The Threian line, initially holding firm, began to crack under the relentless pressure of the Rock Bear and Black Tree tribes. The orcish advance, a tide of muscles, furious rage, bloodlust, hunger for vengeance and a mixed of crudely and properly fashioned weaponry, overwhelmed the Threian defenses along a significant section of the battlefield.

The ground trembled with the weight of their charge. Dhug’mur, his tusks gleaming in the sun, led the Rock Bear tribe, a whirlwind of bone-crushing blows. Vir’khan, his old face smeared with sweat and blood, commanded the Black Tree warriors with brutal efficiency.

“For the Rock Bears!” Dhug’mur roared, his voice a guttural bellow that cut through the chaos of battle. He cleaved a Threian soldier in two with a single, mighty swing of his greataxe. The severed halves tumbled to the ground amidst a spray of blood and viscera.

He didn’t pause, instead using the momentum to smash his weapon into the face of another, pulverizing bone and spilling brains onto the muddied ground. He moved like a battering ram, unstoppable, tearing through the enemy ranks.

A Threian spear found its mark, piercing his shoulder. Dhug’mur grunted, barely registering the pain, and ripped the spear from his flesh. He then proceeded to bludgeon the spearman to death with his axe’s haft.

A Threian sergeant, recognizing the threat, charged Dhug’mur, his sword gleaming. The clash of iron on iron echoed through the battlefield. The Threian sergeant, a formidable warrior himself, landed several blows, but Dhug’mur’s sheer strength proved too much.

The orc, using his superior reach and greater strength, disarmed the Threian, then grabbed the sergeant and tossed him over his head like a rag doll. He landed with a sickening thud, his body broken and still.

Meanwhile, Vir’khan of the Black Tree tribe, adept with a pair of wickedly curved sickle-like blades attach to his staff, danced through the Threian ranks. His movements were fluid and deadly, a blur of sharp metal and shadow.

He dispatched his foes with swift, precise slashes. One Threian tried to impale him with a lance, but Vir’khan deftly sidestepped the attack, his scimitars slicing through the Threian’s throat and chest, and the soldier collapsed dead.

“Black Tree! Strike them down!” Vir’khan yelled, his voice hoarse from battle. He was already old, yet fought effortlessly, his blades finding their targets with uncanny accuracy.

His face, streaked with blood and grim determination, showed no sign of fatigue. He deflected a blow from a Threian sword, the metallic clang jarring against the screams of the dying. With a quick, upward slice, he severed the Threian’s arm at the elbow. The warrior screamed in agony as Vir’khan pressed his advantage, ending his life with a swift swing to the neck.

“Hold the line!” a Threian offficer shouted, his voice strained. “Push them back! For Threia!” His words were met with a cacophony of screams and the clash of iron. The Threian soldiers were fighting with fierce determination, however, they were overwhelmed by the numbers and brute force of the orcish onslaught.

Dhug’mur, his body bruised and bleeding, continued his relentless assault. He bellowed another battle cry, charging forward, his greataxe cutting a swathe through the remaining Threian ranks. His warriors, inspired by their leader’s ferocity, fought with renewed vigor.

“Crush them!” Dhug’mur roared, his voice raw. “For the Rock Bears!” He cleaved through another Threian, sending his body flying through the air. The sight of their fallen comrades seemed to unsettle the Threian soldiers.

Vir’khan, his weapon dripping with blood, cut down a Threian attempting to flank him. He spun, parrying a blow from a mace and then countering with a brutal slash that split the Threian’s skull open. Blood sprayed across Vir’khan’s face, but he showed no sign of flinching.

The Threian line faltered. The relentless pressure of the orcish onslaught, coupled with the devastating leadership of Dhug’mur and Vir’khan, proved too much for the Threian defenders. The line began to buckle.

The weight of the orcish advance forced a large segment of the Threian defense to collapse. Panic spread amongst the ranks as the Threian soldiers retreated, many attempting to escape the chaotic scene.

Dhug’mur and Vir’khan, seeing their advantage, pressed their assault. The battle was turning decisively in favor of the Rock Bear and Black Tree tribes. The ground, now drenched in blood, told a silent story of the brutality of the battle.

The Threian Infantry line buckled. Rock Bear and Black Tree warriors, their ranks shattered by the orcish onslaught, fell back, leaving a gaping hole in the defenses. Orcs, a tide of muscular flesh and snarling teeth, surged through the breach. The air filled with the screams of the dying, the clang of metal on metal, and the guttural roars of the orcs.

Three Threian Marksmen – Galen, Remud, and Tesper – scrambled for cover behind a shattered section of a low wall. Their weapons, still smoking from recent volleys, were useless in the current melee. Orcs, clad in crude leather and bone armor with some wearing iron armor, swarmed past, their axes and crude swords dripping with blood.

“They’re through!” Galen shouted over the chaos, his voice strained. He reloaded his musket, his movements quick and practiced despite the chaos. The powder smelled acrid in his nostrils.

Tesper, his face streaked with grime and sweat, peered through a crack in the wall. “Too many. We need to fall back.”

Remud, his normally jovial expression grim, nodded. “But if we retreat too far, the Thunder Makers will be exposed.”

The Thunder Makers, massive siege cannons, were being desperately pushed back by their crews. The ground around them was scorched and littered with spent ammunition and the mangled remains of fallen Threian soldiers. Flames licked at the wooden frames of the cannons, threatening to ignite the gunpowder stores.

A particularly large orc, adorned with the bones, charged towards their position. His axe, stained crimson, cleaved through the air. Galen reacted instantly, firing his musket. The shot struck the orc in the chest, but the impact seemed to barely slow him down. He roared in fury, his eyes burning with a primal rage.

Galen, Remud, and Tesper dove for cover as the orc crashed into the remains of the wall, sending splinters and dust flying. They rolled behind a pile of rubble, their light armor offering little protection against the orc’s brutal force.

“Damn it,” Galen cursed, reloading his musket. “Those things are barely effective against them.”

“We need to find a better position,” Tesper said, wiping blood from a small scratch on his arm. “Something with better cover.”

They stayed low, listening to the relentless clash of weapons. The air vibrated with the thunderous roar of the Thunder Makers as they fired, their cannonballs tearing through the orcish ranks, but the sheer number of the orcs overwhelmed the Threian defenses.

A hail of orcish spears whistled past their heads. Tesper cried out as a shaft grazed his shoulder, drawing a thin stream of blood.

“We have to move!” Galen yelled, scrambling to his feet. They sprinted across the battlefield, weaving between the bodies of the dead and the struggling survivors. Another volley of spears found its mark. Remud stumbled, clutching his leg.

“Remud!” Galen yelled, helping him to his feet.

“I’m fine,” Remud grunted, his face contorted in pain. “Just a flesh wound.”

They continued to run, dodging charging orcs and stray cannon fire. Reaching a small depression in the ground, they collapsed, gasping for breath. The sound of battle raged behind them.

“What now?” Tesper asked, checking Remud’s wound. It was bleeding profusely.

“We have to keep firing,” Galen said, reloading his musket. “As long as we can keep them back, the Thunder Makers might have a chance to find a proper firing position.”

“But we’re sitting ducks here,” Remud protested. “We need a better position, higher ground.”

“There’s a wooden storehouse further back,” Tesper pointed. “It might offer some protection.”

They agreed, and, ignoring the pain, began to make their way to the storehouse. Every step was fraught with danger. Orcs patrolled the battlefield, their eyes scanning for survivors.

They reached the storehouse, clambering up the broken roof. From the top, they had a better view of the battlefield.

*****

The left flank of the Threian defensive line was a churning maelstrom of iron and blood. The Third Spear Cavalry, arrayed in their polished armor, met the brutal charge of the orcish Rhakaddon and Warg cavalry.

Dhug’mhar, leading the Rhakaddons, was a figure of terrifying power despite his weird antics, his form a stark contrast to the smaller Threian riders. His Rhakaddon, a monstrous beast of burden and war, bore down on the Threian lines with unrestrained fury.

The initial impact was devastating. The Threian warhorses, while swift, were no match for the sheer bulk and strength of the Rhakaddons. The collision of armored behemoths sent a shockwave through the Threian ranks.

Rhakaddons, with their thick hides and bone-crushing strength, smashed through the Threian lines, their riders wielding long, sharp spears and swords.

The smaller Threian mounts buckled under the force of the impact, their legs twisting grotesquely beneath them as they were thrown into the air, often with their riders still clinging desperately to their backs.

Many horses landed with sickening thuds, their spines snapping under the weight of their armor and the impact, their riders flung to the earth, their bodies twisting in the aftermath of the collision.

“Hold the line!” shouted a Threian officer, his voice barely audible above the screams of men and the thunder of hooves. His command was met with a renewed surge of Threian spears, but the impact against the Rhakaddons was lessened. The thicker hide of the Rhakaddons were effective against the Threian spears adding to the fact that the Rhakaddons were also covered in iron armor.

“Push them back!” Dhug’mhar bellowed, his voice a guttural roar that echoed across the battlefield. His Rhakaddon surged forward, its massive hooves crushing a Threian warrior beneath its weight. The sound of breaking bones was almost imperceptible over the clash of steel and the cries of the dying.

Meanwhile, on the flanks, Haguk’s Warg cavalry harried the Threian lines. The wargs, agile and vicious, targeted the Threian horses, their sharp teeth tearing through flesh and hide with sickening ease, their armor proving to be ineffective against the instincts of the wargs who knew where to bite and claw at.

Horses screamed in agony as they were savaged, their riders forced to dismount or dragged to the ground in a brutal dance of death. Blood and viscera splattered across the trampled earth, painting a horrific canvas of the battle.

“They’re breaking!” a Threian soldier yelled, his voice laced with alarm. A gap was beginning to open in the Threian lines as the Rhakaddons pressed their advantage, their sharp spears and swords creating a swathe of carnage.

“Form a wall!” another officer ordered, desperately trying to rally his men. The Threian cavalry attempted to regroup, forming a tight defensive formation, their spears held high to meet the onslaught. Yet, the momentum of the Rhakaddon charge was too powerful. The orcs’ sheer weight and savagery were too much to withstand.

“For the Horde!” Dhug’mhar roared, his voice raw with bloodlust. He spurred his Rhakaddon forward, its massive horns piercing the chest of a Threian warrior, lifting the armored man and his mount high into the air before flinging them aside like insignificant toys.

Haguk watched from the periphery, his warg snarling, its eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. He saw the wargs tearing into the flanks of the Threian cavalry, leaving behind a trail of mangled corpses. The Threian horses, despite their armor and resilience of their riders, were easily overpowered. Their screams of pain and fear filled the air as their flesh was torn and their bones were broken.

The Threian lines, once a solid wall, were now fractured, a chaotic jumble of men and horses struggling to maintain their formation against the unrelenting onslaught. The orcish cavalry, driven by a primal ferocity, continued their relentless assault, leaving a trail of death and destruction in their wake.

“More spears!” a Threian soldier cried out, his voice strained. “We need more spears!” However, his words were lost in the deafening roar of battle, and the screams of dying men and horses. The tide of the battle seemed to be irreversibly turning against the Threian force. The Rhakaddons continued to push through the disintegrating Threian lines.

The battle raged on, a brutal dance of death in which the heavier, stronger orcish cavalry were gradually overwhelming their Threian counterparts, inflicting a heavy toll on their ranks, leaving behind a scene of blood-soaked carnage and despair.

The Threian Third Spear Cavalry were being decimated, their ranks thinning with each passing moment as the orcish horde pressed their deadly advance.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep