Rise of the Horde
Chapter 529 - 529

The Threian camp sprawled across the southern banks of the Garthum River like a beast at rest, its iron hide shimmering beneath the midday sun. Tents lined in ruthless order, siege crews assembling Thunder Makers in neat rows, while gunners ran drills with their boomsticks under the barks of their commanders. The air was thick with smoke, gun oil, and the tension of an army poised for slaughter.

General Snowe stood at the edge of a hill overlooking the river, his white cloak fluttering in the wind. The Garthum wound its way like a silver serpent through the plains, but beyond its glistening skin lay the dark shadow of resistance. East of the river, scouts had reported a massive coalition of orcish tribes...a last stand gathering where the desperate mingled with the feral.

"They'll come soon," Snowe said to himself, as a breeze from the north sent ripples across the Garthum's surface. "Out of fear, if not resolve."

Moments later, a scout galloped up the hill, his face pale, sweat streaking the grime on his cheeks.

"General! Orcs are pouring in from the east hills. Thousands. They've dug into the ravines beyond the river's bend. It's a wall of tusks and iron."

Snowe's eyes narrowed. "So they choose to make their stand here. Very well. Send word to the warmages. Have the siege crews load the Thunder Makers. Gunners form up on the ridgeline. First Spear will form the left wedge, Gale Cavalry on the flanks. We burn this resistance down before dusk."

The command ran like fire through the veins of the army. Iron rang, leather creaked, and magic flared as the army surged into position. The Thunder Makers were wheeled to the edge of the southern bank, their black barrels lowered toward the faint orc shapes gathering across the river.

By the hour's turn, the orcs showed themselves.

From the cover of the hills and sparse trees, a tide of green, red, black, and grey stormed down toward the Garthum. Painted faces, rusted armor, black banners carried by gnarled arms. It was a war host of desperation. But even in their frenzy, their numbers made the plains tremble.

Snowe raised one gloved hand.

"Fire."

The Thunder Makers roared.

The riverbank erupted with thunder and flame. Explosive shells tore into the front lines of the orcs, limbs and gore sprayed high into the air as earth and flesh turned to crimson mud. Entire clusters of orcs vanished beneath the explosions, replaced with smoking craters.

Then came the boomsticks...rows of gunners unleashing volleys into the enemy lines. The sound was relentless, sharp cracks like the world itself was being hammered apart.

But still, the orcs came.

They hit the river like a horde of drowned men, wading and surging across the waist-deep current. Some carried crude shields above their heads, others simply relied on numbers, howling battle cries that split the air.

"They mean to reach the banks," one of Snowe's officers said, stunned.

"Let them try," Snowe replied. He turned. "Warmages...cut the wind from their lungs."

The six warmages advanced as one, robes dancing with the rising magic that shimmered in the heat. Ice gathered around their hands, spiraling into jagged lances. With gestures and chants, they launched their magic across the river.

Hurricane winds slammed into the charging orcs, toppling them like straw figures. Ice formed instantly around their feet and torsos, freezing limbs solid, tearing through bodies like glass. Screams turned to gurgles. Blood darkened the current.

But then the second wave hit.

A howling mass of orc warriors vaulted over their dying kin, using the corpses as bridges. They reached the southern bank in roiling numbers. Spears met swords. Shields shattered. Screams turned to snarls.

"First Spear, into the fray!"

The heavy cavalry descended. Dozens of ironclad riders charged with lances poised, slamming into the orcish advance like a falling wall. The impact was cataclysmic...armor met flesh, horses crushed bodies underhoof. Blood sprayed into the air like red mist.

Gale Cavalry raced the flanks, circling the orcs and harrying them with swords and bullets. They danced like phantoms through the battlefield, striking and vanishing, leaving severed limbs and trails of gore.

Yet the orcs would not break. Maddened with bloodlust, they hacked down Threian foot soldiers, tore through gunners who reloaded too slowly, and dragged even the First Spear from their saddles.

By midday, the center of the battlefield had become a mire of death. The ground turned soft with blood and viscera. Bodies...orc and man...lay broken in heaps. Thunder Makers were repositioned, firing blindly into the densest groups. One exploded under a thrown orc javelin, killing the crew in a blast of fire and black smoke.

General Snowe stood amidst the carnage, directing his officers with calm precision.

"We press forward. Let them drown in their own dead."

Another line of infantry surged. Huntsmen moved through the tall grasses near the river, picking off orc chieftains and standard bearers with deadly accuracy. Their stealth allowed them to thin the command ranks of the orcish resistance.

Then, a roar split the battlefield.

From the eastern ridge, a massive orc emerged. Taller than a man and twice as wide, clad in bone and black steel, wielding a blood-crusted axe in each hand. He charged into the chaos, smashing Threians left and right. A dozen knights tried to bring him down, but he shrugged off their blades like insects.

"Bring him down," Snowe said.

Three warmages focused their energy. Wind howled like a hurricane. Ice formed into spears the size of tree trunks. They launched them all at once.

The giant orc howled in defiance...until a single lance of ice impaled him through the gut, lifting him off his feet. He landed with a crash, axe still twitching in his hand.

With their champion dead, the orc line faltered. Some turned to flee.

"Press them!" Snowe roared.

The Threians surged forward with fury. Knights rode down the broken orcs, cutting them apart as they ran. Gunners took careful shots at stragglers. The Gale Cavalry chased them into the hills, leaving screams behind.

By sundown, the battle was over.

The Garthum River had run red. Piles of corpses choked the banks. Buzzards and crows had already begun to gather. The Thunder Makers stood silent now, barrels smoking. Gunners sat in exhaustion, wiping blood from their faces. Warmages knelt, drained and pale.

Snowe walked through the aftermath in silence. He paused to inspect the orc champion's corpse, then looked eastward.

"This was only one bastion," he murmured. "There will be more. And they will be ready next time."

He turned to his commanders.

"We rest tonight. By dawn, we march east again. Burn every village. Crush every tribe. Leave nothing behind but ash."

The order carried. Fires lit the camps. Healers moved among the wounded. The Garthum River bore its bloody burden into the horizon.

In the distance, the surviving orcs ran...but behind them, more were gathering. The real war had just begun.