Henry unbuckled and stood, working the stiffness out of his back. Twenty minutes on webbing had his ass going numb, which was pretty much the standard Chinook experience. The dwarves though? They'd gotten up like they'd been chilling in recliners. Either they had some kind of enchantment for comfort, or – knowing dwarves – sitting on unforgiving surfaces for hours probably was their idea of normal. Minus the flying, of course.

He moved to the ramp. Outside, the villagers had calmed down – mostly. The Councilors and Royal Guard had done the heavy lifting, familiar faces making the incomprehensible slightly less terrifying. It was real convenient, if not a bit odd.

Though, granted, Henry would probably listen to a bunch of gray aliens if they rolled up with POTUS vouching for them. Well, as long as it was President Keener, and not any of his predecessors.

Anyway, the Councilor in charge of agriculture – Boral, the guy with family around here – continued working the crowd out there, voice carrying over the wind. It was a bit hard to hear over the sound of multiple helos overhead, but he got the gist: something along the lines of 'yes, the metal birds are friendly' and 'please don't panic.'

Perry sidled up next to him, overlooking the crowd. "Say, what'd you make of the dwarves' read on our equipment?"

Henry's mind went back to the observation point. The moment those JDAMs impacted, every dwarf in the Chinook had pretty much crashed – complete cognitive shutdown across the board. Even their Warmaster had looked stunned for a good minute before he managed to rein in his shock and slap on a pretty convincing poker face. Good recovery, all things considered. But those first few seconds had already said everything.

"Well… their Warmaster pulled it together damn quick," Henry said. "But yeah, I'd say we got the money shot, if that's what you're asking."

Perry nodded. "Yeah, definitely. Based on their reactions alone, I'm fairly convinced that we've got the airspace deal in the bag, with the rest to follow. But that's not what really got me. It was Forgemaster Pragen."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "The missile talk?"

"Yes, the missile talk. Sensors, computing – obviously, he doesn't have the underlying principles, but he was surely tracking."

Henry had flagged it then, but it didn't really occur to him just how baffling that was until now. Seemed like a crazy stretch, having medieval craftsmen understand engineering concepts centuries ahead of their time. Then again… golems.

They already had autonomous constructs, which meant stuff like programmed behavior, target recognition, execution of complex tasks. The conceptual gap between 'magic rock that thinks' and, well, 'rock that's been tricked into thinking' wasn't actually that massive.

Henry had to wonder. "You're not gonna try to trade computers and phones, are you?"

Perry laughed and shook his head. "Absolutely not! It's more of a baseline thing. Conceptual horizons."

Small talk like this didn't seem super characteristic of Perry, so he had to be going somewhere with this. Henry played along. "Makes trade easier, I'm guessing? Can't sell someone on tech they can't conceptualize? No mental model means no perceived value."

"Right. Think about it – you offer a medieval king a rifle, then a smartphone. The phone's objectively more valuable, at least from our perspective. But the king will pick the rifle every single time, because he can immediately visualize the application. The phone just looks like a magic mirror that shows pictures. Can't assign value to something you can't understand."

"Yeah, totally," Henry said. "But how does that change anything? Even if they know how useful an AMRAAM is, they can't exactly use it, let alone reverse-engineer it. We're still doing the same play, right? Guns, books, sodas, and everything in between?"

Perry shrugged. "Yeah, we're still doing the same play. There's not much difference on the surface, but knowing how modern air combat works and understanding it means fearing it. And that buys even more leverage – leverage I didn't have yesterday. So if there's anything you want from the military angle, pitch it now."

Enchantments. The answer came to Henry's mind immediately.

Dr. Lamarr's team had been testing local materials for weeks. They'd figured out early on that mithril – fantasy steel, pretty much – blew its counterpart out of the water. Better tensile strength, better durability, and it could be worked just like regular steel, just with more effort, and with way better results.

And just a week ago he'd heard that her team had started using it in practical applications, using existing designs from rifle barrels to armor plating. All they did was swap out normal steel for mithril, and they saw immediate performance upgrades. Now all that was left was to stack enchantments on top.

There was probably other stuff worth getting, like alchemical supplies or magical whatever. But that was Sera's department; they wouldn't need to ask Perry for something like that.

So Henry had his final answer. "Enchantments. Hands down. I know we've got Forgemaster Balnar, but the strings you can pull might be able to open this up properly. Official backing from the Ovinnish government; that should take the heat off Balnar if he ever worries about sharing state secrets or something."

Boral turned around then, approaching the ramp with noticeably less stress in his eyes and noticeably more grin on his face. "Praise be to the gods! I'd not thought I'd see me nephew's kin!" He cleared his throat. "The villagers stand ready. Ye may signal yer other 'helicopters.'"

Perry nodded, then glanced at Henry. "Enchantments it is, then. We'll work out specifics later." He raised his radio and signaled the pilots above.

Henry hit the ground as the two King Stallions descended overhead, rotors churning the air hard enough to feel it in his ribs. The Chinook sat behind him with room for maybe a dozen villagers, thirty if they crammed everyone in standing like it was rush hour on the Metro.

But with the Stallions around, they probably wouldn't need to. Those birds were the real workhorses; they had shown up empty and could pack in entire villages if they needed to.

The Royal Guards had already corralled the villagers into rough lines near where the Stallions were about to touch down. They used calm voices, reassuring people as they watched the alien metal boxes from the sky. Most of them were pretty nervous, but at least they managed to not completely freak the fuck out.

While the dwarves handled all that, Henry had his team set up a perimeter. He took Sera and Ron to watch the right side of the LZ; Hayes and Yen mirrored on the left. Doc, as usual, got drone duty. He sent it up toward the village, then punched it vertically, far enough to stay clear of rotor wash and flight paths.

It was totally overkill with two Apaches still circling overhead, covering their asses with a full complement of Lindwyrm-slaying ordnance. Hell, the wyverns – the only real threat in the region – were already scattered across a ridgeline in various states of 'impressively dead.' And with the jets returning in an hour, maybe an hour and a half, they wouldn't have much to worry about.

But complacency killed people, so they did it anyway.

The Stallions hit dirt in sequence, ramps already dropping. Loadmasters appeared and started waving people forward.

Families headed toward the Stallions in a steady flow, parents keeping kids close while hauling whatever they could carry. Most of them had the sense to pack practical shit – bundles of clothes, food, tools, all the essentials. Some of the older folks looked shell-shocked, probably still processing the fact that metal birds had just dropped out of the sky to save them. Others just looked exhausted.

Fair enough, honestly. He'd be drained too if he had to suffer monster raids and blizzards for days. Not to mention having to pack up everything in twenty minutes and get whisked away by strangers.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Then came the stragglers. Because in every crisis, there were always stragglers.

Henry watched some guy jog back toward the village, then return hauling a carved wooden box. Fine – family heirlooms, important documents, stuff that actually mattered. Then a woman sprinted back and came out clutching what looked like a fucking toy. Some kind of doll or figurine.

Like, what the actual fuck? Okay, he got it – people did dumb shit under stress, and maybe that toy meant something to her kid. But holding up an evac for something replaceable? Same energy as idiots back home who ignored hurricane evacuation orders because they needed to grab their Xbox.

Still, he let it slide. They needed cooperation, and it wasn't like they had any time pressure. All sectors stayed clear: Doc's drone showed nothing, the Apaches called out nothing, and Henry's own scan confirmed the same whole lot of jack shit.

Eventually, the last villager shuffled up the Stallion's ramp – an old man clutching a walking stick and a burlap sack – and the loadmaster waved him in.

The Royal Guards swept through the village one final time with a couple of the Councilors, checking doorways and calling out in case anyone had stayed behind. Two minutes later, they emerged empty-handed and jogged back toward the helos.

With the all-clear, Henry and the team boarded the Chinook with the Guards and Councilors. He gave the crew chief a thumbs-up, and the ramp was sealed.

Then they took off.

The villagers packed into the Chinook's cargo bay looked a hell of a lot less composed than the Councilors had on the ride out. Then again, the Councilors were government officials from the capital who'd at least heard about Americans before today. These people were out in the boonies; they'd probably never gotten news beyond what traders brought through.

Surprisingly, it didn't take long for them to really calm down, even if that sentiment had mostly been carried by the relief that came with rescue. They'd basically acclimated by the time they reached Tannow, which was about fifteen minutes later.

A frozen river cut straight through the valley. The ice had that opaque white-gray color that usually meant a solid freeze, the kind that might hold a vehicle. But Henry wouldn't count on it. A hundred meters past the river sat a dense forest – something to keep a real lookout for.

As they descended, Henry spotted the villagers below through the window. Just like with Greyhar, they'd started clustering up defensively around the LZ.

The Chinook touched down, the ramp opening with a hiss.

The locals reacted predictably – weapons up, backing away from the bird like it might eat them. A few of the braver ones held their ground with spears leveled, but their white-knuckle grips and wide eyes told the real story. Just like Greyhar.

And just like with Greyhar, they started to calm down as soon as the Royal Guards stepped out, insignias catching the light. From here, Henry expected at least a few more minutes of taking it slow with the locals, but apparently they didn't need that.

What really shifted the mood was seeing the rescued villagers from Greyhar – familiar faces, people they knew, very much alive and unharmed. And with that, the weapons dropped a lot faster than they had back at the first village.

Some of the Greyhar elders even joined Boral to explain the situation. The Tannow villagers listened, glanced back at the Chinook, then started dispersing toward their homes. They picked up real quick that this was a rescue op, and didn't waste a second.

The King Stallions touched down in sequence, Royal Guards running the same drill as last time. Villagers shuffled up the ramps with their packs and bundles, all perfectly normal.

Honestly, Henry shouldn't have felt even a drop of worry, but two smooth extractions in a row in what was supposedly monster-infested territory didn't add up. They were due for something – that was just statistics.

And sure enough, Murphy's Law came knocking at his door. The Apache's cannon opened up, hammering something in the trees.

Henry tracked the tracers' trajectories as they slammed into the forest, but he saw nothing visible through his scope. Doc's drone feed on his HUD showed the same: jack shit. No movement at the tree line, no muzzle flashes, no heat signatures.

"Thunder Two-Two engaging hostiles. Five hobs on crystallons. Splash two, three more broke contact."

The shooting stopped almost as quickly as it started.

Henry swept his attention back to the ramps.

It wasn't much of a surprise to see that the Apache's burst had basically turned orderly boarding into barely-controlled panic. A few looked ready to bolt, but thankfully they'd never get the chance.

The Royal Guards kept their composure and tightened their formation around the evacuation lines, raising short walls just to prevent the refugees from scattering all over the place.

But that wasn't what kept the lid on.

It was the Greyhar volunteers still waving people forward like Apache fire was just background noise. The Tannow villagers could see their neighbors from a village over weren't even ducking. That kept them moving better than any shouted orders would have.

Henry kept his sector while tracking the crowd. Another few minutes at this pace, assuming nothing else came out of those trees.

Only under this relative calm did he finally give some thought to what the Apache pilot had said: hobgoblins on crystallons. It wasn't exactly breaking news; he'd seen hobs riding fenwyrms during the Krevath raids, after all.

But crystallons? That meant they were moving up the tiers, somehow domesticating Tier Sevens, maybe Eights.

His mind instantly defaulted to Nobians, but that didn't work out here; even if Nobians were involved, they wouldn't be able to teach hobgoblins how to mount monsters. Rather, it was probably the work of that alpha goblin he'd heard about in rumors.

Either way, those hobs that Thunder 2-2 had engaged were definitely organized. Henry had seen enough of this world to know that 'they'll probably run away' wasn't a bet worth taking – especially not with civvies involved.

Which meant he needed the Royal Guards ready to fight, not playing traffic control.

He broke off from Ron and Sera, and then called out to Boral. "Harvestmaster, we need more volunteers from Greyhar – people who can help move Tannow's residents along. We need your Royal Guards free in case things go loud."

Boral caught on immediately. "Aye, Captain. I'll see it done."

He jogged back toward the Chinook and returned a few minutes later with a dozen volunteers from the first village – farmers, tradesmen, people who looked grateful to have something useful to do. They spread out and started guiding their Tannow neighbors toward the Stallions, picking up where the Guards had left off.

Henry integrated the Royal Guards with his team, spreading them out in a defensive line covering the frozen river's bank.

Another five minutes crawled by with no hint of movement, evac continuing with that same mix of smart and stupid priorities. The Stallions filled up with mostly the former, probably thanks to the gunfire scare.

Over half of Tannow's population was already packed in and secure when Thunder 2-2 opened up again.

"Thunder Two-Two engaging five-zero plus hostiles across the river. You're gonna want to hurry up with that evac."

Thunder 1-2 joined in as well, spitting tracers toward the forest.

As soon as they started firing, though, the evac line damn near disintegrated. The Greyhar shouted themselves raw, trying to keep people together, but even they were starting to falter.

All it would take was one idiot to snap and sprint for the woods, and half a dozen others would follow out of pure animal reflex. Then he'd be sending people to haul them back or mark them as lost.

"Boral!" Henry shouted over the rotor wash and gunfire.

The Harvestmaster didn't need any further explanation. He'd already dove back into the crowd, doing his best to keep the whole thing from dissolving into a complete clusterfuck.

Henry kept his weapon aimed at the trees, watching Doc's drone feed in the meantime. The Apaches' 30mm chewed through the forest, tracers ripping into the mass of bodies within. Then came a pair of Hydra rockets, white streaks punching into the center of the horde.

Explosions tore through clusters of monsters and obliterated what morale they had. The charge folded on itself; whatever passed for discipline in that mob went out the window.

A few of the bigger ones tried to rally, but most scattered back into the trees, tripping over each other to get out of the line of fire.

It wasn't the most climactic engagement, but Henry was just fine with that if it meant that he didn't need to deal with a stampede of charging monsters – or a stampede of civvies tripping over themselves, for that matter.

He brought his attention back to the ramps. The last of the villagers were now clambering into the Stallions, loosely followed by the Greyhar volunteers. Thank fuck.

"Everyone, mount up! We're done here!"

He turned and sprinted for the Chinook, boots hammering up the ramp. The team followed – Ron, Sera, the Guards, everyone piling in behind him. The crew chief already had the ramp closing before Henry even sat down, engines spooling up.

The Chinook lifted, banking hard as the Stallions rose in formation.

Two villages down, one to go.

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