Rise of the Horde
Chapter 530 - 530

The sun did not rise gently over the plains. It clawed its way through the smoke-filled skies, casting a sickly amber glow over the blood-soaked land. Dawn brought no comfort, only the revelation of more carnage...and the Threian army, thirty-thousand strong, continued its march into orc territory.

The Garthum River behind them ran black with soot and blood. The banks were littered with the shattered remnants of orcish resistance. The Thunder Makers, those massive siege guns hauled by oxen and sweat, had not cooled since the assault on the last stronghold. Engineers tended to their glowing barrels with oil and cloth, preparing them for the next engagement. The infantry, hardened by three weeks of constant battle, moved in silence.

General Aelric Snowe sat astride a tall white charger at the head of the column. He was a lean man, armored in a deep silver plate lined with sapphire trim. His cloak, marked by the emblem of the Snowe Family, fluttered in the morning breeze like a signal banner. Cold blue eyes stared eastward, where the barren plains stretched on toward jagged hills and dark forests.

"Reports from our scouts?" he asked, voice level.

Captain Lortan, commander of the Third Pike Legion, rode beside him. His armor was less ornate but thick with grime and fresh dents. "Huntsmen reported seeing fire in the hills late last night. Could be retreating orc bands or tribal gatherings."

Snowe nodded once. "They're running. But not fleeing. Regrouping. They know their lands better than we do. They want us deeper in before they strike."

A young lieutenant rode up, saluting crisply. "General! A ravine settlement ahead. Possibly occupied. Smoke and movement observed."

Snowe narrowed his eyes. "Send in the Huntsmen first. Quietly. If it's abandoned, burn it. If not, we make an example."

The Huntsmen, cloaked in shades of gray and green, moved like shadows. They melted into the ravine without a sound, leaving no trace behind them. The rest of the army paused, forming concentric rings around the valley in preparation.

An hour passed.

Then the lead Huntsman returned.

"Abandoned, sir. But recently. Fires still warm. We found corpses...children, the elderly, all slain."

"By us?"

"No. Other orcs. Possibly raiders."

Snowe didn't blink. "They're pruning their weak. Preparing their lands for war."

"What are your orders, General?"

"Torch everything. Leave nothing useful."

The order spread quickly. Soldiers descended upon the ravine, tossing torches into huts, smashing clay jars, and tearing down crude palisades. Smoke and ash rose into the sky. Snowe watched silently, his face unreadable.

By midday, the column was moving again, cutting across the cracked earth in long, disciplined lines. The sun beat down hard, and dust rose in waves from every footfall. Flies buzzed around the dead left in the soldiers' wake.

A sudden gallop broke the monotony.

A scout rode in from the north flank, his horse lathered with sweat.

"General! Movement on the ridgeline. Orc riders. At least five hundred. Shadowing us."

"Skirmishers?"

"Likely. Fast and lightly armored."

Snowe turned to his hornbearer. "Signal the Gale Cavalry. Engage and drive them off. Minimize losses. Capture one if possible."

The horn sounded, low and sharp. Moments later, a hundred light cavalrymen peeled from the main host, galloping northwest with their banners low and weapons gleaming. Within minutes, the distant thunder of hooves echoed across the hills.

They reached the ridgeline quickly. Iron clashed with bone weapons. Screams rose, brief and fierce. Dust clouded the skirmish, but by evening, the Gale Cavalry returned, bloodied but victorious.

Captain Elric of the Gale rode to Snowe, his helm tucked beneath one arm. "Thirty orc riders killed. Twenty wounded. We captured two. No heavy forces in sight."

"Interrogate them. Feed them if necessary. Make them talk."

That night, as the army camped near a wide canyon, the air shifted. Tension crept into the bones of every man. The canyon loomed ahead, wide-mouthed and shallow, a scar on the land. The lead infantry moved in to scout.

It was a mistake.

As soon as the first ranks reached the center, war horns blared from hidden crevices. The canyon exploded with motion. Orcs poured from concealed trenches, hollows, and collapsed gullies. Crude but deadly spears rained down from above. Boulders were loosed from makeshift platforms.

The vanguard broke.

Cries of panic rose as men were crushed beneath rocks or impaled in the opening salvo. Chaos reigned until Snowe's voice rang out above the din.

"Form up! Hold the line!"

He pointed forward. "First Spear! Push through! Warmages, break the cliffs!"

A volley of arcane wind and frost slammed into the ridgelines. One warmage hurled a ball of ice that burst into a hailstorm of frozen spikes. Another conjured a cyclone of blades that swept up a dozen attackers in a spiral of blood.

Still, the ambush had cut deep. Over a hundred Threians lay dead or dying before order was restored.

"Encircle them!" Snowe commanded. "Gale Cavalry, block the exits!"

The cavalry surged around the canyon mouth, cutting off fleeing orcs. The Huntsmen appeared from the flanks, firing arrows into exposed backs. The infantry clawed their way up the slopes, slaughtering the ambushers with savage determination.

The orcs fought with desperation, but they had not expected the Threians to recover so swiftly. Within the hour, the ambush force was shattered.

When silence returned, the canyon was thick with smoke and blood.

Snowe dismounted and walked among the dead. He paused beside a fallen orc...barely more than a boy, his tusks not fully grown. A broken dagger lay near his clawed hand.

Captain Lortan approached. "We lost good men."

"So did they."

Lortan looked over the carnage. "They sent children into this."

"Desperation," Snowe replied. "They know we're coming. They know they can't stop it."

He stepped over a body and gestured for a map. "We camp here tonight. Tomorrow we advance."

The camp formed quickly. Fires were lit, triage centers set up, and watch lines drawn. Medics tended to burns and crushed limbs. Priests of the Flame walked among the injured, offering prayers and painless ends where healing failed.

Inside his tent, Snowe studied the map spread across his table. Red pins marked recent battles. Black lines indicated orc movements. One pin sat farther east, deeper into the hills...circled twice in red.

He tapped it.

"That's where they're going. Not fleeing. Retreating to something. A fortress. Or a warlord."

Captain Elric entered. "The captives talk. They say a uniter has come. A war-chief with a flaming banner."

Snowe raised an eyebrow. "Name?"

"None they would say. But they call him "Skull Crusher."

Lortan snorted. "They all have fancy titles. Most die before the second battle."

Snowe didn't laugh. "This one's different. If he can pull these shattered tribes together, even briefly, we'll need more than our current strength."

Seravine, a younger officer, leaned forward. "Then we press faster. Break them before they finish gathering."

"Yes," Snowe said. "Tomorrow we push through the hills. Past the Garthum tributaries. Into the spine. We'll strike before they can stand."

Outside, the wind howled through the canyon, and the fires flickered.

But in the far east, beyond the burned villages and slaughtered bands, the orcs were gathering.

In a hollow carved by time and ash, clan banners rose anew. Black skulls, blood moons, roaring beasts. Warriors with scarred hides and iron-studded arms stood shoulder to shoulder. Some bore wounds from Snowe's own conquests. Others came from the deep south, summoned by ancient calls.

Drums sounded. Not for dance. Not for ceremony.

For war.

Above them all stood a figure draped in a blood-colored mantle, his eyes hidden by a helm of bone and iron. He said no words. He only raised a torch, lit from the remnants of a burned effigy.

The fire did not waver.

All around him, the orcs roared.

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