YCH from the talented  raidontoru!

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A lich's stronghold should be some place drab and eerie, somewhere like a deep dark swamp swamp or a forgotten underground tomb. It should be haunted by wandering spirits that the monster had bound to its service, or deadly giant spiders lurking in the shadows, or the shuffling corpses of the roaming dead. It should be cast in eternal shadow, lit only by the occasional strike of lightning called down from the night sky.

It should not be a shining stone fortress rising up from the sunny steppeland.

From a distance, the army gathered in front of the fortress looked like any other soldiers - clad in gleaming armour, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with shields locked and spears at the ready. But no one living would serve the horror that lay within. Beneath the glittering golden helms were decayed skulls and rotted faces, if they still had physical form at all. But they made no move to charge; they stood statue-still in front of the fortress gate. Even with their eyes hidden, the general shivered at the feeling of countless undead watching his every move.

"You have a choice," a bodiless voice echoed from somewhere deep within the fortress. "Army against army, or champion against champion." The voice spoke far too...naturally. It was not the deep, throaty rasp one would expect of the immortal undead. It sounded like it could have come from an ordinary barkeep, or shepherd.

The general had commanded armies from across the kingdom, halting invading forces and reclaiming lost territories. Still, looking over the sea of soldiers arrayed before the stronghold, he took a deep breath. He could not guide his army against such a force. They'd be torn to shreds by the lich's forces before a single man was able to set foot across the threshold.
"Champions," he declared. The word hung in the air, emphasised by the surrounding silence despite the vast numbers on the field. Then, as one, the defending army stepped back to allow one of them through.

Clad in silver, skin as ashen-pale as death's own steed, the lich's champion strode ahead with the practiced confidence of one who had cut down hundreds of challengers before. He held a massive flail in one hand as though it were it child's plaything, the other hand bearing a round shield emblazoned with the symbol of his master. His face was the visage of a golden skull - whether it was his actual visage or a protective mask, none of the gathered army could tell.

From the attacking army, the champion's opponent strode out. A powerful red dragon, the desert sun glinting off his pauldron and shield. But he was not clad in the same armour as the soldiers gathered behind him. He stood by the generals's side and draw his blade.
"Time to earn your pay, mercenary." The general stepped back, allowing the dragon the battlefield. "Win, and you'll be celebrated a hero."
The dragon gave the general a confident - or perhaps cocky - grin, but said nothing. As he strode onto the battlefield, sweat beaded upon the general's forehead. It was hard to trust mercenaries at the best of times. When loyalty only stretched as far as your wallet, they were quick to turn tail as soon as the mission grew difficult. Which meant they rarely stuck through a challenge, which meant they were typically ill-experienced.

But there was no way his army, honed though they were, could stand against an undead horde. Champion against champion was the only choice. And though he could not question their bravery, he did not have it in him to take a stand where he himself was not willing to. He could only hope that this one's reputation was earned, and not an exaggerated rumour spread by the mercenary himself, as so many of them were wont to do.

As soon as the combatants were alone, the undead lunged. It raised its flail high, the terrible head of the weapon shining in the sun. It came crashing down towards the dragon's soul, and for a horrible second, the general thought it would be over before it had begun. Then came the deafening crash of steel, and when he looked back, he saw the dragon on one knee, his shield raised above his head. The undead had been staggered back from the sheer force of the ricochet. The dragon quickly rose to his feet and kicked his opponent away. The general could scarcely believe it. Any soldier he knew would have crumpled under the impact of that flail like a pile of dry leaves. How strong must the dragon's shield arm have been?

He watched with bated breath as the two champions struck blow after blow - but he noticed the dragon never swung his sword. It was always the shield - pushing, bashing, blocking. Every now and then he created space for himself by kicking the undead away, but he never went for a lethal strike. Could it be he was toying with his enemy? Was this warrior really so arrogant that he thought of a life or death struggle against an unread champion to be a mere game?

Then the unholy screech, much more like what he had expected of such a creature. The dragon's sword protruded from the creature's back, gleaming silver and dripping red. When at last he pulled it free, the ashen creature fell at his feet. With a flourish, he returned his sword to its sheathe, and returned to the general's side.

"Any spare treasure you find in there," he said as he passed by. "That's my payment."
The general snorted. It was true what they said about dragons. Their arrogance. Their detachment.

Still, as he saw the undead army obediently part with the fall of their champion, he couldn't help but silently thank the mercenary for getting the job done.