themselves into position along choke points and narrow passages, their hulking forms now bound to her will. Others patrolled in slow, unending circuits, forming a living barrier of death that never slept, never faltered. They held the outer paths, absorbing the first waves, buying precious moments with every broken body.

Around them, the living gathered.

Fleshfeeders crouched low along the walls, their eyes sharp and restless, eager for the next clash. Blackgrin orcs stood in tight formation, weapons gripped in calloused hands, their usual arrogance tempered into something harder focus. Ironhide and Gorehill ogres loomed behind them, massive and immovable, ready to meet any force that broke through.

The Blight-Tusks were different.

They were thriving.

Their thick hides were slick with troll rot, their tusks stained dark from the flesh they had consumed. They stamped and snorted in restless anticipation, their bellies full for the first time in days, their spirits lifted by the feast of fallen trolls. They tore into the corpses where they lay, dragging pieces away, devouring without shame or restraint and in doing so, denied the enemy their dead. What they could not eat, they ruined.

They were not just surviving.

They were reveling.

And among them like clockwork.

Ravha’s children worked.

Not lurking. Not waiting.

Working.

They moved across walls and ceilings with terrifying precision, laying down layers of silk across tunnels and choke points. Webbing thickened corridors into deathtraps sticky, resilient strands designed to slow and separate advancing trolls. Some threads glistened faintly, laced with venom. Others were nearly invisible, stretched at neck height or coiled beneath loose stone.

When trolls pushed too far, the spiders struck.

Quick. Coordinated. Efficient.

A troll would stumble, slowed by webbing then limbs would lash from above, dragging it off balance. Fangs would pierce, venom would flood, and within moments the creature would collapse either for the Blight-Tusks to consume or for Maggra to claim.

They were not just part of the defense.

They were shaping it.

At Maggra’s side stood Grond.

The Graveheart loomed like a monument, his undead form towering above nearly all others. His massive greatsword rested point-down against the stone, its edge chipped, stained, and thick with gore but still eager.

The goblins had given it a name.

Trollbane.

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Grond did not react to the name.

But he wielded it all the same.

He had already slain dozens.

Perhaps more.

No one counted.

They only knew when Grond moved?

Trolls died.

Maggra’s twin heads turned slowly as she surveyed the gathered host. One face calm and measured, the other sharp with biting edge.

“Look at them,” the calmer head murmured. “Still standing.”

“Barely,” the other replied with a snort.

A low murmur rippled through the assembled forces as Maggra stepped forward, her presence alone commanding attention. Even the Blight-Tusks quieted. Even the spiders paused in their weaving.

“We hold here,” Maggra said, her primary voice carrying through the chamber, low and steady. “Not for glory. Not for pride.”

Her gaze swept across them all ogres, orcs, goblins, beasts, and brood alike.

“For time.”

A pause.

“For him.”

Her second head clicked its tongue.

“Fanglord needs us to buy time for his return.”

A scoff followed immediately.

“Fanglord probably dead.”

Unease flickered through the room, but Maggra did not argue with herself not truly. Instead, her calmer voice cut back through the tension.

“Dead or not,” she said, “we hold.”

That settled it.

Not hope.

Not comfort.

Purpose.

“We choke them in the tunnels,” she continued. “We bleed them at every turn. Every step they take costs them.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Grond.

“You break anything that gets through.”

Grond did not speak.

He shifted.

That was enough.

Maggra turned back to the host.

“Undead hold the outer paths. Living strike where needed. Spiders bind and break their movement. Blight-Tusks strip what falls. No wasted strength.”

Her second head grinned.

“Oh, we’ll waste plenty of theirs.”

A few of the Blackgrin let out low, approving grunts.

Maggra lifted one hand, necromantic energy flickering faintly along her fingers. Far beyond the hall, her undead responded tightening formations, reinforcing weak points, sealing cracks before they could widen.

She could feel the trolls.

Pressing.

Searching.

Hungry.

Let them come.

“We are what stands between them and the heart,” she said, her voice lowering, darkening.

“And we are not done yet.”

The hall fell silent not with fear, but readiness.

Grond lifted Trollbane from the stone. The weight of it echoed through the chamber like a promise.

Somewhere above them, deeper in the tunnels, a distant roar of trolls carried downward.

Closer now.

Maggra smiled.

Both mouths.

“Good,” one head said.

“Let them come,” the other finished.

Varkha paced in restless circles around Maggra, his massive frame low and tense, muscles coiled beneath dark fur streaked with blood and ash. One of his forepaws was torn open, the wound fresh and ugly, leaving smeared prints across the stone with every step he took. His flanks bore new scars deep, jagged claw marks where trolls had tried and failed to bring him down.

Behind him, what remained of the packs lingered. They were fewer now, thinner from the fighting, but not broken. They watched the tunnels with unblinking focus. They listened to every shift of stone, every distant echo. And they waited.

They could not reach Maz.

The Hammergate had fallen, and the path was sealed in blood and trolls.

So they stayed.

Here.

With Maggra.

With the Maw.

Varkha slowed, then paused in his pacing, his head turning toward her. His eyes sharp, intelligent held there for a moment, not as a beast’s gaze, but as something that understood. Maggra’s calmer head inclined slightly in acknowledgment, while her other head huffed softly.

“Good,” it muttered. “We’ll need teeth.”

Varkha’s lips curled faintly, exposing blood-stained fangs, before he resumed his pacing closer now, tighter to her position.

Guarding.

A Harrowhall?

Still held for now.