The wind came down from the northern heights like a living thing, sharp enough to flay skin and cruel enough to cut breath short. Major Gresham rode with his cloak drawn tight across his shoulders, armor dented, one gauntlet split and rusted with blood that was not all his own.

Around him stretched the remains of the Threian Army under his command …. barely a thousand men when they left the battlefield, barely one half of now were capable of combat, half of them limping or leaning on broken spears as walking sticks. The wagons creaked with the weight of the wounded. The smell of rot and iron followed them like a hound.

They had expected a raid, a crude brawl, the sort of savage skirmish the orcs of the old were known for. What they met instead was discipline …shields locking, horns signaling, flanking maneuvers executed with terrifying precision. The memory gnawed at Gresham’s gut as surely as the cold chewed at his fingers. They had been out-fought, out-planned, and driven north through terrain that hated the living.

He raised a gloved hand and signaled halt. The column slowed, boots and hooves sinking into the thin crust of morning dew. Ahead, the path narrowed into a gorge choked with tall grasses. Mist clung to the leaves like old breath.

“Lieutenant Varne,” he called.

Varne, a wiry officer with half his face wrapped in blood-stiff bandage, rode up beside him. “Aye, sir?”

“Send scouts ahead. Two on each side. I don’t like that fog.”

Varne saluted and wheeled away, shouting for volunteers. Gresham watched him go, then turned in his saddle to study the column. Faces hollowed by cold and shock stared back … men who had seen comrades cut down by organized volleys of spears, who had heard the unnatural rhythm of orcish drums beating in time with human hearts. The wounded moaned from the wagons, the sound merging with the squeal of frozen axles. Somewhere a horse collapsed, legs giving out, and a teamster quietly drew his knife to end the animal’s suffering.

“Keep moving,” Gresham muttered. “If we stop too long, the orcish lands bury us.”

They pressed on. The sun crawled low, its light dim and cold. The grass walls rose higher until they were marching through a throat of stone. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals. Every sound … a cough, a clatter of gear … came back doubled.

What none of them saw, hidden by the grasses, was the line of figures that moved with the silence of wolves.

*****

The Verakhs watched from the shadows of the tress in the mountains. Four squads of them …. lean, scarred, their skin a pallid gray under the mist. They were orcs, yes, but not of the same breed that had fought Gresham’s men. These were the elite warriors, bred for patience, trained of unconventional warfare, their weapons at the ready. Their leader, crouched on a rock, peering through the shadows of the rocks as he observed the Threian column.

“Threians move slow,” he grunted. “Too many hurt.”

“Will we strike?” hissed one of his warrios.

He shook his head. “We watch. Those giant birds are nowhere to be seen. No need to waste blood. Orders were clear … observe, mark their strength, strike only if weakness shows.”

Below, the column wound like a broken snake through the plains. He studied the wagons, counting. “One in five can still fight,” he murmured. “The rest are meat.” He moved his gaze. “Keep distance. If they light fires, we circle. If they bleed, we drink the scent.”

The Verakhs melted back into the forest, shadows among shadows.

*****

By nightfall the column had made camp in a shallow basin ringed by small hills. Fires were forbidden … Gresham could not risk drawing attention … but they burned small pits of smokeless pitch under overturned pots to warm thin soup for the wounded. The wind wailed through the lands like a dirge.

Varne returned with the scouts’ report. “No movement ahead, sir. Trails cold.”

“Good.” Gresham leaned over a map pinned beneath his gauntlets. “We’ll push further north by dawn. Once we reach the camp of the Blue Countess, we can signal the Baron’s patrols … if they’re still alive.”

Varne’s mouth tightened. “You think the Griffon Knights survived?”

“I think,” Gresham said, “if anyone could carve through that hell, it’s the Baron of Frost.”

He looked toward the south where the sky pulsed faintly with auroral light. Somewhere beyond those peaks, twenty-one knights had vanished into the storm. No word, no sign. Gresham wanted to believe they still rode, but hope felt like a luxury his column could not afford.

A scream cut through the night.

Gresham drew his sword and ran toward the sound. Two soldiers were struggling with a wounded man near the wagons … the soldier convulsing, eyes wide, blood frothing at his lips. When Gresham knelt beside him, he saw the wound at the man’s side: a blackened cut crawling with faint red veins.

“By the Light,” Varne whispered. “That’s blackened rot.”

Gresham clenched his jaw. Some of the orcs’ blades had been inlaid with poison. The wound was days old … festering unseen. He met the man’s gaze. “Corporal, can you hear me?”

“Sir…” the man gasped. “It burns.”

“I know.” Gresham looked at Varne. No words passed between them. Varne drew his dagger, swift and merciful. The body went still.

For a long moment, only the wind spoke.

“Burn him,” Gresham ordered. “And check the others for the same rot.”

They did, and by dawn five more pyres smoked quietly behind the camp.

*****

The march resumed before sunrise. The wounded groaned as the wagons jolted over cold ruts. Gresham rode at the head, scanning what’s ahead. The mountains were closer now, their peaks like teeth gnawing at the clouds. The men spoke little; each step was a battle against exhaustion.

At midday, a scout rode hard from the forward line. “Major! Movement ahead … shapes in the mist!”

“Orcs?”

“Can’t tell, sir. Winged beasts, maybe. Fast!”

Gresham’s pulse jumped. “Form line! Shields forward!”

The column scrambled, forming a ragged square around the wagons. Spears bristled. Bows creaked. The mist thickened … and then came the sound, distant but unmistakable: the heavy beat of wings.

Through the white shroud descended shadows … vast, swift, and terrible. For a heartbeat, every Threian soldier thought the end had come. Then the wind shifted, and the banners of blue and silver appeared, emblazoned with the sigil of Threia.

“Griffons!” someone cried. “It’s the Baron!”

The column erupted in disbelief and relief all at once. Twenty-one riders had gone into the storm; almost less than half that number emerged now, but their presence struck like salvation. The lead griffon landed in a swirl of frost, its claws tearing furrows in the earth. Upon its back sat the Baron of Frost, armor rimed with ice, cloak torn and dark with blood.

Gresham strode forward, saluting. “Young lad. We feared you lost.”

The Baron dismounted, his expression carved from stone. “Many were.” His eyes swept the battered ranks. “You’ve seen the worst of it, Major?”

“We have. The orcs fight like soldiers now … disciplined, coordinated. We lost many of our comrades in the fight.”

The Baron nodded slowly. “Their warlocks bind them. We slew two last night and scattered what remained of their host. You’ll find no pursuit for a while.”

Behind him, the remaining Griffon Knights were helping the rescued captives down from the mounts …. gaunt men and women wrapped in blankets, eyes hollow from days of torment. A few wept when they saw the Threian banners.

“The Light preserves,” Varne murmured. “You actually brought them back.”

“We bring back what we can,” the Baron said. His voice was hoarse. “The rest are ashes in the wind.”

Gresham studied the young lad … the frost clinging to his beard, the dark crust on his gauntlets that might have been blood or dried ice. “You’ve done the impossible.”

“No,” the Baron said quietly. “I’ve done what necessity demanded.”

He turned his gaze northward, toward the jagged peaks. “But it isn’t over. Something drives these orcs beyond rage … something older than their kind. The warlocks spoke before they died. A name I did not understand.”

“What name?” Gresham asked.

The Baron’s eyes were pale as glacier light. “I don’t know, too old to understand. But they speak of the coming of the chaos.”

High above, on the ridge where the mist thinned, the Verakhs shadowed them. They saw the reunion, the banners, the wounded carried between men. He saw the Baron’s griffon rear and scream at the sky. His hunters murmured behind him.

“Will we strike now?” one asked.

The leader of the Verakhs shook his head. “No. Too many still stand. The Baron lives. This is no time for suicide.”

“But the fallen ones lie dead. The warlocks gone.”

“All the better,” He growled. “We watch, we learn. The mountains are patient.”

He turned away, vanishing into the pines as the Threian horns sounded below.

*****

By evening, Gresham’s camp burned with new life. Fires crackled openly for the first time in days. The Griffon Knights shared what provisions they had … smoked meath, flasks of northern spirits, bandages steeped in frostmint. The wounded were tended. The rescued captives slept under heavy cloaks, their nightmares softened by exhaustion.

The Baron sat with Gresham near the largest fire. Between them lay a rough map scratched into the dirt.

“We’re a few days from the Blue Countess’ camp,” Gresham said. “Once we clear it, the plains path toward Threia proper.”

The Baron nodded. “We’ll escort you to the ridge. My griffons need rest, but they can still fly watch.”

He looked up at the stars flickering through the smoke. “We lost a lot of men. Good men. Their griffons will not return to roost without them.”

Gresham inclined his head. “They’ll be honored.”

“They’ll be forgotten,” the Baron said flatly. “That is the way of soldiers. The kingdom will hear that we were victorious, not that we were lucky to live.”

Gresham said nothing. The fire popped. In the distance, wolves howled … or something like wolves.

The Baron rose, his armor catching the firelight like frozen glass. “Get your wounded ready to move at dawn. The mountains won’t wait for grief.”

He walked away toward his griffon, leaving Gresham staring into the flames.

*****

The next day dawned clear but bitter. The column moved north again, the Griffon Knights circling above like sentinels of ice. The wounded were quieter now, steadier. Among them walked the rescued captives …. free but hollow, their chains still ghosting around their wrists. Every man knew the march was far from over, yet for the first time since the battle, the air carried something that almost felt like resolve.

At the rear, Gresham paused to look back. Far in the distance, through the drifting mist, he thought he saw figures moving on the ridge … dark, silent, watching.

He blinked, and they were gone.

“Keep marching,” he muttered.

Above, the Baron of Frost urged his griffon higher, scanning the peaks. The wind cut cold and pure across his scarred face. Below him stretched the battered remains of the Threian column, banners whipping against the dawn. They were broken, yes … but still moving, still breathing. And in war, that was enough.

He raised his sceptre toward the sun just breaking the ridge, its light flashing along the blade like lightning on ice.

“Forward,” he whispered to the wind. “Let them follow the storm.”

The griffons under the command of their riders flap their wings and patrolled the skies. They circled around the battered Threian column, eyes peeled for any sign of danger.

The fallen orcs have been scattered by them, but they know that they will be back and they will certainly seek vengeance for their kin. The Griffon Knights knew that they are at a great disadvantage, but what lese can they do but to safeguard the Threian column as much as they can.

And the Griffon Knights wheeled north, guardians of a weary army climbing toward whatever fate waited beyond the mountains.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep