Galum’nor’s mace, a roughly hewn length of oak, crunched through the Balfur’s skull with a sickeningly wet thud. Blood, dark and viscous, splattered across the ground. He grunted, tossing the corpse aside. Three more lay scattered nearby, similarly dispatched. Their bodies, mangled and broken, bore testament to the ferocity of the encounter.

“The Chief said that there is a group of pinkskins who entered the mountains, but till now, we haven’t spotted even a shadow of them,” Galum’nor muttered, wiping blood from his mace on a patch of dew covered leaves. The crimson stain quickly mixed into the green.

Drae’ghanna, her face grim, replied, “The Verakhs reported a group of them entering the mountains, and according to their predictions, they would take the same route out of the mountains, less they risk encountering something unexpected from the mountains.” Her tone was flat, devoid of emotion.

Aro’shanna, having finished her own brutal work on a Balfur, sat on a blood-stained rock, sharpening her axe with a rhythmic scrape. The blade, already honed to a razor edge, gleamed dully in the weak mountain sunlight.

Beside her, the little Grogus, barely a warrior, meticulously cleaned his small dagger, his eyes constantly scanning the surrounding landscape. His expression was one of intense concentration, a stark contrast to the casual brutality displayed by the others.

The four Verakh squads remained silent, their faces impassive as they observed the scene. They were impeccably attired in their usual garb, their movements precise and efficient as they performed routine checks on their weapons.

Their silence was noteworthy, a stark contrast to the grunting and cursing of the others. One Verakh meticulously cleaned a unique crossbow, checking the string tension and arrow alignment. Another sharpened his own weapon, a wickedly curved blade.

The days blurred into a monotonous cycle of waiting and fighting. Each sunrise brought the chilling certainty of another Balfur ambush. These creatures, wolf-like in figure with somewhat resilient hides and razor-sharp claws, were relentless in their attacks. They seemed drawn to the sounds of their presence in the wilds, attracted to the scent of blood, or perhaps simply to the disruption of the mountain’s fragile ecosystem.

“Another patrol,” Galum’nor announced after several days had passed, his voice laced with weariness. “And still no sign of the pinkskins. This is a waste of time.” He gestured towards the fresh corpses of the Balfurs strewn around their camp.

“The Verakhs’ predictions are not always accurate,” Drae’ghanna countered. “Perhaps they deviated from their predicted path. Or perhaps they have not yet emerged or they are met with some circumstances.” She wiped a smear of blood from her own weapon, a long stabbing sword. The blade remained largely clean, a testament to her efficiency and precision.

“Or perhaps the Verakhs are wrong,” Aro’shanna said, her voice low, without inflection. She continued sharpening her axe, making smooth consistent strokes.

“The Verakhs rarely err,” Grogus stated, his voice surprisingly steady given his stature, his weak presence within the group, and the intensity of the surrounding violence. He paused in his cleaning, his eyes darting to the mountain passes.

“They’re not gods,” Galum’nor retorted, his frustration bubbling over. “They’re just glorified trackers with better training than others.” He kicked at a Balfur corpse, sending it rolling downhill.

Days turned into weeks. The routine remained unchanged: patrols, ambushes, the relentless killing of Balfurs. The Verakhs continued their silent observations and the meticulous maintenance of their weapons and equipment. The pinkskins remained elusive, their presence only confirmed by hearsay and the Verakhs’ predictions.

“We should move,” Dra’ghanna suggested one evening, breaking the uneasy silence that had fallen over the group. “The Verakhs’ predicted timeframe is nearing its end. It is possible that the pinkskins have passed already. We need to follow them.”

“And abandon this bloody ambush point?” Galum’nor asked incredulously. “After all the effort?”

“The Chief’s orders were to find the pinkskins, not to slay every Balfur in these cursed mountains,” Aro’shanna stated. Her tone, however, remained utterly unemotional.

The Verakhs offered no comment, their expressions unchanging. Their silence was not consent, nor was it dissent. It was simply their way, a quiet observation of the unfolding events.

The decision to move was eventually made, a pragmatic acknowledgement of the futility of their prolonged vigil. The group broke camp, their movements methodical and efficient as they prepared for the long trek through the treacherous mountain terrain.

The remaining bodies of the Balfurs were left undisturbed, a grim testament to the harsh realities of their hunt for the elusive pinkskins. The trail ahead was uncertain, but their determination remained, hardened by days of relentless violence and fruitless waiting.

The rhythmic thud of marching boots abruptly ceased. The air, previously filled with the steady crunch of gravel underfoot, vibrated with a cacophony of clashing metal and guttural roars. A few hours removed from their camp, the orcish group found themselves on the edge of a chaotic battlefield.

Galum’nor, a hulking figure wielding a crudely fashioned mace, reacted instantly. A triumphant shout escaped his lips, a battle cry devoid of tactical consideration. He surged forward, a lone figure barreling into the maelstrom of violence.

Behind the sound of the battle, a desperate flight. A group of Threian soldiers, their armor battered and blood-stained, scrambled across the uneven terrain. Hot on their heels, a colossal Owlbear, a hulking beast of nightmare, pursued them relentlessly. Its massive claws ripped into the air, leaving furrows in the earth where it barely missed its prey. The Threian’s ragged retreat was clearly nearing its end.

Kael, positioned not far away from their Captain, saw the situation unfold. His gaze shifted, focusing on a different threat emerging from the chaotic fray. A massive orc, larger than the others, charged towards them, leaving behind a cluster of its brethren who observed with grim anticipation.

Captain Baldred reacted decisively, ignoring the immediate danger. He saw an opportunity, a path through the chaos. His bellow, a roar meant to incite action, sliced through the clashing sounds of war. He initiated a charge, leading the Threians in a bold gambit. The plan was simple, reckless, and potentially suicidal, but it offered their only chance.

“Charge right through them!”

Drae’ghanna, ever vigilant, surveyed the scene, her eyes sharp as she watched their own impending collision. Her voice, calm despite the impending chaos, cut through the tumult: a warning, a grim acknowledgment of the unavoidable. The collision was brutal. The pinkskins, as Galum’nor had called them, crashed through their lines, a wave of violent motion, cutting a swathe through the engaged combatants. The impact sent bodies flying, a gruesome ballet of flailing limbs and shattered bone.

Several of the pinksins were cut down in the chaotic melee, their bodies trampled underfoot in the furious rush. The Threian’s were caught completely by surprise. The Owlbear, distracted only momentarily, shifted its attention to the new threat. Its massive paw swiped at Galum’nor, who had recklessly led the charge. The blow shattered his makeshift weapon, the fragments flying through the air like shrapnel.

Galum’nor crashed to the ground, his body impacting heavily against the earth.

The fight continued around him. Orcs clashed with Threians; the pinkskins fought for survival amidst the surging tide of battle.

Weapons clashed against each other, shields splintered under brutal impacts. Screams of pain mingled with battle cries and the guttural roars of the beasts involved in this chaotic scene.

Blood soaked the ground, staining the earth crimson. Limbs were severed, bodies were mangled, and life was extinguished in a brutal display of raw power and violence. The scene was one of unrestrained carnage, a horrific symphony of death and destruction.

Amidst the carnage, Captain Baldred fought with grim determination, his sword a blur of motion, cutting down Orc after Orc. He moved like a whirlwind through the chaos, a beacon of defiance amidst the brutality.

Drae’ghanna fought with ruthless efficiency, her movements precise and deadly, dispensing swift death to those who dared to cross her path.

Kael, skilled in swift combat, found himself constantly on the move, his blade finding their marks amidst the swirling conflict, picking off opponents with precision and speed. The fighting was chaotic, brutal, and unforgiving.

There was no elegance, no strategy, just pure survival. Despite the initial audacious charge, the Owlbear proved to be a formidable opponent. Its strength was immense, its claws capable of tearing through armor and flesh with equal ease.

The fight was not only between the Orcs and Threians but also against the monstrous beast. The pinkskins, outnumbered and outmatched, fought with fierce determination, their survival depending entirely on their individual skill and sheer grit.

The battle raged on, a brutal, chaotic maelstrom of violence. The pinkskins fought their way through, eventually breaking free from the main clash, their number significantly reduced, but still alive.

The initial audacious plan had worked, albeit at a high cost, providing them an escape route, if not a victory. The ground was littered with corpses, a grim testament to the ferocity of the engagement. They left the battlefield with their lives, but not without significant losses and the indelible mark of a bloody battle etched onto their memories.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep