486  Chapter 486

The air hung thick with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. Deramis, his face streaked with grime and sweat, urged the remaining Threian Marksmen onward. Their lighter gear, a boon now, allowed them a relative speed that their infantry comrades, weighed down by armour, could not match.

The screams of the fallen echoed behind them, a chilling symphony of agony swallowed by the rustling leaves. He glanced back, seeing the last of his infantry, their heavy plate armour useless against the brutal efficiency of the orcish blades, collapsing under the relentless onslaught.

“Faster!” Deramis rasped, his voice hoarse from shouting. He risked another glance. The relentless pursuit was thinning, but not stopping. The orcs, a tide of muscles and snarling teeth, pressed relentlessly. Their guttural war cries were a constant, terrifying backdrop to their flight.

One of the marksmen, Solin, stumbled, catching himself on a low-hanging branch. “Lieutenant,” he gasped, his breath ragged. “We can’t…”

The earth itself seemed scarred, churned and torn by the impact of the colossal iron balls fired from the “Thunder Makers,” the three enormous cannons strategically positioned on the opposing mountainside.

11:22

“We have to,” Deramis interrupted, his gaze fixed on the unrelenting pursuers. “We have to reach the camp. We still have a chance.”

Their escape was a desperate dance amongst the trees, a race against both the orcs and exhaustion. Each shadow held a potential threat, every rustle of leaves a potential sign of their pursuers. The heavy thud of orcish boots on the earth behind them was a grim constant reminder of their precarious position.

The battlefield lay behind them, a scene of carnage etched into the landscape. The ground was a patchwork of crimson and grey, bodies of both men and orcs strewn across the ravaged earth.

The earth itself seemed scarred, churned and torn by the impact of the colossal iron balls fired from the “Thunder Makers,” the three enormous cannons strategically positioned on the opposing mountainside.

The effect of the bombardment was devastating. The ground was cratered, the trees splintered and blackened. Where once stood ranks of Threian infantry, now lay only twisted metal and scattered limbs.

The impact zones of the cannonballs were particularly horrific. The bodies within those zones were not simply killed; they were pulverized, reduced to a grotesque mixture of flesh and bone, a gruesome testament to the power of the powerful weapons.

In some areas, the ground was still smoldering, a testament to the explosive force of the attack. The air itself, even from a distance, was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of burning flesh. Even the resilient Threian armour lay scattered, twisted and broken, rendered utterly useless by the destructive force.

Further off, near the wreckage of their formation, Sakh’arran, the battle commander, surveyed the scene. He had seen enough carnage. Their own losses were heavy, too. The three “Thunder Makers” had exacted a heavy toll on both sides.

“Yohan First Horde,” Sakh’arran bellowed, his voice a deep rumble, “cease pursuit! Rescue our wounded!” His order echoed across the battlefield, a stark counterpoint to the cries of the dying. The Rock Bear and Black Tree Tribes, observing the withdrawal of the Yohan First Horde, quickly echoed the order and began to tend to their injured.

Deramis, watching from the distant tree line, knew that even with the orcs’ withdrawal, their survival hung by a thread.

“We need to rest,” Solin whispered, his voice trembling with exhaustion. “But we can’t stay here.”

“We won’t,” Deramis said, gritting his teeth. “The camp… we reach the camp, and we find sanctuary.”

The journey back to the camp was fraught with peril. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sent a fresh wave of panic through the surviving marksmen.

They were hunted, weary, and desperate. But they pressed on, propelled by the instinct of self-preservation. The memories of the fallen fueled their flight, the sight of the devastated battlefield a constant, chilling reminder of the price of failure. The orcs, while not actively pursuing, still lingered in the vicinity.

As they stumbled upon the rocky slopes, their exhausted limbs barely able to carry them, relief washed over them. The slopes were the sign that they were close, the Threian camp is just ahead of them.

“We survived,” Solin breathed, collapsing onto the muddy bank. The ordeal was still fresh, and they knew they had only just bought some time. But for now, the quiet whispering of the passing wind was a better sound than the cries of the dying, and the scent of smoke from the campfire a welcome reprieve from the relentless pursuit that had driven them to this desperate refuge.

The silence was broken only by their ragged breathing, a reminder of their precarious existence. The battle was lost, but for now, at least, they lived. The weight of their loss, however, pressed heavily upon them, a burden they would carry.

The Tekarr Mountains loomed, jagged teeth against a bruised clear sky, the air hung heavy with the stench of death and burnt flesh, a grim testament to the battle that had decimated both sides.

Meanwhile, on the slopes of the Lag’ranna Mountains, the battle raged. The Threian artillery position, initially seemingly secure, had become a scene of chaotic destruction.

The surprise orcish assault, using the burning Bufas Fruits as incendiary weapons, had proven devastatingly effective. The fruits, rolling down the mountainside, left a trail of searing fire and noxious fumes.

Their impact wasn’t merely confined to the initial explosion; the burning residue continued to smolder, setting alight tents and stores of ammunition.

The earthworks, hastily constructed, offered little protection against the relentless barrage. Rocks and boulders armed with the momentum of rolling downhill tore through the wooden walls, ripping apart men and equipment.

The air filled with the screams of the dying, the crackle of flames, and the deafening roar of explosions. Lieutenant Faris, his face grim, desperately tried to rally his men, but the sheer scale of the destruction was overwhelming. The carefully planned defensive position had been reduced to a fiery inferno in a matter of minutes.

Two of the “Thunder Makers,” monstrous cannons that had been the pride of the Threian army, were obliterated. The fiery Bufas Fruits had found their weak point: the gunpowder stores positioned too close to the cannons.

The resulting explosions were cataclysmic, ripping apart the cannons and those manning them. Limbs, chunks of metal, and burning debris rained down on the surrounding area, adding to the already horrifying scene.

The Verakhs, under the command of Khao’khen, continued their assault. They were a relentless tide of savagery, rolling down boulders and throwing more flaming Bufas Fruits, each impact adding to the carnage.

Khao’khen, despite his grim determination, knew their position was untenable. Outnumbered and outgunned, their only hope lay in inflicting as many casualties as possible before safely retreating.

The Threian marksmen, their faces contorted with effort, struggled to find targets amidst the chaos. The Verakhs were masters of fleeting movement, appearing only for a fraction of a second to hurl what they have in their hands before disappearing back into the rocky cover.

Every shot fired from below was a gamble, with a high probability of missing the target. Their carefully aimed volleys ended up either missing entirely, striking the rock face, or, far more often, killing their own men.

The Threian infantry, meanwhile, faced an insurmountable obstacle in their attempt to scale the mountainside. The continuous barrage of rocks and burning fruits made any advance suicide.

He felt a cold dread wash over him as he saw the complete annihilation of his company. The carefully prepared defensive line he had meticulously orchestrated was nothing but a pile of charred wood and smoking debris. He thought of Major Gresham, the man who had placed his trust in him. He had failed.

11:23

Those brave enough to try found themselves pounded by falling debris, incinerated by the fires, or crushed by boulders. The mountainside became a slaughterhouse, littered with the bodies of those who dared to challenge the Verakhs’ advantageous position.

Faris watched, his heart heavy with despair. His men were dying, not in a glorious battle, but in a senseless massacre. The meticulously planned defense had crumbled under the weight of a brutal, unforeseen attack.

He felt a cold dread wash over him as he saw the complete annihilation of his company. The carefully prepared defensive line he had meticulously orchestrated was nothing but a pile of charred wood and smoking debris. He thought of Major Gresham, the man who had placed his trust in him. He had failed.

Khao’khen, watching the devastation unfold from his vantage point, felt a grim satisfaction. He knew the Verakhs would not survive a head-on clash; their numbers were too few, their weapons lagging behind against their foes.

But they had achieved their goal, they had inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. And more importantly, those giant cannons were taken out of commission and would no longer wreak havoc on the other battlefield.

The setting sun cast long, menacing shadows across the battlefield, painting the scene in hues of blood and fire. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, blood, and the bitter taste of defeat.

The battle on the Lag’ranna Mountains was far from over, but the outcome seemed certain, as horrifying as it was inescapable. The screams of the dying mingled with the crackle of flames, creating a symphony of destruction that echoed through the unforgiving mountains. The only sound louder than the explosions were the increasingly desperate cries of the Threian soldiers as they met their fiery end.

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