The wind howled over the scorched plains of the orcish lands, kicking up dust and ash with each passing gust. The once-vibrant grasslands were now nothing but blackened earth and cracked soil. Faint smears of blood stained the ground in places where battles had already been fought and won by the invading force. General Snowe stood on a slight rise overlooking the carnage, his eyes cold, unreadable, fixed on the horizon. His army stretched behind him like an endless tide of steel and discipline.

Thirty-thousand strong, the Threian host advanced like a machine built for annihilation. Spears gleamed under the pale light of the overcast sky, swords sheathed in blood from past engagements were cleaned and re-sharpened, and rows of soldiers marched in grim silence. Banners bearing the sigil of House Snowe…a silver falcon diving against a field of blue….snapped in the wind above each division.

They had descended upon the western reaches of the orcish territories just days ago, and already the countryside bore witness to their wrath. Dozens of orc tribes had been wiped out, their crude settlements burned to cinders, their warriors slaughtered, their women and children either slain in resistance or scattered into the wilderness. But there was no celebration among the Threians…only grim resolve. General Snowe was not here to win glory. He was here to end the orcish threat once and for all.

A sharp cry rang out.

“Scouts returning!” barked one of the sentries.

Moments later, two huntsmen approached at full gallop, their cloaks fluttering, their faces grim.

“Report,” General Snowe ordered.

“The orcs have begun to consolidate, my lord,” said the first scout, dismounting. “Dozens of tribes from the central and eastern lands have come together. They’ve set up a massive encampment beyond the Garthum River. At least ten thousand strong… and growing.”

The second scout nodded. “They’re desperate, but organized. It won’t be another rout. They’re preparing for war.”

Snowe narrowed his eyes.

“Then we’ll give them one.”

He turned and raised one hand, signaling the nearby warmage squad. Six figures clad in thick blue cloaks stepped forward, each bearing a staff etched with intricate runes of frost and wind. The Snowe family’s most prized weapons…warmages trained from birth to wield the chill of the mountains and the fury of the gale.

“Prepare the Thunder Makers,” Snowe continued, gesturing toward a group of engineers standing beside the siege train.

More than fifty Thunder Makers…massive iron-bearded cannon weapons mounted on reinforced wooden carriages…were drawn by heavy oxen and protected by plate-armored escorts. Snowe planned to bring them to bear at the Garthum River, where the terrain would choke the orcish numbers into narrow killing fields.

The order to march went out.

*****

By the next morning, the Threian army had reached the western bank of the Garthum River. The waterway was massive, snaking like a silver blade through the plains. Vegetation thrived along its edges, offering the first signs of greenery since their invasion began. Across the water, the hills trembled with the movement of the orcish horde.

Smoke rose from dozens of fires. Crude banners flapped from makeshift poles…some painted with the snarling faces of warlords, others bearing totems made of bone, hair, and blood. It was chaos given shape, and for the first time since the campaign began, the orcs had a defensive line.

Snowe surveyed the battlefield through a spyglass. “They’ve dug in,” he muttered. Trenches and mounds of dirt formed a crude bulwark along the river’s edge. Orcs with axes and javelins watched the far shore, while heavier warriors waited behind them with clubs, war-axes, and rusted blades. Some wore armor cobbled from stolen Threian gear or looted battlefield remnants. Most wore nothing but blood, bone, and fury.

“Bring the Thunder Makers forward,” Snowe ordered. “We’ll open the river crossing with fire.”

The order rippled through the lines. Siege crews moved like a chorus of trained hands, positioning the Thunder Makers behind a slight rise. Iron mouths were fed black powder, followed by heavy iron balls etched with cruel points. Crews steadied the frames and waited for the signal.

The warmages took position to either side, chanting softly, their voices like wind over ice.

Snowe raised a hand.

“FIRE!”

The first volley screamed across the river. The ground shook as more than fifty Thunder Makers roared as one. Iron balls tore through flesh and bone, obliterating trenches, shattering bone, sending dismembered orcs flying in every direction. Blood geysered into the air. The smell of sulfur and seared flesh rolled across the river.

Before the dust had settled, the second volley came.

The orcs responded with howls and war horns. Their skirmishers loosed throwing axex in blind volleys, but most fell short. Some hurled javelins and stones, but the distance and elevation made them worthless.

The ground cracked and shattered as the warmages unleashed their power. Walls of jagged ice rose along the riverbank, pinning orcs behind them. Spear-like shards of frost rained from the sky, impaling dozens. Winds roared from invisible mouths, hurling orcs like dolls.

Then came the First Spear.

Clad in full plate, their horses armored to the teeth, the heavy cavalry thundered toward the shallows. They crossed the water under the cover of the siege barrage, shields raised. As they breached the far bank, they hit the orcish lines like a storm of iron.

Hooves shattered bones. Lances impaled chests and necks. Swords cleaved arms from torsos. The clash of iron against flesh echoed like a grim song of death. The orcs fought back with savage fury, swarming the riders, dragging some from their mounts. But the First Spear fought like demons, hacking through the enemy with brutal efficiency.

Gale Cavalry followed…a storm of fast riders wielding sabers and shorter boomsticks. They struck the flanks, circling the entrenched orcs like vultures, firing shots into gaps, then swooping in to finish with blades.

On the right, the knights advanced in formation…ten thousand strong, shields locked, blades drawn. They crossed the river where the Thunder Makers had blasted gaps into the enemy lines. It was a slaughter.

Orc heads exploded under hammer blows. Bodies were split from shoulder to hip. Entrails slicked the ground as swords dug deep. The knights moved like a sea of death, disciplined, ruthless. The orcs gave ground, screaming, falling back toward the hills.

General Snowe stood at the rear, watching the carnage unfold. His expression never changed.

A huntsman approached, covered in blood. “They’re falling back, my lord. The warbands are breaking.”

Snowe nodded. “Let them flee east. Push them toward the spine. We’ll finish this in the next campaign.”

He turned toward the engineers.

“Move the Thunder Makers across the river. This is now Threian land.”

As the sun set over the burning plains, the Threian army stood victorious. The ground was littered with corpses…some orc, some Threian. Rivers of blood mingled with the Garthum’s waters. Smoke rose from the ruined orcish camp.

It was a beginning.

And in war, beginnings were always written in blood.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep