The tears closed on the seventh day.

They went quietly, without ceremony or spectacle, the worn fabric of reality slowly knitting itself back together as the conditions that had produced the Thinning shifted according to celestial and magical variables that no shaman fully understood. One by one, the rifts that had opened across the southern plains narrowed, their edges drawing together like wounds healing in accelerated time, the darkness within them fading to a shimmer and then to nothing, until the air where they had been was merely air again, carrying no cold, no wrongness, no trace of the dimension that had pressed against the mortal world through their openings.

The fourth tear, the one that had appeared two leagues south of Yohan and had never produced a Lower Order demon, closed first. The sentries on the southern wall watched it fade over the course of an afternoon, and the relief that passed through the garrison was physical, a collective exhalation that released tension that had been building in every warrior’s body since the Season began.

The corrupted creatures that had survived the battles at Yohan’s perimeter and the three strike operations died within hours of the tears’ closure. Without the Lower Order demons’ will to sustain them and without the dimensional energy that the tears provided, the corruption that had enhanced their bodies and overwritten their minds lost its coherence. Some simply stopped, their bodies going limp. Many of these died in their sleep, their hearts or lungs failing as the corruption’s artificial support was withdrawn.

The corrupted orcs were the hardest cases. Of the two to three hundred who had marched under the demons’ influence, fewer than forty survived the corruption’s withdrawal. These were brought to Yohan by Verakh patrols who found them scattered across the southern plains, dazed and terrified, their bodies bearing the marks of the corruption’s enhancement: muscles torn, bones stressed, skin discolored in patterns that would take months to fade. The shamans took them in, tended their physical wounds, and began the slower, more uncertain process of determining whether the minds that the demons had overwritten could recover.

* * * * *

The three strike teams returned to Yohan within a day of each other.

Dhug’mhar’s team arrived first, the chieftain of the Rumbling Clan carried on a litter by his veterans, his body bearing the burns and wounds of his encounter with the Scorcher. He was conscious, which he demonstrated by delivering a running commentary on his condition at a volume that ensured the entire southern gate heard him.

“Perfection is wounded but not diminished! The Scorcher learned what happens when a demon crosses the greatest warrior in orcish history! It died! Screaming! While I stood over it! If someone could bring me water and perhaps a healer who understands that Perfection’s wounds require special attention…”

The Rumbling Clan carried him to the healers with the particular combination of exasperation and affection that characterized everyone’s relationship with Dhug’mhar.

Galum’nor’s team arrived next. The orc walked through the southern gate on his own feet, his right arm bound in a sling, the frost damage from the Pale Lord’s touch visible as a network of pale lines across his skin that resembled the patterns of ice on a winter window. Drae’ghanna and Aro’shanna flanked him, both women bearing their own wounds with the silent stoicism that their respective traditions required. The Verakhs who had survived the mission filed in behind them, six out of the ten who had departed, each one carrying the weight of the four who would not return.

Khao’khen’s team was last.

The chieftain walked through the gate with Dhug’mur on his left and Vir’khan on his right, the three warriors moving with the slow, careful steps of men whose bodies had been pushed past their limits and were now operating on the residual energy that will provided when strength was exhausted. Khao’khen’s left arm hung at an angle that indicated a shoulder that had been broken and imperfectly set during the march home. His armor was destroyed, the plates cracked and separated, held together by straps that had been retied so many times they were more knot than leather. His sword, the weapon that had killed the Wasteland Warlord, was strapped across his back, its blade notched and stained with ichor that the march’s rain had not fully washed away.

The warriors lining the gate’s interior stood at attention as their chieftain passed. There was no cheering. The Yohan tradition did not cheer returning warriors. Instead, the soldiers performed the gesture that Khao’khen had established as the Horde’s salute of respect: fist to chest, the motion signifying that the warrior’s strength was offered to whoever received the salute. The gesture rippled through the ranks like a wave, thousands of fists striking thousands of chests, the sound a muted thunder that carried through the streets of Yohan like a heartbeat.

* * * * *

The aftermath occupied three weeks.

The dead were counted, mourned, and honored. One hundred and twelve warriors had died in the defense of Yohan’s southern perimeter. Thirty-one had fallen with the three strike teams. Four Verakhs who would never return. The wounded numbered in the hundreds, many of whom would recover fully, some of whom would carry permanent reminders.

The material costs were significant. Two-thirds of the Roarer ammunition stockpile had been expended. Half the fire sphere inventory was consumed. Shields, weapons, and armor damaged in the fighting required repair or replacement. The supply reserves assembled for the northern campaign had been partially consumed.

But the city stood. Yohan’s walls were intact. Its forges still smoked. Its children still played in streets that had never been breached.

And for the first time in orcish history, the Season of Damnation had been defeated. Not endured. Not survived by scattering. Defeated. Three Demons of the Lower Order had entered the mortal world, and three had been killed by orcish warriors who refused to run.

* * * * *

The war council reconvened on the twenty-first day after the tears closed.

The map table bore its familiar markers again. Sakh’arran had spent the intervening weeks updating the intelligence picture, adjusting timelines, and recalculating the logistics that the Season’s disruption had altered.

Khao’khen stood at the table’s head, his shoulder healed enough to bear the weight of his armor again, a new scar crossing his forearm where the Warlord’s stone plates had gouged him.

“The Season is over,” he said. “The demons are dead. Yohan stands. And the question that we postponed when the tears opened has not changed.”

He looked north, toward the Tekarr Mountains.

“The pinkskins are still there. The Frontier Force still patrols. The Blue Countess still sits in her mountains. General Snowe still commands from the north. The kingdom that invaded our lands still exists, and the Horde that was built to answer that invasion is still standing.”

He placed his hand on the map.

“We march.”

Sakh’arran stepped forward. “The logistics require six weeks of replenishment. Roarer ammunition, fire spheres, food stores, replacement equipment.”

“Six weeks,” Khao’khen confirmed. “In six weeks, the Yohan First Horde marches north.”

Dhug’mhar, his arm still bandaged from the Scorcher’s burns, raised his fist. “Perfection marches again!”

The room erupted in the rough, honest laughter that only survivors understood.

And behind the laughter, beneath it, sustaining it, was the steel.

The Horde would march. The Season had tested them. And they had emerged not weakened but tempered, the fire of the demons’ challenge having burned away uncertainty and left behind the hard, clear purpose that carried a civilization forward.

Yohan endured. The Horde endured. And the north waited.

Six weeks.

Then the real war would begin.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep