The pursuit began before the morning mist had burned away.

Khao’khen had not slept. While his warriors rested, rotated through watch shifts with the disciplined efficiency that defined the Yohan First Horde, the chieftain had sat before his command fire and processed the single most significant intelligence failure of the campaign. A second pinkskin army. Three thousand fresh soldiers, arriving from a direction he had never scouted, hitting his rear with devastating timing.

The failure gnawed at him with a sharpness that physical wounds never achieved. He had been outmaneuvered …not by superior force, not by magical power, not by any advantage the pinkskins possessed that he could not have anticipated. He had been outmaneuvered by incomplete information, and the fault was his. He had assumed. He had based his entire campaign on the assumption that the pinkskin army in the Lag’ranna Mountains was the only significant force in the region, and he had never verified that assumption because verifying it would have required ranging scouts far beyond the immediate operational area.

The old Khao’khen …the chieftain of a single tribe, thinking in terms of battles rather than campaigns …would have accepted the assumption without question. But the new Khao’khen, the one who had built the Yohan First Horde and taught himself to think in strategic layers that would have impressed any military academy in the pinkskin kingdoms, recognized the failure for what it was: a lesson that had cost eight hundred lives and very nearly cost the war.

He would not make the same mistake again.

“Sakh’arran,” he called, and his second-in-command materialized from the predawn darkness. “The pinkskins are moving. Which direction?”

“West,” Sakh’arran reported. “The Verakh scouts confirm. The combined force is withdrawing through the western passes of the Lag’ranna range. They’re moving in a single column, with scouts ahead and a strong rear guard trailing.”

“Their rear guard commander?”

“The woman in frost-armor. The 7th Circle mage.”

Khao’khen absorbed this. The pinkskin commander had made the strategically correct decision …retreat to friendly territory, consolidate forces, and fight from a position of strength rather than remaining in hostile lands with inadequate supplies. It was exactly what Khao’khen would have done in her position.

Which meant she was as dangerous retreating as she had been defending.

“We follow,” Khao’khen said. “But we do not rush. The mountain passes are natural chokepoints where a strong rear guard can hold against a much larger force. She will use them. She’ll prepare positions, set ambushes, create obstacles. If we charge blindly into those passes, we’ll take casualties we cannot afford.”

“Then how do we pursue?” Sakh’arran asked.

“Pressure. Constant, measured pressure. We maintain contact with their rear guard but don’t commit to a full engagement. We force them to keep their strongest fighters at the back of the column instead of moving freely. We deny them rest …if they stop to prepare a defensive position, we approach close enough to force them to man it, then we wait. They spend energy and time holding a position we never actually attack. Then we move when they move.”

“Harassment without commitment,” Sakh’arran summarized.

“Their supplies are limited. Their wounded slow them down. Their mages are depleted. Every hour we keep them on the move is an hour they spend resources they cannot replace. Eventually, the pressure will create a mistake. A gap in their formation. A moment when the rear guard is too far from the main body. A chokepoint where the terrain favors us more than them.”

“And when we find that moment?”

“We strike with everything we have. Not the grinding assault we used yesterday. A single, devastating blow aimed at cutting the column in half. Separate the rear guard from the main body. Destroy or capture the rear elements. Then pursue the front half with fresh warriors.”

Sakh’arran considered this, his tactical mind already working through the implications. “The 7th Circle mage will be in the rear guard. Separating her from the main body means we have to fight through her to reach the rest.”

“Not through her. Around her. The Warg Cavalry can move faster than any infantry formation through mountain terrain. They flank wide, find a crossing that bypasses the chokepoint, and hit the connection between the rear guard and the main body from the side. The woman can freeze a hundred warriors at a single chokepoint. She cannot freeze warriors coming from four directions simultaneously.”

The plan was solid. The execution would depend on finding the right terrain, the right moment, and maintaining the discipline that had become the Horde’s defining strength.

“Move the Horde,” Khao’khen commanded. “March order. Warbands rotate the pursuit …3rd Warband leads, 1st and 2nd in reserve. Warg Cavalry screens the flanks and probes for alternative routes through the passes. The Verakhs shadow their column and report every stop, every formation change, every hint of a prepared position.”

“And the Rumbling Clan?”

“Dhug’mhar moves with the reserve. His warriors are fresh …they barely fought yesterday. When the moment comes, they’ll be the hammer.”

The horns sounded, and the Yohan First Horde began its pursuit. Thousands of warriors moved westward through the mountain passes, their pace measured, their discipline unwavering, following the trail of eight thousand pinkskin soldiers who were running for home.

*****

The first engagement came at a narrow defile called the Shepherd’s Throat by the local mountain folk …a gap between two sheer cliff faces barely wide enough for ten men to walk abreast, stretching for perhaps two hundred yards through the heart of a granite ridge. It was a natural chokepoint so perfect that any military strategist would have identified it immediately as the ideal location for a rear-guard stand.

Aliyah had identified it hours ago, when the advance scouts sent back their route assessment. She had positioned herself at the eastern end of the defile with five hundred of her best soldiers …the Frostguard remnants, supplemented by heavy infantry from both the Winters and Snowe forces. Behind them, the main column continued through the defile and out the other side, where the terrain opened into a broader valley that offered better movement options.

The defensive position was simple but effective. The narrow passage meant that the orcish numbers advantage was meaningless …they could only approach ten abreast, feeding into a killing zone where Aliyah’s frost magic and her soldiers’ weapons could concentrate their full destructive power on a front barely twenty feet wide.

The 3rd Warband arrived at the eastern entrance to the defile and stopped.

Their warband master, a veteran named Krug who had been fighting since before the Yohan First Horde existed, studied the position with professional respect. The narrow passage. The steep cliffs on either side. The blue-white glow of frost magic emanating from the far end, where the pinkskin rear guard waited.

“It’s a trap,” Krug reported to Sakh’arran via horn signals. “Perfect chokepoint. Frost barriers visible. The 7th Circle mage is there personally. Estimate five hundred defenders.”

“Hold position,” Sakh’arran relayed from Khao’khen. “Do not enter the defile. Establish a blocking position at the eastern entrance. Prevent any attempt by the pinkskins to sortie. Wait.”

Wait.

The 3rd Warband settled into a defensive posture at the defile’s entrance, their shields forming a wall that sealed the passage as effectively as any fortification. They would not attack. They would simply be there, a visible presence that forced the Winters rear guard to remain in position.

And while the 3rd Warband waited, the Warg Cavalry was already in motion.

Fifty riders, led by a cavalry commander whose name translated roughly as “Swift Shadow,” raced along the ridgeline above the defile, searching for a route that would allow them to bypass the chokepoint entirely. The terrain was brutal …loose shale, steep gradients, narrow ledges that crumbled under the wargs’ weight …but the wolf-like beasts were mountain hunters by nature. They picked their way along paths that would have been impossible for horses, their clawed feet finding purchase on surfaces that looked impossibly vertical.

Three hours after the Horde arrived at the defile’s entrance, the Warg Cavalry found a route.

It was a goat path, barely visible, winding along the cliff face a hundred feet above the defile’s floor. It emerged on the far side of the ridge, behind the pinkskin rear guard’s position but ahead of the main column’s route through the valley beyond.

“Swift Shadow reports a flanking route,” Sakh’arran informed Khao’khen. “Goat path along the northern cliff. He can get fifty riders through to the far side within an hour.”

Khao’khen’s eyes narrowed. Fifty warg riders behind the enemy rear guard, positioned to strike the connection between the rear guard and the main body. Combined with a simultaneous advance through the defile from the front…

No. Not yet. The terrain was wrong. The goat path could only support fifty riders …not enough to split an eight-thousand-strong column. And committing the Warg Cavalry to a flanking maneuver through treacherous terrain risked losing them if the pinkskins detected the movement and positioned archers on the ridge.

“Hold,” Khao’khen decided. “Let the cavalry observe only. I want to know the layout beyond the defile …the valley, the next chokepoint, the terrain options. We learn now. We strike later.”

The Warg Cavalry positioned themselves on the far side of the ridge, hidden among the rocks, watching the Threian column move through the valley below. Their reports flowed back to Khao’khen through the horn relay system, each one adding detail to the tactical picture.

And at the defile, the standoff continued. Five hundred Threian soldiers and a 7th Circle mage held the eastern entrance. Fifteen hundred orcish warriors held the western entrance. Neither side moved. Neither side attacked.

But the pressure was doing its work. Every hour that Aliyah spent holding the defile was an hour she wasn’t resting, wasn’t recovering her frost-magic reserves, wasn’t sleeping. Her soldiers stood at their positions in the cold mountain air, their weapons ready, their eyes straining for any sign of the orcish advance that kept not coming.

“They’re not attacking,” Rhaegar observed from behind the frost barrier. “They’re just… sitting there.”

“They’re waiting for us to commit to this position, then bypassing us,” Aliyah replied, her senses extended to their maximum range, probing for any sign of flanking movement. She detected nothing …the Warg Cavalry was beyond her frost-sense range, hidden by the intervening rock. “Or they’re forcing us to hold here while the main body catches up.”

“Or they’re just messing with us,” Rhaegar offered, which drew a thin smile from Aliyah despite the tension.

“Whatever they’re doing, we can’t stay here indefinitely. The main column needs to keep moving.” She made the decision. “Withdraw. Leave a token force to watch the defile entrance …twenty soldiers, rotating every two hours. The rest move to the next prepared position.”

The rear guard disengaged, pulling back through the defile in a controlled withdrawal that Aliyah covered with a final frost barrier …a wall of ice that sealed the passage and would take the orcs hours to break through.

The 3rd Warband watched the ice wall form and did not attempt to breach it. They simply waited for it to begin melting, then advanced cautiously through the defile, finding it empty.

The pattern was set. Advance. Establish contact. Apply pressure. Wait. Let the enemy exhaust themselves holding positions. Let them spend magic on barriers that delayed but never stopped. Let time and distance do the work that direct assault would cost too dearly to achieve.

It was not glorious. It was not dramatic. It was not the kind of warfare that songs were sung about around campfires.

It was effective.

And effectiveness, Khao’khen had taught his warriors, was the only virtue that mattered in war.

*****

The second engagement came at a river crossing twelve miles further west.

The Threian column had to ford a mountain stream swollen with snowmelt, a process that slowed the main body to a crawl as wagons, wounded, and horses navigated the treacherous footing. Aliyah positioned her rear guard on the eastern bank, creating a frost bridge for the column while maintaining a defensive line facing the approaching orcish vanguard.

This time, the orcs pressed harder. The 5th Warband, rotating into the pursuit lead, advanced to within arrow range and began probing the Threian line with crossbow fire. The bolts were not aimed to kill …the range was too great for precision shooting …but to force the defenders to raise shields and maintain a combat posture while the main column struggled across the river.

Aliyah’s archers returned fire, but their diminished stocks forced economy. Each arrow had to count. Each volley had to serve a purpose. They could not afford the sustained suppressive fire that would have kept the orcish crossbow teams at bay.

A skirmishing exchange developed …crossbow bolts and arrows arcing across the open ground between the two forces, each side probing the other’s defenses without committing to a full engagement. Soldiers fell on both sides, but in small numbers …ones and twos, not the dozens or hundreds that a direct assault would have cost.

The skirmish lasted three hours, exactly as long as the main column needed to complete the river crossing. When the last wagon reached the far bank, Aliyah collapsed the frost bridge with a pulse of her magical energy, sending the temporary structure crashing into the swollen stream and creating a barrier of floating ice that would complicate any orcish attempt to ford.

The rear guard withdrew across the river using a secondary crossing half a mile upstream, and the march continued.

Behind them, the 5th Warband reached the riverbank and found the crossing blocked. They could ford …the river was not deep enough to stop determined warriors …but the floating ice and the swollen current would slow them considerably, and attempting to cross under fire from the far bank would be costly.

Sakh’arran ordered the warband to find an alternative crossing point. The Warg Cavalry, ranging ahead on the flanks, identified one within the hour …a shallower section upstream where the river spread wide over a gravel bed.

The pursuit continued.

Press. Withdraw. Delay. Advance. Press again.

The rhythm of the fighting retreat settled into a pattern that both sides recognized and adapted to. The Threians used every terrain feature to their advantage …chokepoints, river crossings, ridge lines, dense forest …creating momentary defensive positions that forced the orcish pursuit to pause, probe, and find ways around. The orcs used their Warg Cavalry and Verakh scouts to map alternative routes, flanking the defensive positions and forcing the Threians to withdraw before they could be encircled.

Neither side achieved a decisive advantage. Neither side made a catastrophic mistake. It was a chess game played in mud and blood and mountain cold, each move calculated, each counter-move anticipated, each cost weighed against the shrinking balance of resources that both armies could bring to bear.

By the end of the first day’s march, the combined Threian force had covered eighteen miles westward …good progress through mountain terrain, especially with wounded in tow. They had lost thirty-seven soldiers killed and ninety wounded in the day’s skirmishing. Orcish casualties were estimated at approximately the same, though the Horde’s ability to recover its wounded meant that fewer of those would become permanent losses.

Snowe established the night camp in a defensible valley with good sight lines in all directions. Sentries were posted on every approach. The griffons maintained aerial patrols despite their exhaustion, their riders rotating in shifts that pushed both humans and beasts to their limits.

Aliyah rejoined the main body for the evening council, her armor bearing new scratches from crossbow bolts that had come close enough to test her frost-enhanced defenses. She was tired. Deeply, bone-shakingly tired. The constant use of frost magic throughout the day had drained her reserves further, and the relentless tension of commanding a rear guard against a pursuing enemy that never quite committed but never quite disengaged had left her mentally exhausted.

“They’re good,” she said to Snowe as they reviewed the day’s operations over a sparse meal of salt-preserved meat and hard bread. “Better than good. Their commander is operating at a level I’ve never seen from an orcish force. He’s not trying to catch us …he’s trying to wear us down. Force us to spend energy on defense at every obstacle while he preserves his strength for the decisive moment.”

“How long can you keep the rear guard effective?” Snowe asked.

“My frost reserves are at forty percent. Another two days of this intensity and I’ll be operating at barely functional levels. The mages are worse …most are down to ten percent or less. After that…” She spread her hands. “After that, the rear guard fights without magic. And without magic, the orcish numbers advantage becomes decisive.”

“Then we need to move faster,” Snowe said. “Push the pace. Accept more exhaustion in the main body if it means shortening the distance to the border. Once we’re on Threian soil, we have access to garrison fortifications, supply depots, and reinforcements.”

“The wounded slow us.”

“I know. But we’re not leaving them.”

“I’m not suggesting we do. I’m stating the constraint. We can push the able-bodied to march thirty miles a day through this terrain. With the wounded, we’re limited to fifteen or twenty.”

“Then we need to buy three more days,” Snowe calculated. “Three days of this pace gets us to the border. Can you hold the rear guard for three more days?”

Aliyah looked at the fire, watching the flames dance, feeling the weight of three more days pressing down on shoulders that were already bearing more than any human body should.

“I can hold for three more days,” she said. “But on the fourth day, General, I’ll be walking. Not fighting. Walking. And whatever I have left will barely light a candle.”

“Then we make three days enough.”

They finished their meal in the tired silence of two people who had nothing left to say and everything left to do. Around them, eight thousand soldiers settled into the brief, uneasy rest of an army being hunted through hostile territory, sleeping with weapons in hand and one eye open.

Five miles to the east, the Yohan First Horde made its own camp, their fires burning low and controlled, their sentries alert, their chieftain studying maps and calculating the moment when patience would give way to action.

Three days.

The race was on.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep