Rise of the Horde
Chapter 532 - 532

The winds howled low and constant beneath the jagged teeth of the Tekarr Mountains, their breath rolling cold and dry across the cracked plains below. Night had not yet fully fallen, but the sun had vanished behind the western peaks, casting the land in hues of iron and blood. Shadows stretched long across the frost-hardened earth, and the dying light shimmered on the rippling sea of orcish tents.

From a distance, the encampment resembled a siege laid by nature itself...tattered banners dancing in the wind, watchfires blazing like defiant stars in the coming dark, and crude wooden palisades forming a jagged crown around the camp's heart. This was not the ragged remnant the Threians believed they chased...it was the warhost of the old blood, the real stronghold of the orcs, hidden at the foot of the northern Tekarr Mountains.

Skull Crusher, Warlord of the united tribes, stood on a rise of black rock, a solitary sentinel overlooking the convergence of clans. His massive frame, cloaked in a weather-beaten warcloak of crimson wolfskin, was motionless despite the biting wind. Scars crisscrossed his exposed green flesh, tokens of battles past, while his battered armor bore the dents of the recent skirmishes meant to slow the Threian advance. The right side of his face was painted with dried blood, forming the spiral glyph of their War-God Thug'mukhen, the one who devours the stars.

He had done what was needed. The Threians had pursued, yes, but they had pursued blindly. His retreat was a gambit, a sacrifice of ground to buy time. And here, under the shadow of Tekarr, that time bore fruit.

Below him, thousands upon thousands of orcs moved through the camp...grizzled warriors sharpening weapons, youngbloods sparring under the eyes of their elders, women forging arrowheads and boiling pitch. Children listened wide-eyed as bards recited the legends of their ancestors, stoking both memory and rage. There was unity here...hard-won, temporary, volatile...but unity nonetheless. It pulsed in the air like thunder before a storm.

Skull Crusher watched them with something close to pride.

Forty thousand. Perhaps more.

Not since the Sundering had so many tribes stood together. The Stone Tusks had come down from their cliff dwellings, their faces marked in granite dust. The Blood Drums had crossed the fetid swamps of Arra'Mok, bringing with them their serpent-speakers and venom-coated blades. The Firespine raiders had traveled weeks from the southern steppe, their war wolves restless and snarling.

Each banner was a story. Each story, a weapon.

"You've done well, old friend."

The voice came from behind, low and heavy with reverence.

Skull Crusher turned slowly to meet the gaze of Graka One-Eye, the shaman-elder of the Broken Fang. The ancient orc leaned on a twisted staff made from the root of the last blackwood tree, its surface crawling with runes that flickered faintly in the dusk. His single eye gleamed like molten silver, and his cloak of raven feathers rustled as if stirred by unseen winds.

"I held the line long enough," Skull Crusher rumbled. "The Threians are clever. But they are not wise. They think steel and powder win wars. We know better."

"They won't be ready," Graka said, staring out across the camp. "Not for what's coming. Not for the old gods."

"Then we summon them. Now."

Graka inclined his head. "The circles are drawn. The rites are prepared. But the spirits stir slowly. Blood is the key, and the tribes have only just begun to offer it."

"Then take what is needed."

A long pause.

Graka's voice was quieter now. "The spirits of the totems demand willing blood. From each tribe, one must be given freely. Not forced. Not claimed. Chosen."

Skull Crusher grimaced. This would not be easy. Orcs were bred to fight, not to kneel. And yet, the totem guardians...those ancient spirits bound to the soul of each tribe...could not be commanded like soldiers. They had to be honored, awakened.

"I'll speak to the chieftains," Skull Crusher said. "They'll understand."

"They'll protest. But they will listen. You've earned that."

As the two turned and descended into the camp, the sounds of ritual began to rise...drums carved from dragonbone, flutes made from the wingbones of wyverns, the chant of a thousand tongues repeating names too old for memory. The ritual grounds had been cleared in the center of the encampment: a vast circle ringed in totems carved from the bones of beasts, iron stakes driven into the ground to anchor the magic, and symbols painted in ash, blood, and the ground bone of fallen warriors.

In the eastern quarter of the camp, warriors of the Stone Tusks had begun to gather. Their totem, the Stone Boar, had been carved anew into a boulder dragged from their mountain homes. Offerings of salt, bone, and iron were laid before it, while their shamans poured obsidian dust in spirals around its base.

To the south, the Firespine raiders kindled massive bonfires. Their totem was the Ember Wolf, a beast of fire and vengeance, said to have burned its way out of the sun. They howled in unison, mouths open to the smoke-thick sky, flames reflecting in war-painted eyes.

In the west, the Blood Drums danced. They moved like snakes, coiling and striking, their chants a rhythmic assault of syllables and stomps. Their totem, the Great Serpent, was carved into the very earth, its shape traced by glowing oils that hissed and bubbled when touched.

And in the north, at the very edge of the camp, stood Skull Crusher's own totem—the Iron Ram. A beast forged from iron and blood, it represented endurance, defiance, and raw, unyielding strength. His warriors gathered in silence, kneeling in the ground. They did not sing. They waited.

Skull Crusher made his way to the center circle. The chieftains met him there...Torga Firemane of the Firespines, Hruuk Blackjaw of the Stone Tusks, Shalla the Serpent-Daughter of the Blood Drums, and others, their names spoken with both fear and respect. They formed a ring, each flanked by their chosen shaman, each bearing a blade for the rite.

"They know why we're here," Skull Crusher said. "The spirits sleep. We must wake them. The Threians march with bomsticks and mages, but we march with the bones of our ancestors and the fury of the earth itself."

Torga growled. "My people are ready. The Ember Wolf is thirsty. We've burned our own dead as offering."

Shalla nodded. "The Great Serpent stirs. It coils in the dark. We have given blood."

"Then let the last rite begin."

The chieftains each turned and raised their blades. Before them stood a chosen warrior...each had come willingly, proud to give their life to awaken their people's power. They did not flinch. One by one, the blades fell, clean and swift, and blood flowed into sacred bowls, mixed with the crushed roots of dreamshade and black moss.

Graka moved through the circle, his voice rising in chant, guiding the ritual with words old when the stars were young. The air thickened. The fire dimmed. Shadows crawled unnaturally along the ground. The bowls were cast into the center pit, where a brazier of cracked obsidian hissed and spat, casting green light.

Then the earth shook.

Low at first. A tremor. Then stronger. A rhythmic thudding, as if massive feet approached from every direction.

The first to appear was the Stone Boar...immense, hulking, its body a mass of rock and moss, with tusks the size of war pikes. It bellowed, and the mountains echoed back.

Then came the Ember Wolf, leaping from the flames. It landed amid the Firespine camp, igniting no tents, yet its fur burned eternally, its breath a furnace.

The Serpent rose next, undulating through the air like smoke given fangs. Its scales shimmered with color and venom. It hissed a name that made even the shamans flinch.

Finally, the Iron Ram burst from the earth, its horns crowned in rust and crimson, eyes glowing like twin suns. It bowed once before Skull Crusher.

Graka's voice trembled with awe. "They are here. The guardians of the tribes. The old world walks again."

Skull Crusher stepped forward and raised his blade high.

"Tomorrow, we march. Not as beasts. Not as savages. As the blood of gods."

Across the camp, a cry rose....a war cry from forty thousand throats. The spirits howled with them, and the mountains answered.

The Threians would not know what awaited them.

By dawn, they would.

And they would bleed.