The orcish tide, a churning mass of muscular flesh and crude weaponry, recoiled. For two hours, they had pressed against the Threian lines, a relentless wave of brutality.

Broken spears littered the ground, mingling with the bodies of both orcs and Threian soldiers. The air hung thick with the coppery tang of blood, the stench of sweat and decay, punctuated by the occasional guttural orcish roar or the pained cry of a dying man. Then, the Third Spear Cavalry arrived.

Their charge, a disciplined wedge of iron and muscle, cleaved through the orcish ranks. Long spears, tipped with wickedly sharp Threian iron, found purchase in the softer flesh of the orcs.

The cavalry cut a swathe through the disorganized orcish formation, scattering them like chaff before a gale. Orcs fell from where they stood, their bodies trampled under the hooves of warhorses. Those who attempted to flee were cut down by pursuing cavalrymen, their screams swallowed by the chaos of battle.

The hesitation became a rout. Orcs, abandoning their weapons and armor in their desperate flight, scrambled back towards their own lines. The Third Spear Cavalry pursued relentlessly, their lances flashing in the rays of the sun, leaving a trail of death and carnage in their wake.

A volley of flaming bals from orcish catapults rained down on the pursuing Threian cavalry. Several horses whinnied in pain from the sudden scorching heat, their riders thrown to the ground, some to be trampled underfoot by their fleeing comrades. The volley achieved its objective: the Threian advance faltered.

Captain Wilfrid, atop his warhorse, watched the retreating orcs. His face, grim and set, betrayed no emotion. He saw the chaos, the disarray, the opportunity. But he also saw the potential threat. The main orcish army remained largely intact, their lines still formidable despite the rout.

“Sergeant!” Wilfrid’s voice, amplified by the din, cut through the air.

“Captain,” a gruff voice replied.

“Assess the situation. Are the enemy fully broken?” Wilfrid asked.

The sergeant, a grizzled veteran with a scarred face, surveyed the battlefield. “No, Captain. They are retreating, yes, but their main force is still in formation. Too much risk to pursue them aggressively without more support.”

“Agreed,” Wilfrid replied, his gaze fixed on the orcish lines. “We consolidate our position. Prepare for a renewed assault. Send word to the healers; we have many wounded.”

The fighting, for the moment, subsided. But the silence was deceptive, a tense lull before the storm. The air crackled with anticipation; the unspoken threat of the coming conflict hung heavy in the air. Both sides took stock; the orcs regrouped, while the Threians tended their wounded, securing their hard-won gains.

A wounded orc, his leg mangled, crawled towards a clump of bushes, dragging himself away from the battlefield. A Threian soldier, a young man barely out of his teens, saw him and hesitated. The orc grunted, his eyes still with fighting spirit, but the soldier, his own wounds burning, ignored him and moved on, his duty calling to him.

A Threian healer, his hands stained crimson, worked tirelessly to staunch the flow of blood from a gravely wounded comrade. The man, his face pale and drawn, moaned softly as he worked, his grip tight on his hand. He died soon after.

“Another one,” the healer muttered to no one in particular.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the blood-soaked battlefield. A lone raven perched on a shattered wall, its dark colored wooden parts stark against the crimson-stained earth. The air, still heavy with the stench of death, grew colder with the approach of night.

“How many casualties?” Wilfrid asked, turning to his lieutenant, Marcus.

Marcus consulted a scroll. “Fifty dead, Captain, and seventy-three wounded, sir. Many are badly hurt. We also had several horses that were fatally injured from the sudden attack of the enemy catapults.”

“The Orcs?”

“Their losses appear to be far higher, judged by the number of bodies left on the field. But their main force is largely intact and they’ll certainly be reinforced at night,” Marcus replied.

Wilfrid nodded. “Night will bring them to their feet and reinforcements. We shall not relax vigilance,” he said, his voice low and resolute. “Strengthen the perimeter defenses, and double the guard duty. We expect a renewed assault at dawn.” The captain’s grim prediction would more likely be realized.

The battle, though seemingly won, was far from over. The scent of death and the taste of blood on the wind served as a stark reminder. The war was far from over; in fact, it had only just begun.

Darkness had fully settled when Captain Wilfrid and Lieutenant Marcus entered Major Gresham’s tent. The air hung heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and dried blood, a familiar scent in their war-torn camp.

Wilfrid, his face grimy and bearing a fresh cut above his eyebrow, presented a casualty report. The parchment listed fifty dead and seventy-three wounded among his riders, a grim testament to the day’s fighting.

“Sir,” Wilfrid began, his voice low and even, “the orcish band we pursued… it was a feint.”

Marcus added, “A significant one, sir. We’ve located a much larger force to the east, easily over fifty thousand strong. They seem to be waiting for us, or for any force foolish enough to engage them.”

Major Gresham, a man whose face was etched with the weariness of countless battles, listened intently. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the flickering lamplight catching the glint of steel in his eyes. The casualty report lay on his makeshift desk, a stark reminder of the brutal cost of their ongoing campaign.

“Fifty thousand,” Gresham repeated, the words hanging in the air. He traced the outline of a map depicting the current deployment of his forces, the small cluster representing his own men dwarfed by the immense blotch indicating the newly discovered orcish horde. “And we’re already engaged with another sizeable force to the south.”

Wilfrid nodded grimly. “They’ve somehow effectively encircled us, sir. There is a chance for them to utilize a pincer movement, if they discover each other and work together. We observed considerable movement amongst the eastern force; they appear ready to advance at any moment.”

Marcus detailed their observations: the organization of the orcish army, the positioning of their siege weapons, the evident signs of preparation for a major assault. He described the brutal efficiency of their camp, the horrifying display of impaled human and elven corpses acting as grotesque decorations along the perimeter.

He described the size of the orcish behemoths, their crude yet effective weapons, and the savagery evident in their preparations. The lieutenant spoke of a chilling quiet from the vast army, broken only by the occasional guttural shout and the rhythmic clang of weapon sharpening.

“Their intention is clear,” Gresham stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “To crush us.” He leaned back, the weight of his responsibility palpable.

“Sir,” Wilfrid said, “we believe our earlier engagement was nothing more than a lure, drawing us away from the main force while they gathered their strength.”

Gresham’s eyes narrowed. The earlier battle had been a bloody affair. He recalled the sight of men torn apart by massive orcish axes, the desperate cries of the wounded, the grim determination in the eyes of his men as they fought for their lives. The sounds of screams and the stench of blood remained fresh in his memory.

“Damn Lady Winters and her uncooperative attitude!” Gresham muttered, his fist clenching. “This means another report. Another letter.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Wilfrid began, “a messenger should be dispatched immediately. Lady Winters’ forces are vital to our situation. With two such large orcish armies moving against us, we need all the support we can get. Delaying this information could prove disastrous.”

Gresham knew Wilfrid was right. He hates the Blue Countess, their rivalry fierce and long-standing, but the strategic reality was undeniable. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation.

He grabbed a quill and parchment, his hand moving swiftly across the page as he composed the urgent missive. The letter detailed the situation, highlighting the critical nature of the immediate threat and the need for immediate reinforcement.

“Get our fastest rider,” Gresham instructed, his voice sharper now. “Tell him this is a matter of life and death. The message must reach Countess Aliyah Winters before dawn.”

The messenger, a wiry young man, received the sealed letter and mounted his weary horse. He spurred the animal into a gallop, disappearing into the night, his silhouette a small dark shape against the vast, threatening darkness.

Gresham watched him go, a grim expression on his face. He knew the odds were stacked heavily against him. Fifty thousand orcs to the east, another substantial force to the south, and his own depleted ranks… The situation was dire. But the letter was sent, a tiny beacon of hope in the overwhelming darkness of war.

The fate of his men, and perhaps the entire region, now rested on the speed of a single horse and the will of a woman he profoundly disliked. His thoughts turned back to the grim reality of the battlefield, the blood-soaked ground, and the brutal efficiency of the orcish war machine. He knew the coming days would bring more bloodshed. The battle, it seemed, was far from over.

The moon hung low, casting long, skeletal shadows across the orcish encampment. Just past midnight, the rhythmic thud of heavily armored hooves announced the arrival of the Warg and Rhakaddon cavalry.

Dust billowed behind them, a swirling cloud that momentarily obscured the figures of the riders. At the vanguard rode Dhug’mhar, his massive physique straining against his wargear. He flexed his biceps, a practiced, almost ritualistic movement, even as his mount shifted restlessly beneath him.

“Are we late to the fray?” Dhug’mhar’s booming voice carried across the camp.

Sakhr’arran, his face grim, emerged from the shadows of a nearby tent. With him were Gur’kan and Khao’khen.

“You certainly are!” Sakhr’arran’s reply was curt. “The fighting started this morning.”

Gur’kan, a leaner orc with a few scars on his body, nodded in agreement. “Aye, we knocked on the pinkskins’ gates before sunrise.”

“We could have arrived sooner if we hadn’t been burdened with the chieftain’s ridiculous amount of gifts given by the darkskins,” Dhug’mhar grumbled, resuming his muscle-flexing display. He spat a glob of saliva onto the parched earth.

“Three hundred barrels of that flammable, sticky black substance,” Haguk, a wiry orc with unusually silent, almost unnervingly serious eyes, reported. He gestured towards a line of heavily guarded war wagons. “We brought fifty. The rest remain in Yohan.”

Khao’khen, his face obscured by a helm, simply nodded. The fifty barrels represented a significant addition to their offensive capabilities. The viscous black liquid, a crude form of petroleum extracted from the Burning Sands, would prove invaluable in breaching enemy defenses and destroying enemy morale.

The Threian siege engines, massive constructions of wood and metal, were a constant threat. Their effectiveness stemmed from their range and power. The orcs had learned this the hard way.

Many had suffered grievous injuries or death from the iron projectiles thrown by those siege weapons. The lack of effective countermeasures had been a major impediment to their assault. The arrival of this flammable substance promised a shift in the balance of power.

Dhug’mhar dismounted, his warg snorting and pawing the ground. The animal’s hide, a patchwork of scars and patches, testified to numerous battles fought and won. Dhug’mhar’s warg was unusually large, even for its kind – a testament to the orc’s pride in the beast. He patted the warg’s massive head, grunting his approval.

Sakhr’arran, meanwhile, was already issuing orders. The cavalry was to be integrated into the existing offensive formations, their addition designed to bolster the flanks, creating a pincer movement. The fifty barrels of oil were to be strategically positioned, ready for deployment once the opportunity presented itself.

The next few hours were a blur of activity. The warg riders were given the details of the battlefield. They honed their weapons, the glint of metal under the moonlight a chilling sight. The grunts and shouts of preparation mixed with the nervous whines of the wargs as they awaited deployment.

As dawn broke, the battle resumed. The Threian siege engines continued their bombardment, their projectiles tearing through orcish ranks. But this time, the response was different.

At a designated moment, instead of using the burning Bufas Fruits, the orcish catapults launched jars of oil towards the estimated location of the Thunder Makers from their previous attack. The sticky substance found its mark as some of the Threian siege engines was bathed in oil along with their crew as the jar shattered against it.

Right after the volley of oil jars, came the burning Bufas Fruits.

The resulting inferno consumed the siege engine, its wooden carriage creaking and exploding as the fire spread and ignited the nearby stock of gunpowder. Other siege engines met the same fate, engulfed in flames. The Threian army, momentarily stunned, was thrown into disarray.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep