The ochre dust billowed, a swirling vortex against the bruised orange of the early morning sky. Cannonballs, each a screaming metal death, slammed into the ground. The impact of the first struck near a contingent of Bloodfang orcs, obliterating three in a single, horrifying burst.

Limbs, torsos, and viscera sprayed across the ravaged ground, painting a gruesome sight against the already blood-soaked earth. The air vibrated with the thunderous reports, followed by the chilling whistle of the projectiles in flight.

Khao’khen, his serious face grim, observed the carnage from a relatively safe distance. He watched as more cannonballs tore through the ranks of the orcish warriors.

“How many are there?” Khao’khen’s voice was low, a guttural rasp barely audible above the sound of battle.

Trot’thar, his eyes narrowed, scanned the Threian lines. “More than a dozen, Chief. Many more than we faced before. And… pinkskins wielding the boomsticks,” he added, his voice laced with grudging respect. “Their numbers are significant.”

The initial bombardment had created chaos among the orcish ranks. The attack, meant to be a coordinated assault from multiple tribes, devolved into a disorganized rout.

The Thunder Makers, the Threian artillery pieces, were proving devastatingly effective, their range and power exceeding Khao’khen’s expectations. The impact of each ball sent shrapnel tearing through the loosely formed orcish lines.

The orcs, however, were relentless. Despite the heavy casualties, they continued their advance, their numbers still overwhelming. The initial barrage had thinned their ranks, but had not broken them.

The sheer mass of the orcish tide compensated for their lack of tactical cohesion. Their advance was a tide of blood and fury, a desperate wave crashing against the Threian defenses.

“Isn’t this…overkill?” Khao’khen muttered, the words barely escaping his lips. The scale of the Threian response was far beyond anything he’d anticipated. The earlier skirmishes involved at most three Thunder Makers, a number they’d easily countered. Now, facing over a dozen, the odds were drastically tilted.

The orcs’ disorganized assault, however, had a perverse benefit: it prevented the Threian artillery from achieving maximum efficiency. The scattered formation prevented concentrated volleys, forcing the Thunder Makers to target individual areas.

As the first wave of orcs reached the base of the Threian walls, a new wave of explosions rocked the battlefield. This time, the blasts were smaller, a deadly hail of fast moving projectiles, raining down from the walls. Dozens of orcs were hit by the projectiles, their bodies riddled with holes, some persevered through the pain and just shrugged it off while others fell.

Yet, the assault continued. Orcs, fueled by rage and a primal bloodlust, scaled the walls, their crude weapons clashing against Threian iron. The defenders, primarily infantry, put up a spirited resistance, their swords and spears meeting the crude axes and clubs of the orcs.

The Threian Marksmen, having unleashed their initial volley of projectules, retreated behind the lines. Their initial attack had significantly thinned the orcish ranks, but the sheer number of charging orcs was too much.

The orcs overwhelmed the Threian front line, their sheer brute strength overcoming the training and discipline of the Threian soldiers. A grim fight ensued; Threian swords and spears fell, replaced by torn and bloody orcish weapons.

However, scattered throughout the Threian ranks were the Threian Marksmen who just retreated to a safe distance before continuing on with their attacks. Their long barreled weapons spat out fire and smoke accompanied by a deadly projectile.

The booming reports of the boomsticks, as the orcs called them, were interspersed with the clash of metal. The steady, efficient fire carved swaths through the advancing orcs, thinning their numbers.

Khao’khen watched, his expression unreadable. The initial probing attack had turned into a bloody stalemate. The Threian defense, far more robust and technologically advanced than he had estimated, presented a significant, even insurmountable, challenge.

The price for this intelligence, however, was proving steep. The number of his warriors slaughtered already far exceeded his expectations. The losses were substantial, far exceeding his initial assessment of the risk.

The acrid smell of burning Bufas Fruits hung heavy in the air, a pungent counterpoint to the metallic tang of blood. Khao’khen, his tusks gleaming in the flickering firelight, watched from a raised vantage point as his siege engines unleashed their fiery payload.

The orcish catapults, towering behemoths compared to their human counterparts, were positioned at strategic intervals along the front line. Their operators, the Yurakks, were not affected by the intoxicating fumes of the burning Bufas Fruits, unlike the incapacitated trolls.

“Arm the catapults!” Gur’kan bellowed, his voice a gravelly roar swallowed by the din of battle. The Yurakks moved with practiced efficiency, their movements precise and powerful.

Each catapult groaned under the strain as a flaming Bufas Fruit was loaded into the sling. The air crackled with anticipation before the deafening *thwack* of the launch mechanism echoed across the battlefield.

Arcing through the smoke-filled sky, the flaming projectiles screamed towards the Threian lines. One struck a makeshift munitions store, igniting a chaotic blaze. Panicked Threian soldiers scrambled, desperately trying to extinguish the flames and secure the remaining gunpowder sacks.

Another fiery ball slammed into a group of Thunder Maker crews, scattering them in disarray. The air filled with the shrieks of the wounded and the crackling of burning wood.

“Look out!” a Threian officer yelled, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of war. The sky rained fire.

“Curses!” a Thunder Maker operator screamed, his face blackened with soot, as he frantically shoveled dirt onto a gunpowder sack. Another projectile exploded nearby, showering him with debris and searing heat. He collapsed, his body convulsing.

“Sir, the orcs are using incendiary attacks to counter the Thunder Makers,” a soldier reported, his voice strained. His face, streaked with mud and blood, reflected the grim reality of the situation.

“Have soldiers quickly secure the pile of gunpowder, cover them with dirt or bury them if they have to, just don’t let them be set ablaze,” Major Gresham ordered, his voice firm despite the chaos. The fate of their entire camp hung precariously in the balance. The potential explosion from the gunpowder store would be devastating.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Deramis, his face grim, directed the Threian marksmen. Their volleys, while precise, struggled to keep pace with the relentless orcish advance. Orcish warriors, their crude armor stained crimson, surged forward, their axes and clubs a whirlwind of death. Each swing connected with the sickening thud of bone meeting steel, and each strike left another Threian soldier lying broken and bleeding.

Lieutenant Faris, commanding the Threian infantry, fought with grim determination at the front lines. His shield deflecting blows, his sword a blur of motion, he held his line. Orcs fell before him, their guttural roars silenced by the thrust of his blade. But the orcish numbers were overwhelming. The Threian ranks thinned with each passing moment.

“Hold the line!” Faris roared, his voice raw with exertion, as he parried a blow aimed at his head. He stumbled, but recovered, pushing forward against the tide of muscular flesh and blood. His blade found its mark again and again, but for every orc he felled, more seemed to take their place. The ground was quickly turning into a morass of blood and mud, the air thick with the stench of death and burning flesh.

The battle raged on. Flames licked at the Threian defenses, mixing with the red tide spilling from the ever-increasing number of casualties. The sounds of clashing steel and the screams of dying men formed a symphony of destruction.

Orcs and Threians clashed, their bodies intertwining in a grim dance of death, each side desperately clinging to what little ground they still possessed. The outcome seemed inevitable.

The Threian lines, battered and broken, were beginning to crumble under the relentless orcish assault. The fiery rain from the catapults continued, adding another layer of chaos to the already brutal scene. The air was thick with smoke, blood, and the palpable scent of fear.

To the northeast of the Threian battle lines, the deep resonance of battle horns cut through the air. A rapidly expanding dust cloud, kicked up by a multitude of fast-moving figures, announced their approach towards the front lines. The cloud obscured the approaching force, offering only glimpses of glinting metal amidst the swirling brown.

Major Gresham, his face streaked with sweat and grime, heaved a sigh of relief. “They are finally here!” he muttered, the words barely audible above the chaos of the ongoing battle.

His cavalry regiment, the Third Spear, had been delayed. Pursuing a fleeing band of orcs who had survived their initial conquest of the orcish lands, they had been forced to prioritize the pursuit, leaving the main battle line undermanned. The surviving orcs had scattered eastward, forcing a prolonged chase that had cost them precious time and threatened to expose the Threian flank.

The dust cloud began to dissipate, revealing the Third Spear Cavalry in all their armored glory. Man and steed, clad in gleaming steel plate and chainmail, presented a formidable sight.

Their lances, lowered and pointed towards the enemy, glinted menacingly in the sunlight. The rhythmic thud of hundreds of hooves drumming against the earth preceded their arrival, heralding a devastating charge.

The orcs, engaged in a brutal melee with the Threian infantry, were caught completely off guard. Their ranks, already thinned and disorganized by earlier fighting, were ill-prepared to meet a concentrated cavalry assault.

The initial impact was catastrophic. Lances, aimed with deadly accuracy, punched through orcish bodies with sickening thuds, sending warriors sprawling to the ground, their lifeblood staining the earth. Horses, their momentum unchecked, trampled the fallen, adding further carnage to the scene.

“For Threia!” roared Captain Wildfrid, his voice barely audible above the clash of iron, the screams of the dying, and the thunder of hooves. He plunged his lance into the chest of a hulking orc, the spear shaft snapping with a splintering sound as it pierced through bone and muscle.

The orcish line shattered under the weight of the cavalry charge. Orcish warriors, their crude weapons useless against the armored riders, fell in droves. The air filled with the sounds of splintering wood, the crunch of bone, and the guttural cries of dying orcs. The Third Spear Cavalry, circling and regrouping, continued their deadly work, relentlessly cutting down the disorganized enemy.

“Hold the line!” Major Gresham shouted, his voice strained. He watched as his cavalry carved a path of destruction through the orcish ranks. He then signaled for the flanking maneuver, to deal as much damage to the remaining orcs.

“They won’t escape!” shouted one of the cavalrymen, as they pursued the fleeing orcs.

“Kill them all! Leave none alive!” yelled another, his voice echoing with bloodlust.

The chase lasted as fast as it came, the orcish catapults change their targets and aimed at the pursuing Threian Cavalry and set some parts of the battlefield aflame, successfully halting the pursuit.

The Rakshas along with the warriors from the Rock Bear and Black Tree Tribe were also ordered to advance, and engage with the enemy cavalry if they continue to pursue their comrades.

“Report!” Gresham barked to one of the cavalry’s sergeants, once the immediate threat had subsided, his voice hoarse, and his hands trembling from the fatigue.

“Sir,” the sergeant reported, wiping blood from his sword, “we’ve broken their attack. Casualties are heavy on their side but we also suffered many casualties as well”.

“How many?” Gresham pressed, his gaze hardening.

“At least a hundred men and horses lost, sir. Many more wounded.”

Gresham nodded grimly, understanding the cost of victory. The Third Spear’s intervention had undeniably turned the tide of battle, yet it came at a steep price. The sight of the carnage—the mountains of corpses, the rivers of blood, the silence that followed the storm of violence—was a stark reminder of war’s brutal reality.

The relief he had felt earlier was now tempered with a heavy sense of loss. The fighting had stopped but the sounds of their comrades’ pained breathing were clearly audible. The stench of death lingered. The ground was covered with blood. The battlefield was a horrific sight.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep