The sky burned with dusk as Khao’khen walked among his warriors.

No herald announced him. No banner rose ahead of his path. Yet every step he took sent a ripple through the orcish host like the beat of a war drum. Warriors straightened. Trolls nodded low. Goblins paused, eyes wide. The Warg Cavalry dismounted and stood at attention as he passed, and even the Rhakaddons and Thyrians bellowed low from their pens, sensing the presence of their warfather.

This was their leader, their chieftain.

****

The open plains were now a black-and-crimson sea of preparation. The 1st Kani’karr Corps had completed deployment of siege weapons, placing catapults in staggered formations and anchoring the ballistae to stone-laid cradles. Goblin sappers rolled barrels of fire oil into trenches and marked lines with painted bone dust.

In the heart of the camp, the Yohan First Horde drilled under the fading light. Their uniformity was unnerving to outsiders: synchronized footwork, rotation drills, and shield-lock tests carried out in total silence. When Khao’khen passed them, they did not cheer…they saluted in perfect unity before returning to what they were doing previously.

He stopped once and placed his hand on the shoulder of a grizzled warrior.

“You’ll lead the center line,” he said. “Your shield wall will break their breath.”

“Yes, Chieftain,” the orc said. No more.

*****

Near the command point, Sakh’arran stood hunched over a map of the plains, his War Chiefs stood beside him. Markers of carved stone and bone denoted every clan, every unit.

“Third wave will come from the left,” he said. “Goblins with flames follow after. I want the cavalry to wait…hit them when they recover from the barrage.”

A goblin captain raised a hand. “What if they reinforce faster?”

“Then we burn them,” Sakh’arran said simply.

A grizzled troll from the Kani’karr Corps snorted his approval.

Khao’khen approached and rested a hand on Sakh’arran’s shoulder. “The warriors are ready.”

“And the ground will know it,” Sakh’arran replied.

*****

At nightfall, the shamans began their rites.

Khao’khen didn’t know what they were up to but upon hearing that it was a ritual, he just agreed and went with the flow.

A ring of stone had been erected in the southern half of the camp. Within it, the shamans of the deep clans stood in formation, bodies painted in black clay, tusks capped in silver, eyes rolled back as chants rose to the heavens. At their center stood Shazkul of the Rock Bear Tribe, the oldest among them, leaning on a staff made of charred root and horn.

The ritual was not for power.

It was not for blessings.

It was for unity.

He raised the staff and struck it thrice.

With each strike, a pillar of flame erupted from the fire pits around the ring.

“With the voice of the earth, we bind the clans!” Shazkul called.

The warriors responded with a roar.

“With the will of the blood, we forge the warband!”

Another roar.

“And with the hand of our Chieftain…we become the storm!”

At that moment, Khao’khen stepped into the ring.

The flames flared higher. Drums pounded, not from discipline…but from purpose.

As if he suddenly gained enlightenment, Khao’khen knew what he had to do, an idea came into his mind.

“I do not lead you as a god,” he said. “I do not rule you as a tyrant. I stand with you as one who has bled, who will bleed again.”

He drew his sword and cut across his palm.

The blood hit the fire.

It hissed.

And the orcs howled.

Their voice deafening and rang across the plains reaching the Threain defense line.

*****

The wind carried a biting chill as it swept across the wide, open plains, rustling through short, dead grasses and whistling past the Threian encampment. Above, the moon…waning and pale…shimmered weakly behind a veil of clouds, casting a silvery hue over the battered remnants of the once-proud fort. The scent of blood, mud, and old smoke lingered in the air like a promise.

Captain Braedon stood atop the southern edge of the fortifications, his silhouette outlined by the pale light. His armor was dented in many places from the many skirmishes that he took part in, his clothes tattered all over the place. The plains below were quiet…eerily so…save for the occasional flutter of a tent or the distant clinking of chains from the quartermaster’s wagons.

Then the howling began.

One voice at first…deep, mournful, inhuman. It rose suddenly from the distant plains to the south, far beyond the perimeter torches. Another followed, and then more, each one swelling in pitch and number until the plains themselves seemed to echo with a chorus of guttural cries.

A young scout stumbled up the slope, breathless. “Sir! The sounds…they’re coming from the orc encampment, just over the horizon. We’ve spotted fire. Torches. Lots of them. Thousands upon thousands.”

Braedon’s jaw tightened. “So they’ve come to finish us.”

He turned and shouted down into the heart of the camp, “Sound the call! Everyone to arms…now!”

Within moments, the low moan of the Threian warhorn peeled across the field. Men and women jolted awake, tumbling from their bedrolls, fumbling with armor straps and sword hilts. Officers strode between rows of tents, barking orders with hoarse voices. Campfires were snuffed out. Archers rushed to the southern barricade. Gunners prepared their boomsticks and took their positions

Major Gresham strode up beside Braedon, eyes bloodshot and exhausted. “What is it?”

“Howls. From the south.” He pointed toward the distant horizon, barely visible against the stars.

“They’re chanting now,” the scout added, eyes wide. “Like… songs, but not songs. It’s twisted.”

Gresham frowned. “That doesn’t sound like an attack formation.”

“No,” Braedon agreed, “but whatever they’re doing, it’s big. You don’t summon multiple warbands for a campfire singalong.”

The howls deepened, and now they were interspersed with sharp, guttural cries, as though calling to something unseen in the sky. Flashes of orange fire could be seen. The scent of strange incense drifted on the wind…earthy, acrid, and wrong.

*****

That night, war pyres were lit in rows along the outer encampment. Each fire marked a fallen comrade, and beside each stood a warrior assigned to carry their memory forward. The Verakhs stood in silence as the names of their fallen were etched into iron plates to be worn in the coming battle.

Galum’nor sharpened his blades in silence.

Aro’shanna dipped her axe in the blood trough, whispering a name.

Drae’ghanna repainted her skin with ash, forming symbols of balance and vengeance.

The goblins painted warpaint on their bodies.

The Warg riders oiled their saddles and sang war-hymns in low growls.

The trolls carved fresh kill-marks into their war-engines.

*****

By midnight, the camp no longer resembled a collection of tribes.

It was one army.

One will.

One fire.

*****

“Are they… dancing?” Marcus squinted. “That’s a circle. Gods, what are they doing?”

“They’re orcs,” Braedon replied. “Does it matter? Get our lines ready. If they come storming over tonight, we won’t have time to debate their theater rituals.”

In the encampment, chaos surged beneath a thin layer of discipline. Veterans hurried to reinforce the barricades, driving sharpened stakes into the hard earth. Oil pots were set along the high ground. Bowstrings were checked, boomsticks prepared. Spears bristled in the hands of half-slept infantry.

Braedon stood at the forward rise, flanked by Agis and Sergeant Odric.

“Reports?” Braedon asked.

“Thousands by our estimate, maybe more,” a scout replied. “They’ve got torches, banners…one banner stood different from the others. I’ve never seen the like. No movement toward us yet, but…” He glanced south, troubled. “Something’s building over there. I can feel it.”

“Still no movement,” the forward sentries called. “They’re staying in their camp.”

*****

The warhorn still slept.

But when it rose with the sun…it would not sing.

It would scream.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep