The wind howled across the Orcish Lands, dry and sharp, carrying with it the scent of blood, sweat, and ash. The group led by Captain Wilfrid moved cautiously northward, staying close to what little vegetation the land offered…shrubs, patches of tall grass, a line of stunted trees struggling near a cracked creek bed. Each hooffall was measured, each breath controlled. Silence reigned between the riders, born not just of discipline but of the growing sense that something was terribly wrong.

They had covered half a day’s distance since the last skirmish. The rescued survivors…Baldred and his three companions…rode slowly but steadily. They’d passed the worst of the injuries. Now came the slow dread of what lay ahead.

Wilfrid raised a hand and brought the column to a halt atop a low rise near the remains of an old hut, long abandoned and collapsed. His eyes scanned the horizon, narrowing.

There. Dust. Movement.

A band of orcs. More than a hundred, though it was hard to tell at first through the shimmering heat haze. They surged across the plain, fast and low, their gait uneven, desperate. Not in formation. Not brimming with bloodlust. These were not warriors on the hunt…they were prey fleeing death.

“What in the gods’ names…” muttered Borr.

Wilfrid slipped down from his horse and crouched behind a thicket of thornbrush. He gestured for the others to spread out and observe.

“Is it just me,” Wilfrid said quietly, “or did the surroundings suddenly feel cold?”

Before Borr could respond, a shadow fell over them…no, not one. Many. Dark wings split the sun. A shriek echoed across the open land, not of any natural bird, but something more ancient, more commanding.

The orcs screamed. It wasn’t war cries this time. It was fear.

From the sky, like divine judgment, sharpened ice lanced downward. Spears of translucent blue plummeted with terrifying velocity. The first dozen orcs were impaled in a single breath…spines shattered, limbs severed. Another volley struck behind them, exploding in icy fragments that tore through armor and flesh alike.

The orcs broke apart, scattering like rats in torchlight.

Above, the Griffon Knights descended.

There were thirty of them, mounted on winged beasts with talons like steel and beaks sharp enough to split plate. Clad in sapphire-blue armor that glinted with frost, they dove upon the orcs with surgical brutality. One rider’s griffon seized an orc by the waist, lifted it screaming into the sky, then dropped it from a hundred feet. The impact cracked bones like dry twigs.

More ice rained down…javelins hurled by an unseen hand, blades of snow with no mercy. Bodies froze mid-run and shattered as they hit the ground. Blood sprayed across the dirt in black streaks.

“The Baron of Frost…” one of Wilfrid’s riders whispered, barely audible above the sound of battle.

Wilfrid had heard the tales, but now he saw them for himself. Leading the onslaught was a man wrapped in a cloak of fur-lined azure. His helm was wreathed in drifting ice, his armor etched with the runes. He rode not a griffon, but something more…larger, darker, armored in scales of froststeel. And in his left hand, he bore a scepter, from which emanated the bitter cold of death itself.

Another volley of ice tore through the orcs. Some tried to hide behind the corpses of their comrades, but there was no escape. Griffon talons crushed skulls, beaks pierced chests, hooves trampled those too slow to run.

It was a massacre. The orcs didn’t stand a chance.

When it was over, the plain was littered with corpses…some frozen solid, others dismembered, their blood painting the earth in grotesque patterns. Silence followed. Not a silence of peace, but of aftermath.

The Baron of Frost hovered overhead for a moment, then descended slowly, his mount landing with a gust of icy wind that turned the nearby grass white.

“Show yourselves!” the Baron’s voice boomed. It carried unnatural weight, like winter itself had spoken. “There is no point in hiding!”

Wilfrid stood, hand up to indicate non-hostility. One by one, his riders emerged from the shrubs and sparse cover. They gathered with wary respect, watching the Baron approach.

“Name yourselves,” the Baron said. “And explain what business you have in this blood-soaked corridor.”

Wilfrid stepped forward. “Captain Wilfrid of the Third Spear Cavalry, Threian Army. We were dispatched on reconnaissance by Major Gresham, sir.”

The Baron’s expression was unreadable behind his helm. “Reconnaissance?”

“To find the fate of Captain Baldred and his expedition into the Tekarr Mountains. We found them. Survivors. But…” Wilfrid swallowed, “Major Gresham’s position has deteriorated. He is pinned by a massive orcish host to the east. They’ve been throwing waves at him for days. I don’t know how long he can hold.”

The Baron’s mount shifted restlessly, snorting frost from its nostrils. The knights behind him exchanged glances.

“I see,” the Baron said. “Then we have our destination.”

He turned, raised his scepter, and his mount leapt into the air, wings snapping wide with a thunderous whump. The Griffon Knights followed, their wings beating in unison.

Within moments, they were nothing but distant silhouettes…shadows flying toward the east.

*****

It took less than a day.

The eastern plain, where Major Gresham’s camp lay, was a nightmare.

The last of the Threian barricades were crumbling. Trenches had become death pits. The bodies of men and orcs alike filled the gaps between fallen palisades. The moans of the wounded were drowned out by the roar of advancing orcs. The once-proud banners of the Threian Army were tattered, half-burned, barely visible through smoke and ash.

Gresham stood at the center, sword drawn, blood caked into the grooves of his armor. He no longer barked orders…he roared them like a beast refusing to die.

And then the sky froze.

Literally.

Above the battlefield, the air changed. Moisture crystallized mid-breath. Frost raced along spear shafts and bowstrings. Orcs stumbled mid-run, blinking in confusion.

The Baron of Frost arrived with the full fury of a snowstorm.

His voice boomed across the field. “The storm is here!”

From his scepter came the first wave…a wall of ice and hail that smashed into the front line of orcs with such force it sent bodies flying. Griffon Knights streaked down, talons eviscerating, wings knocking enemies aside like toys.

Ice spears rained again…this time targeted, calculated. Commanders. Banner-bearers. Shamanic figures. All died first.

Orcs turned in confusion. Some dropped weapons. Others tried to rally, snarling in defiance. It didn’t matter.

The Griffon Knights tore through them with merciless precision. One griffon slammed into a phalanx of orcish spearmen, scattering them like dry leaves. Its rider hurled a bomb that exploded on impact…shattering limbs and fusing metal to skin from the heat.

The Baron descended upon the thickest knot of orcs. He struck the ground with his scepter, and from the point of impact, jagged ice spread outward in a deadly bloom. Spikes pierced through legs, torsos, jaws. Screams were cut off mid-word.

Gresham, bloodied and dazed, watched in awe. “Snow preserve us…”

A rider galloped up to him. “Sir! The orcs are retreating! They’re breaking ranks!”

And they were.

The host that had driven them to the edge was now shattering, pushed back by terror, confusion, and magic beyond their reckoning. The Threians, battered and bloodied, surged forward with newfound rage.

What remained of Gresham’s army rallied…not to win, but to escape. Gresham and his soldiers knew that the orcs were just taken by surprise and would regroup fast and hammer them down once again if they let them.

The Baron gave them that gift.

His final act was to raise his scepter high and unleash a hailstorm so thick it turned the battlefield into a white void. Visibility vanished. Ice tore through tents, shattered shields, downed even the strongest orcs in their tracks.

In the white silence, Gresham’s survivors slipped away, following the paths cleared by Griffon Knights. They did not cheer. They did not look back.

They simply lived.

*****

Later that night, as the remnants of the Threian army regrouped on higher ground, Wilfrid reunited with Gresham.

“You came back,” Gresham rasped.

“And I brought help,” Wilfrid said, eyes drifting skyward where frost lingered in the clouds.

The Baron of Frost stood nearby, his mount resting, his scepter silent.

He didn’t ask for thanks.

He expected none.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep