Rise of the Horde

Across the field, the orcish side were regrouping.

Their formations were sloppier now…no more thunderous charges or perfectly timed lines. Even their war chants had softened, reduced to low, guttural murmurs that carried across the air like the growl of an animal too hurt to roar but too angry to die.

Among them, chieftains barked orders and struck the weak to keep morale in place. Beasts paced the perimeter of their siege camps, growling and snapping at the air. There were fewer now…both creatures and handlers. The latest Threian counterstrike had done its damage.

But the orcs, too, had not fallen.

*****

Sergeant Odric walked the new line with Agis in tow. What remained of their trench regiment stood shoulder to shoulder in makeshift armor, some without helmets, many missing fingers or wearing tourniquets.

"How many?" Agis asked.

"One hundred and eighty-five total," Odric muttered. "We started with five hundred on this wall."

They reached the inner edge where medics were tending to those burned in the previous blast. One soldier lay with no legs, humming to himself. Another stared skyward with wide, unblinking eyes, his hands still gripping a broken blade.

Agis squatted beside a young scout who had lost his tongue in the last firestorm. He handed the boy water and waited as the scout scratched a message into the dirt with a broken arrow.

"They are digging again."

Odric cursed.

"We just filled in the last tunnel."

"They never stop," Agis said quietly.

"Annoying little critters."

****

At midmorning, the goblins attacked.

No horns.

No war cries.

Just movement.

They came in slow waves, forcing the Threians to engage in constant, draining skirmishes. Dozens of minor breaches opened across the line. Arrows flew until quivers were empty. Boomsticks fired until powder was gone.

Then it was blades.

And fists.

And teeth.

Braedon fought in the middle trench with a broken shield and a rusted sword. He parried one pick-axe blow, countered another with his boot to the groin, and finally killed the third with a desperate stab that jammed the blade between ribs and lodged it there.

He didn't bother pulling it free.

He grabbed a fallen spear and kept going.

Nearby, Deramis fought one-handed, using a short blade and his boot to strike down enemies with surprising viciousness. He had taken a new habit of shouting the names of dead comrades each time he struck.

It was a long list.

Odric's gunners, down to fist and knives, turned the final barricade into a kill zone. Bodies piled high enough to offer cover.

And still the goblins came.

But they were slower now.

Fewer.

Weaker.

For every foot of ground, ten bodies fell.

And finally, in the late afternoon, the goblins stopped.

Not because they had been routed.

But because they, too, were spent.

Across the field, drums fell silent.

*****

The quiet that followed was not peace.

It was exhaustion.

Major Gresham stood at the center wall with mud on his boots and a blade strapped to his side. Around him, officers gathered…some limping, others barely upright.

"We don't have a line," Faris said, voice hoarse. "We have ditches. Corpses. Screaming."

"We can't hold another wave," Marcus added. "We're out of cannon charges. Boomsticks are dry. I have scouts using slings and stones."

"Still," Gresham said, "we're not beaten."

That drew silence.

"You've all heard it before," he continued. "But I'll say it again. We are not beaten unless we stop rising. Unless we kneel."

Braedon nodded. "Then we stand."

Deramis smirked through bloodied lips. "Can't kneel. My damn leg's too stiff."

A few chuckles broke through.

Not laughter.

But something close.

*****

That night, Gresham didn't write a letter.

He didn't need to.

The last letter had said everything there was to say.

Instead, he sat at the edge and looked out across the battlefield…where orcish bodies lay beside Threian corpses. Where the dirt was too soaked to burn. Where two armies had collided again and again until the only thing left was will.

There was no victory.

Only survival.

Equal in blood.

Equal in loss.

And tomorrow, it would begin again.

*****

The winds over the Lagra'nna mountains to the west carried the scent of ash, sweat, and steel.

Beyond the smoldering trenches, past the torn earth and watch towers, the orc encampment stood in restless quiet. Fires crackled low, smoke rising in lazy spirals toward a sky that had seen too much war. Drums no longer beat. Songs no longer rang. Only the sharpening of blades and the low murmur of warriors unwilling to rest.

Within a circle of scorched stones, beneath the shadow of the Golden Wolf totem, sat the Warband Masters of the Yohan First Horde.

Their armor gleamed…not with polish, but with precision. Metal plates reforged by war, blackened pauldrons, scaled mantles, and blades sharp enough to whisper through the wind. These were no unruly tribesmen. These were soldiers.

And they had yet to enter the war.

*****

Chief Morga'tal, Warlord of the Broken Fangs, squinted toward the distant Threian lines. His jaw clenched as he chewed on a strip of dried grak'horn.

"Still they wait," he growled. "Still we bleed… Warriors from different tribes while they remain there…just watching."

To his left, Warcaller Vaash'ron snorted, adjusting the twin axes on his back. "We are being sent to wear them down. Not to win. The real battle will begin when they will join in the fray."

"And how many more days must they watch our tribesmen die before they will join?"

From the edge of the circle, a voice replied, calm and deep.

"As many as it takes."

Dhug'mur stepped into the firelight, the flames casting a bronze sheen across his battle-scarred face. His dark eyes met each chieftain in turn, his hands clasped behind his back.

"They will fight when their chieftain allows them to fight," he said.

"But have you seen what the Threians have done with our dead? And their own?" Morga'tal raised his voice.

Vaash'ron raised a brow. "Burn them. Stack them. Bury them with their boots."

"They bury ours with them," Dhug'mur said. "They build walls of corpses. They set traps using limbs. I know."

He paused.

"They do not fear us. Not enough."

A low silence settled.

Then Morga'tal stood. "Let us make them fear us. Before the Yohan Horde takes part in the fray."

Dhug'mur didn't blink. "And if we fail? What will remain of our strength when the long-ears from the north march? When the plains open, and we are spent? What will remain of our tribes?"

"We are warriors, not warlocks," Morga'tal snapped. "We do not wait for stars to tell us when to kill."

"No," Dhug'mur said quietly. "We wait for Khao'khen."

The name settled the fire.

Even Morga'tal sat again.

*****

Beyond the campfire, in the heart of the Yohan encampment, the troops of the First Horde drilled in silence.

Lines of orcs in heavy black armor moved in perfect rhythm…shields raised, spears braced, boots striking earth in unison. These were not berserkers or raiders. They were legions. Disciplined. Hardened.

Drillmasters barked in guttural tones, enforcing precision with strikes and snarls. No orc complained. No one fell behind.

They trained not for glory, but for inevitability.

*****

At the edge of the training field, Sakh'arran stood with arms crossed, his hand caressing the chin of his steed.

Beside him, Gur'kan leaned on a post, watching the drills with a tired smile.

"They are ready," Gur'kan said.

"They were ready a week ago," Sakh'arran muttered. "He holds them back for something more."

"For something that we might not be aware of," Gur'kan corrected.

They turned as Troth'tar approached.

"The time draws near," he said.

"Is it the Chieftain's word?" Sakh'arran asked.

Troth'tar shook his head. "Not yet. But the scouts report weakness. The humans have no powder left. Their walls are teeth without bite. The time comes soon."

"Then why not now?" Sakh'arran asked.

Trot'thar looked to the north. "Because they must see it coming and be unable to stop it."

*****

At the rear of the camp, the Thyrians' pens lay silent.

Of the many war beasts deployed, only seven returned.

One limped. Another would not rise. Two handlers had been torn apart during withdrawal.

The siege-masters mourned their losses in quiet ritual, smearing ash on their faces and planting shards of broken tusks into the ground.

Warg riders gathered near the eastern edge, their mounts restless. The beasts had tasted blood…and wanted more.

Still, they waited.

Because all eyes looked south…toward the biggest tent where the banner of a Snarling Wolf flew, where all orders and decisions come from.

*****

Inside, Khao'khen stared before a map of filled with dirt, marked with many markings.

His eyes were closed.

And slowly, as if from beyond the tent walls, came the sound of the wind carrying whispers.

Then silence again.

*****

Back near the place where the Yohan First Horde was having their drills, a runner arrived.

Sakh'arran caught the scroll and opened it.

He read.

He looked up.

And smiled.

"The chieftain speaks."

Gur'kan turned his head. "And?"

Sakh'arran met their eyes.

"Prepare everything. At dusk, we march."

A moment of silence.

Then cheers…low and thunderous.

Weapons slammed against shields.

Drums began to beat again.

And across the fields, the Threians looked south, unaware that the storm they had feared was no longer waiting.

It was coming.