The inner ring held.

Barely.

Aliyah’s withdrawal had been executed with the precision of a commander who understood that retreat, done correctly, was not defeat but transformation. The outer defenses were abandoned in sequence, each section covering the next as soldiers fell back through pre-planned routes to the secondary fortifications. Mages maintained frost barriers at critical chokepoints, buying time with walls of ice that the orcish advance had to pause and break through.

The inner ring was smaller, tighter, more densely defended. Every soldier who had survived the outer wall now stood shoulder to shoulder on fortifications that had been reinforced over weeks of preparation for exactly this scenario. The frost-weavers, their reserves dangerously low, positioned themselves at the four cardinal points of the inner perimeter, ready to concentrate their remaining power on whatever direction the main assault came from.

And the Griffon Knights took to the sky.

There were six of them…. Six magnificent beasts with riders armored in froststeel, their weapons enchanted with ice that could freeze flesh on contact. They rose from behind the inner ring, wings catching the wind, and dove toward the orcish formations with the focused precision of predatory birds striking from above.

The lead rider, Knight-Captain Aldric …the Baron of Frost himself, who had been held in reserve at the Snowe camp and had flown south when word of the Winters army’s desperate situation reached him …brought his griffon down in a screaming dive that targeted the orcish siege engines. His frost lance struck a catapult dead-center, and the explosion of ice shattered the wooden frame, sending frozen splinters and crew members flying in all directions.

The other griffons followed, each targeting a different siege weapon. In thirty seconds of concentrated assault, three catapults and a siege shelter were destroyed, their crews killed or scattered.

But Khao’khen had prepared for this.

The Verakh crossbow teams, positioned on raised ground behind the main assault force, opened fire. Heavy iron bolts, each as long as a man’s arm, streaked upward in disciplined volleys. The bolts were not enchanted …the orcs had no mages …but they were fired from crossbows of Yohan manufacture, their pull-weight sufficient to punch through light armor at distance.

The first volley missed. The griffons were fast, their flight paths unpredictable, their riders trained to avoid exactly this kind of ground fire.

The second volley found targets. A bolt struck a griffon’s wing, tearing through the membrane and disrupting its flight. The beast shrieked and banked hard, its rider fighting to maintain altitude. Another bolt grazed a rider’s shoulder, the force of the impact nearly unseating him.

“Concentrate fire on the largest beast!” Maghazz commanded from his position with the Verakh teams. “The one with the silvery armor. That’s their leader.”

Forty crossbows shifted their aim toward the Baron of Frost.

The Baron saw it coming. His enhanced battle-awareness …a gift of the 6th Circle …registered the massed crossbow volley before the bolts had left their rails. He hauled his griffon into a steep climbing turn, presenting the beast’s armored belly to the incoming fire. Bolts clanged off enchanted feathers and froststeel barding, the impacts jarring but not penetrating.

But the evasion cost him his attack run. Instead of striking another siege engine, he was forced to gain altitude and circle wide, the Verakh fire creating a curtain of iron that made low-level attacks suicidal.

“The flying beasts are being neutralized,” Sakh’arran reported to Khao’khen. “Maghazz’s teams are forcing them to maintain altitude. They can’t get low enough for effective strikes.”

“Good. Now push the center.”

The horn sounded, and the 1st and 2nd Warbands …the Horde’s elite, over two thousand of the most disciplined warriors the orcish race had ever produced …advanced on the inner ring.

*****

The fighting that followed was the most intense either side had ever experienced.

The inner ring’s defenses were formidable …thick walls, overlapping fields of fire, concentrated magical barriers. But the Yohan warbands had trained for weeks specifically to overcome fortified positions. They advanced behind mobile shields, their crossbow teams suppressing the defenders while ladder crews closed the distance to the walls.

At the eastern section, a breach was forced by the 2nd Warband’s most experienced mob. Their leader, a massive orc named Korr’ghan at the 5th Realm, led the charge personally. His battle energy, visible as a dark crimson aura, deflected arrow strikes and absorbed the impact of a frost-weaver’s spell that should have frozen him solid. He crested the wall with his warriors flowing behind him, his weapon a blur of iron that sent two Threian soldiers tumbling to their deaths before the defenders could react.

“Breach on the east! They’re through!” The call rippled along the defensive line, and reserves surged to contain the incursion.

Sir Rhaegar Vance met Korr’ghan at the breach.

The two warriors …Rhaegar at the 6th Realm, Korr’ghan at the 5th …clashed with an impact that sent shockwaves through the surrounding fighters. Rhaegar’s frost-enhanced blade met Korr’ghan’s crimson-aura blade in a shower of sparks and ice crystals. The force of the blow drove Korr’ghan back a step, but the orc absorbed it with a grunt and countered with a horizontal swing that would have bisected a lesser warrior.

Rhaegar ducked, his movement fluid despite his heavy armor, and drove his sword upward through Korr’ghan’s guard. The blade found the gap between the orc’s chest plate and shoulder guard, punching through muscle and scraping bone. Frost spread from the wound, freezing tissue, slowing blood flow, and sending debilitating cold racing through the orc’s body.

Korr’ghan roared …not with pain, but with fury. His 5th Realm battle energy flared, fighting the frost, burning it back from his flesh through sheer force of will. He seized Rhaegar’s sword arm with his free hand and squeezed. Frost-steel gauntlet crumpled under orcish fingers powered by battle energy. Bones cracked.

Rhaegar screamed but did not release his sword. Instead, he channeled his own battle energy directly through the blade, sending a focused burst of frost magic into the wound he had already created. Ice exploded through Korr’ghan’s chest cavity, freezing his lungs, his heart, his blood in a cascade of lethal cold.

The orc’s eyes went wide. His grip loosened. He toppled backward off the wall, his body hitting the ground with the sound of shattering ice.

Rhaegar cradled his broken arm and staggered back from the breach. Other warriors filled the gap, their spears and swords meeting the next wave of climbing orcs.

But the breach had been open for thirty precious seconds. In that time, a dozen orcish warriors had gained the inner wall, and the fighting to dislodge them would cost lives the Winters army could not afford to lose.

*****

Khao’khen watched the battle with the patient focus of a chess player in the endgame. Each report that reached him was a piece of information to be processed, not an emotional event to be reacted to. Korr’ghan’s death was noted and filed …a 5th Realm warrior lost, regrettable but expected against a 6th Realm opponent. The breach on the east wall was noted and exploited …more warriors funneled through the gap, widening it, preventing the defenders from sealing it.

“The pinkskin commander hasn’t committed herself again since the Rhakaddon,” he observed. “She’s conserving her strength.”

“Or she’s depleted,” Sakh’arran suggested.

“No. A 7th Circle mage has deep reserves. She killed one Rhakaddon and froze one section of wall. That consumed perhaps a quarter of her capacity. She has more. She’s waiting for the decisive moment.”

“Then we don’t give her one. We grind.”

“We grind,” Khao’khen confirmed. “Rotate the warbands. Fresh warriors every half an hour. Don’t give the defenders a chance to rest, to regroup, to recover. Their mages are finite. Their arrows are finite. Their soldiers’ endurance is finite. Ours…” he gestured at the more than six thousand warriors still available, many not yet engaged …”are not.”

The signal horns sounded, and the rotation began. The 1st Warband pulled back from the walls, replaced by the 3rd. Exhausted warriors were swapped for fresh ones. The pressure on the inner ring never eased, never paused, never gave the defenders a single moment of relief.

This was the new way of orcish warfare. Not the glorious charge, the individual duel, the heroic stand. But the cold, systematic grinding of a superior force against a fortified position, wearing it down the way water wears stone …not through force alone but through relentless, unending persistence.

Hour after hour.

The inner ring held. But with each passing hour, it held less firmly. Each section that cracked was repaired with fewer soldiers. Each frost barrier that was erected was thinner than the last. Each rotation of orcish warriors brought fresh muscles against arms that had been fighting without respite since dawn.

The sun began to set, painting the battlefield in shades of red and gold that seemed obscenely beautiful against the carnage below.

Aliyah Winters stood at the center of her shrinking perimeter, surrounded by the remnants of an army that had started the day eight thousand strong and was now, by the most optimistic count, fewer than five thousand. The dead lay in windrows along the walls. The wounded overflowed the medical tents. The mages sat on the ground behind the lines, their hands trembling, their reserves empty, their faces carrying the hollow expression of people who had given everything and had nothing left.

She could still fight. Her personal reserves, though diminished, were substantial. At the 7th Circle, she could single-handedly hold a section of wall for hours. She could kill a hundred orcs. She could freeze an entire assault column.

But she could not be everywhere.

And the orcs, with their infuriating, terrifying discipline, were everywhere.

“My lady,” Rhaegar approached, his arm in a crude sling, his face gray with pain and exhaustion. “The eastern section won’t hold through the night. We’ve lost too many. The reserves are gone.”

“The Baron?” Aliyah asked.

“Grounded. His griffon took a bolt through the wing joint. He’s fighting on foot at the southern wall, but without the griffons for aerial strikes, we’ve lost our only tactical advantage.”

Aliyah looked at the battlefield. The orcish assault continued with the same grinding efficiency it had maintained all day …fresh warriors rotating in, tired ones rotating out, the pressure never easing. The catapults that had survived the griffon strikes were lobbing Bufas fruit over the walls, setting fires that consumed precious attention and resources.

And on the horizon, barely visible in the failing light, the reserve that Khao’khen had not yet committed: the Rumbling Clan, the 11th and 12th Warbands, and the remaining Rhakaddons. Over a thousand fresh warriors, waiting for the killing stroke.

She could hold through the night. Perhaps. With sacrifice and desperation and the kind of courage that soldiers found when every other option was gone.

But she could not hold through tomorrow.

Not against this.

“Prepare the withdrawal,” she said, and the words tasted like ashes. “Through the northern pass. We retreat to the secondary position at…”

A horn sounded.

Not from the orcish lines.

From the north.

*****

The sound was distant but unmistakable …a Threian military horn, sounding the three-note pattern that meant “friendly forces approaching.” Aliyah’s head snapped toward the sound, her enhanced senses straining to perceive what was still too far away for most of her soldiers to hear.

Then she felt it.

Battle energy. Human battle energy. Approaching from the north. Not one person’s. Not ten. Hundreds. The combined resonance of a significant military force, their energy signatures blending into a wave of power that washed over her weary soldiers like a gust of warm wind.

“That’s…” Rhaegar stared northward, his uninjured hand gripping his sword. “That can’t be.”

“It is,” Aliyah said, and for the first time in hours …for the first time in weeks …something that was not frost settled behind her eyes.

Hope.

Banners appeared over the northern ridge. Blue and silver, snapping in the evening wind. Not Winters banners. Different. Familiar from council sessions and court functions but never seen on this battlefield.

The Snowe banner. The silver stag on field of blue.

General Aelric Snowe had come south.

And he had not come alone.

Three thousand soldiers crested the ridge in battle formation, their armor catching the last rays of the setting sun. Cavalry on the flanks. Infantry at the center. And above them, circling on great wings, seven griffons, their riders already channeling frost magic for the dive.

Seven griffons. Not the ones with the Baron of Frost…Snowe’s own Griffon Knights, the ones that had been defending his camp to the north. He had brought them all. Every one. Leaving his own position defended only by earthworks and the remaining infantry.

He had gambled everything on this moment.

The Threian horn sounded again …three notes, then four, then the sustained blast that meant “charge.”

Three thousand fresh soldiers slammed into the orcish rear lines with the force of a battering ram.

The battle was not over.

It had just changed entirely.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep