The earth quaked beneath the synchronized thud of thousands of feet, the steady beat of war drums echoing across the plain like the heartbeat of a monster rising from the depths. Smoke, thick and bitter with oil and burnt wood, swirled across the churned battlefield, muting the morning light and turning the day gray and dismal. The Threian defensive line stood rigid, a wall of men and wood and hardened earth, pitted and scorched but not yet broken.

Captain Braedon adjusted his grip on the edge of the splintered fortifications, his gauntlet creaking as he leaned forward, peering through the smoke with narrowed eyes. The timber-reinforced wall stretched nearly a league in both directions, anchored by crude towers and backed by dugouts, pike nests, and artillery pits. Men bustled beneath him, preparing for another clash, their movements practiced but heavy with fatigue. They had been fighting since dawn, and the orcs had shown no signs of relenting.

“They’re forming again,” called Lieutenant Marcus, lowering his voice loud and strained. “Same wild packs. Different banners. Fewer shields.”

Braedon grunted. “They’re not out of warm bodies yet.”

Major Gresham strode up the ladder, dusted in ash and mud. He said nothing at first, only surveyed the no-man’s-land that separated them from the endless tide of orcs. His face was drawn, jaw tight beneath the edges of his helm.

“Any sign of the disciplined ones?” Braedon asked.

“No,” Gresham replied. “Still holding back. Scouts gave reported, the ones with matching armor…haven’t moved an inch.”

“They’re waiting for us to bleed dry.”

“Exactly.”

From the rear of the Threian line, the creak of wheels and the clank of chain heralded the repositioning of the Thunder Makers. The great iron-barreled cannons were rolled forward once more, stationed on raised earthen platforms behind the main wall. Artillery crews moved quickly, adjusting angles, setting charges, and locking wheels.

In the ditches below, soldiers checked their bows and boomsticks, relit pitch buckets, and drew fresh arrows from crates. The wounded were shuffled to the rear; replacements filled the gaps like sand plugging leaks in a dam.

And across the battlefield, the orcs came again.

They charged not in perfect lines or trained ranks but in a rolling wave of fury and iron. Dozens of tribal warbands, each bearing its own crude symbols and colors, surged forward. Some had bone armors strapped to their bodies, others beat war drums made from stretched hides, and a few simply roared, voices raw and animalistic. They carried clubs, jagged blades, spears with mismatched tips, and shields ripped from past battles.

Behind them loomed the siege machines—massive, fine constructs of wood, bone, and rope. Catapults taller than trees creaked into place, drawn by brutish figures that moved with slow, deliberate strength. The Threians had no name for their unit. Some taller than orcs, their arms were long and thin but muscular, their movements too precise for the chaos around them.

“Siege crews again,” muttered Marcus. “Same as before. No shouting. No disarray.”

“They’re trained,” Braedon said. “Disciplined. Just like the armored ones.”

“But still no markings. No insignia. Just shadows in the smoke.”

“They must be part of the enemy army’s core,” Gresham growled. “Let them be…No matter how good they are, they would still bleed and die.”

From the enemy lines, a new wave of projectiles soared. The first were oil jars—earthen containers that shattered on impact, spilling their thick, flammable contents across the forward trenches. Then came the Bufas fruits, already ignited before taking flight, streaking like meteors. They landed in bursts of flame and concussion, setting oil slicks ablaze and hurling debris into the air.

The earth shook with each detonation.

Men screamed as fire consumed them. A tower near the left flank collapsed, engulfed in flame and falling bodies. Along the wall, soldiers doused flames with sand and dirt, shouting for help, for water, for medics.

“Thunder Makers! Return fire!” Gresham roared.

Faris’s voice bellowed across the line, relaying the command. The Thundermakers fired one after another, the explosive reports hammering the battlefield. Iron balls tore through the ranks of the advancing orcs, severing limbs and knocking whole squads off their feet. One blast struck a siege machine dead center, reducing it to flaming rubble and shattered troll flesh.

Still, the orcs advanced.

They surged into the trenches, howling as they climbed over their own dead. Grappling hooks and ladders flew into the air, latching onto the wall. The first orc crested the fortifications…and was immediately skewered by a spear.

Then came more.

Braedon drew his sword. “Hold the line!”

Metal rang against metal. The Threians met the orcs at the top of the barricade, blades flashing. Deramis, ever in the thick of the fight, bellowed like a madman as he hacked down a pair of orcs with his longsword.

“To me, lads! Push them back!”

Odric and Agis fought at the flank, coordinating between trench squads and archer nests. Odric fired a precise boomstick shot into an orc’s eye socket, then leapt forward with his sword, cutting another down before it could reach a wounded soldier. Agis ducked low, flung a throwing knife, then rolled to avoid a flailing club.

The wall held. Barely.

More Bufas fruits landed behind the barricade, igniting the packed ground and causing fresh panic. Smoke blinded archers. Threians coughed blood and soot, retreating into the trenches only to be met by another wave.

“This isn’t a real assault,” Braedon said. “It’s a test. They’re still feeling us out.”

“And still,” Gresham said grimly, “those armored ones haven’t moved.”

In the distance, past the chaos and the fire, a dark line remained still. Dozens…perhaps hundreds…of figures stood in perfect formation, bearing matching armor, disciplined posture, and eerie silence.

“They watch us,” Marcus muttered. “Why don’t they move?”

“Because they don’t have to yet,” Gresham replied. “They’re waiting for the right moment. Or for us to crumble.”

Suddenly, horns sounded in the orcish rear.

The assault faltered.

The tribal orcs began to fall back, not in disorder but in grim retreat. They dragged their wounded, snarled at the defenders, and melted into the smoke.

Braedon exhaled. “We’ve beaten them back again.”

Gresham didn’t move. His eyes were on the disciplined orcs. “They haven’t even begun.”

Braedon followed his gaze…and saw something new.

To the far rear of the orcish formation, massive beasts paced. Low to the ground, armored, with thick limbs and wide heavy heads. Thyrians. The beast of burden of the orcs which is also infamous living battering rams in sieges launched by the orcs.

Next to them moved wargs…lean, wolf-like beasts bearing riders in fine armor.

“They didn’t even use the cavalry,” Marcus whispered.

“No,” Gresham said. “But they will.”

He turned to the runners. “Send word to the eastern command. Reinforce the right. If those beasts charge, that’s where they’ll break us.”

He looked again at the battlefield…the churned earth, the smoke, the blood, and the corpses.

And beyond it, the waiting army that hadn’t moved yet. That was what Major Gresham was so worried about that.

“Tell every man,” Gresham said quietly. “This is but just the beginning. The real storm hasn’t hit us yet.”

And the wind began to shift.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep