The sun was a dying flame above the horizon, casting the ravaged battlefield in hues of copper and blood. The ground itself seemed to shudder beneath the weight of what had occurred, littered with the broken remains of men and orcs alike. Spears jutted from the earth like the bones of giants. Tattered banners snapped limply in the wind, stained with soot and gore. Carrion birds circled in the distance, their cries sharp and mocking.

General Snowe stood atop a ridge, surrounded by the corpses of a hundred comrades. His armor, once a radiant silver gleam of royal strength, now bore the grime of war…scratched, dented, soaked through with blood both foreign and his own. His blue cloak, the symbol of his command, was torn and burned along the hem, dragging behind him like a funeral shroud.

He said nothing as he surveyed the aftermath.

To his right, a field surgeon knelt beside a screaming soldier, sawing through shattered bone to remove a limb too far gone to save. Nearby, Threian engineers worked to recover damaged artillery pieces, while warmages limped among the wounded, casting whatever restorative spells they could still manage.

The once-disciplined formations of the Threian army had been shattered in the battle. Now, they were reduced to disorganized pockets of survivors…their leaders dead, their banners lost. Over a third of the army had perished in the onslaught, another quarter rendered unfit to fight. A pyrrhic victory.

Snowe’s gaze fell on a line of pyres, where soldiers were stacking bodies two and three high. The flames were reluctant, fed with dried wood and soaked cloth torn from the tunics of the dead. The smoke curled lazily into the sky, thick and greasy, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh.

A shadow passed over him. He didn’t flinch. The heavy wingbeats announced the arrival of a griffon, its massive form gliding toward the ridge with practiced ease despite a limp in its left wing. Snowe turned slowly.

The Baron of Frost dismounted in a single, fluid motion. His armor was scorched, the once-gleaming frost-rimed plates chipped and bloodied. The glaive across his back shimmered faintly with residual power. His face was a mask of stone, pale and lined with exhaustion.

“General,” Valden Snowe said with a curt nod.

“Baron,” Snowe returned. “You survived.”

Valden’s lip curled faintly. “The same can be said of you, though barely.”

Snowe’s eyes turned back to the field. “Too many didn’t.”

Krieger followed his gaze. The wind carried the groans of the wounded and the crackle of the fires. An orcish totem lay broken at the base of the ridge, its wooden frame shattered and burning slowly, emitting a high-pitched wail as the bound spirits within were released or destroyed.

“The Griffon Knights?” Snowe asked.

“Less than a third remain,” Krieger answered without flinching. “But all still capable of combat.”

Snowe’s jaw tightened. He had known most of them personally. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Their sacrifice saved us. We would have been overwhelmed.”

“They fought well,” Valden said simply.

The silence between the two commanders was long and heavy. Finally, Snowe turned to the Baron. “The field is ours. For now. But this was no final blow.”

Valden raised an eyebrow. “You believe they’ll return?”

Snowe nodded. “Some of them already have. Reports from scouts say bands of survivors are moving south, some west. They’re disorganized, leaderless, but still dangerous.”

Valden folded his arms across his chest. “Then we finish what we started.”

“Precisely,” Snowe said. “But I can’t spare more troops. My men need rest, treatment, rebuilding. I need to hold this ground and establish a line of defense. If the orcs regroup, we won’t survive a second wave in this state.”

Valden met his eyes. “You want me to hunt them.”

“Hunt them, slaughter them, burn their totems, kill their shamans,” Snowe said with iron in his voice. “Whatever it takes to keep them from reassembling.”

The baron looked to the south, where the land sloped down into arid valleys and broken hills. “I’ll need a scouting force. Runners, survivalists, not standard infantry.”

“You’ll have them,” Snowe replied. “I’ve already summoned Lieutenant Varn from the Fifth Rangers. His men are seasoned trackers.”

Krieger nodded. “And if I find more than stragglers?”

Snowe’s eyes narrowed. “Then do what you must. This isn’t a campaign. It’s a culling.”

The Baron was silent a long time. He stared out over the horizon, where the orcish warcamp had once stood. Now only ashes and ruined banners remained.

“The spirits they summoned,” he said. “The Great Serpent. The Ember Wolf. The Boar. They weren’t just symbols. Those were real powers.”

Snowe’s expression hardened. “I know.”

“They came from somewhere.”

“Exactly why I want you to go south,” Snowe replied. “Find those who remain. Burn them. We can’t let their shamanic culture recover.”

“This will be more than a scouting mission,” Valden warned.

Snowe placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then you will make it a war.”

*****

That evening, as the wounded were tended and the dead counted, Valden walked through what remained of the Threian encampment. He passed medics whispering prayers over bodies. He paused at a pyre where the remains of a Griffon Knight were being burned. The helmet had been placed atop the flames, its winged crest blackened and warped by fire.

A group of surviving warmages huddled near a ritual circle, chanting softly, binding residual spiritual corruption to prevent it from spreading. They looked up at Krieger as he passed, eyes hollow.

He stopped at the war table, where Lieutenant Varn waited. A grizzled veteran with a scar running from cheek to collar, Varn saluted.

“Baron.”

“How many can you ride with?”

“Two dozen rangers. Five mounted scouts. No heavy equipment. We travel light.”

The baron nodded. “We leave at dawn. We ride south until we hit bone or desert. Anyone with an orc’s face dies.”

“Understood.”

*****

As darkness claimed the sky, General Snowe stood alone before a grave.

It was shallow, hastily dug, marked only by a broken sword driven into the ground. A soldier…no more than seventeen…lay beneath it. He had died holding the line so a warmage could complete a binding spell.

Snowe knelt. He did not pray. He had no words. Only the silent weight of command.

Valden found him there an hour later.

“The men are ready,” he said quietly.

Snowe stood slowly. “Thank you.”

Valden hesitated. “And you, General? What will you do?”

Snowe looked toward the mountain peaks. “I rebuild. I bury the dead. I hold the line. When you return, I want to hear that the orcs no longer draw breath in the south.”

The baron saluted.

Snowe gripped his arm. “Make it hurt.”

“Always.”

*****

At dawn, the wind blew dry and hot across the plains. There was no snow here, only dust and the ashes of war. Krieger mounted his griffon, its wings flaring wide despite their wounds. Behind him, twenty-nine men…rangers, scouts, and riders…and what remained of the Griffon Knights…stood ready, faces grim.

Snowe watched them from the ridge.

As the Baron’s griffon took flight, Snowe whispered:

“Hunt them down.”

And the Baron of Frost soared southward, chasing vengeance across the bloodstained horizon.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep