The simply design of Khao’khen’s tent echoed with the hushed tones of the assembled Yohan’s greatest minds. Their faces, usually alight with the fervor of intellectual pursuit, were drawn and weary. Before them, Khao’khen, the Chieftain, sat impassively, his gaze fixed on the meticulously crafted table where a single, intricately detailed diagram of the “Thunder Maker” rested.

“Chief Khao’khen,” began Zaltar, the chief metallurgist, his voice carrying a note of defeat. “Despite our best efforts, the composition of the Thunder Maker’s barrel remains a mystery. Our analyses reveal a mineral unlike any we have encountered, it is made of something harder than normal iron. The dwarven craftsmanship is… astonishing, but ultimately opaque to our understanding.”

A murmur rippled through the assembled great minds. Each head nodded in agreement, a testament to their shared frustration.

“And the ‘boomsticks’?” Khao’khen’s voice, though low, cut through the silence.

Zul’jinn, a simple looking orc whose scarred hands spoke of countless crafts he had done, stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. Beside him stood Rakh’ash’tha, his face grim, his hands stained with a faint residue of gunpowder.

“The boomsticks,” Zul’jinn began, his voice a gravelly rumble, “are simpler, though no less effective. We discovered the firing mechanism—a clever application of pressure and combustion using a tightly packed powder.

The barrels are cast iron, strengthened with an unknown binding agent that allows them to withstand repeated firing without catastrophic failure. The precise composition of this binding agent eludes us, but the process itself is within our grasp. Given time, we can replicate their production.”

Rakh’ash’tha added, his voice sharp and precise, “The ammunition—lead balls propelled by the explosive powder—is straightforward. Our smiths can readily produce these, but the powder that we had created is somewhat less powerful than the ones that they have.”

Khao’khen nodded slowly. Disappointment flickered across his features, but it was quickly replaced with a flicker of determination. “The Thunder Maker remains… problematic. But the boomsticks are achievable. Our warriors will soon possess a weapon comparable to the Threian’s. However, the Thunder Maker…” He paused, a glint in his eye. “There is one more option. Ereia, the reclusive mage of Alsenna, may possess knowledge beyond the common understanding. He may know something about this weapon.”

“Bring the Thunder Maker to Alsenna,” Khao’khen commanded. “Let the mage have his study.”

The order was met with a mixture of relieved sighs and grim determination.

Meanwhile, outside the inner circle of the camo, the restless orcs milled about. Their impatience was palpable. A week of inaction had frayed their nerves. The air crackled with a simmering frustration.

A towering orc with a crudely fashioned warhammer, spat on the ground. “This waiting is worse than battle itself,” he grumbled to his companion, a wiry orc who was feeling the same.

The wiry orc nodded, his scarred face a mask of boredom. “Aye. Our bloodlust has gone unsated for too long. These thinkers with their charts and powders… they’re slow.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the chilling scream of a Threian scout being hacked to pieces by a patrol of orcish warriors. The blood splattered on the dust, turning it a dark crimson.

The orcs cheered, their bloodlust momentarily satiated by the brutal scene, a glimpse of the violence they craved. The screams were short-lived, the thud of metal punctuated by a final gasp.

The next few days were filled with the same grim routine. The orcish warriors were kept busy in mock battles, sharpening their weapons, and practicing formation drills. Their hunger for action remained, however, fueling the undercurrent of tension within the camp. The waiting was maddening. The frustration of inaction fed their aggression.

Finally, a detachment of orcs carefully loaded the enormous Thunder Maker onto a specially constructed cart. Under the watchful eyes of Khao’khen’s veteran warriors, it began its journey towards Alsenna. The journey itself was long and arduous, marked by only brief skirmishes, hardly worth mentioning against the rising impatience of the orcs.

Days bled into weeks, the slow progress of the journey mirroring the slow progress of the scholars. News from Alsenna remained scarce.

The warriors continued their training, the undercurrent of tension never fully dissipating. The waiting game continued, the relentless anticipation for the inevitable clash of iron, the satisfaction of brutal violence only postponed, not extinguished.

The air in the camp remained thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and the ever-present anticipation of battle. The silence was punctuated only by the clanking of weapons, the grunts of training orcs, and the distant rumble of the Thunder Maker’s cart moving towards its uncertain fate and the promise of something new.

*****

Gresham examined the wax seal, a deep blue mirroring the crest. He carefully broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the elegant script, his expression gradually hardening.

He read the letter twice, his jaw tightening with each rereading. The room, sparsely furnished with a sturdy oak desk, a map of the lands spread across it, and a small, crackling fire in the hearth, remained silent except for the crackle of the flames and Gresham’s harsh breathing.

The letter, penned in a fine hand, was concise. It lacked the formal courtesies expected between officers of their rank and standing. It was, in essence, a pointed and sarcastic rejection of Gresham’s request for aid against the encroaching orcish horde.

Aliyah Winters, the Blue Countess, had not only refused assistance but had also included several barbed comments regarding Gresham’s perceived incompetence in handling the situation.

Gresham, a man of considerable stature with a stern face etched with years of military service, crumpled the letter in his fist. His knuckles turned white under the strain. He then proceeded to hurl the crumpled parchment into the fire, watching as the flames consumed the elegant script, turning it to ash.

“Damn her,” he muttered, the words low but laced with barely controlled rage. He paced the length of his office, his boots thudding against the polished wooden floor. His usually impeccable composure was shattered.

He picked up a quill pen and began to write a response. The script was forceful, direct, and devoid of any of the usual pleasantries exchanged between nobles. The letter acknowledged the Countess’s rejection, but it also forcefully reiterated the severity of the orcish threat, emphasizing the potential consequences of inaction for the entire kingdom.

It also subtly underscored the Winters family’s historical reliance on the Snowe family’s military expertise to secure their wealth and influence. The letter was a thinly veiled challenge.

After sealing the letter, Gresham summoned his aide, a seasoned soldier of many battles.

“Send this letter out,” Gresham began, his voice regaining some of its usual authority, “Prepare a swift courier. This letter requires immediate delivery to General Winters.”

His aide nodded curtly, showing no surprise at the Major’s outburst or the swift change in demeanor. He understood the intricate web of rivalry and political maneuvering that defined the relationship between the Snowe and Winters families. He was accustomed to Gresham’s abrupt shifts in mood when dealing with anyone from the Winters.

“Sir,” the aid said, after a moment, “Might I suggest a different approach? Perhaps a more…diplomatic message?”

Gresham stopped, his hand hovering over the sealed letter. He considered his aide’s suggestion. The soldier, usually reticent, had a point. A direct confrontation might escalate the already tense situation.

“No,” Gresham replied, his voice firm. “Let her have it straight. She’ll understand this better,” his pride as one of the Snowe’s won’t allow it.

His aide bowed slightly and left to arrange for the courier. Gresham watched him go, his expression unreadable. He returned to his desk, the map of the kingdom and the orcish lands spread out before him, his gaze fixed on the area most threatened by the orcish counter.

“The Blue Countess,” he murmured to himself, the words carrying a hint of grudging respect mixed with disdain. “She’ll regret this. She always does.”

The courier, selected for his speed and reliability, departed with the reply before nightfall. The swift exchange of letters, laced with barely concealed hostility, marked a significant escalation in the already strained relationship between the two powerful families.

The coming days would prove whether the kingdoms’ best interests would outweigh long-standing family rivalries in the face of the imminent orcish threat. The outcome remained uncertain.

The Major sat at his chair inside his tent. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke. His map lay spread before him, its creases worn from repeated use. He tapped a pencil against the parchment, a rhythmic clicking sound in the otherwise quiet tent. He adjusted his spectacles, then called out.

“Odric! Agis! Come in here.”

The flap of the tent opened, and two soldiers, Odric and Agis, entered. Both men were clad in standard-issue uniforms, their faces showing signs of fatigue.

“Gentlemen,” the Major began, his voice flat and devoid of inflection, “we have a situation. The scouts sent out this morning, has not yet returned.”

Agis shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Sir, they were given a clear objective. The scout leader is reliable.”

“Reliability is not a guarantee of safe return,” the Major responded, his tone unchanged. “Their estimated return time has passed. What are your thoughts?”

Odric consulted his own notes. “Sir, considering the terrain and the time allotted, there’s a possibility of unforeseen delays. A sudden situation, perhaps, or an encounter with…” he paused.

“With what, Odric?” the Major prompted.

“Unpredictable factors. Wildlife, difficult passage. Sir, I believe we should allow more time before we sound the alarm.”

The Major considered this, his gaze falling back to the map. He traced a finger along the route the scouts had been assigned.

“Very well,” he stated. “We’ll wait another day. If they have not returned by then, we will send out another group. Agis, you’ll take the lead on that. Odric, prepare a list of personnel and supplies. Dismiss.”

Agis had a look of defeat on his face after they left the Major’s tent. Their previous mission had been successful, but if he had a choice, he wouldn’t want to receive another one like it, but alas, he was truly unlucky.

Odric and Agis saluted and left the tent. The Major remained seated, his pencil still tapping lightly against the map. He continued to stare at the marked route, a slight frown furrowing his brow, though this was not immediately apparent in his otherwise neutral facial expression. The day passed slowly.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep