Rise of the Horde - Chapter 535 - 535
The morning air reeked of scorched flesh and ruptured magic. Smoke still clung low over the plain, a heavy fog of soot and blood. Where once an orcish tide surged like a wrathful storm, now lay twisted bodies…some charred black, others torn open like butchered cattle. The Baron of Frost stood tall amidst the wreckage, his silver-blue armor splattered with gore, the tip of his glaive humming with residual magic.
They had arrived just in time.
Hours earlier, Major Gresham’s battered force had stood on the edge of annihilation. The orcish offensive, led by their newly risen chieftain, had hammered his positions with unrelenting fury.
Waves of crazy orcish warriors threw themselves against the Threian lines, supported by trolls, goblins and beast-mounted riders. Even the sky had seemed to turn against them, clouded with ash and streaked by strange, dark-winged carrion birds, ready for the feast that the battle had served.
But then, the frost had come.
From the east, a sudden winter swept across the battlefield. Snow flurried into the blazing heat of war. Gale-force winds howled as ice crawled across orcish flesh. Spears of sharpened hail rained from the heavens. From within this tempest rode the Griffon Knights, their winged mounts trailing banners of blue and silver, their riders encased in enchanted froststeel. At their helm was the Baron of Frost, face cold as ice.
“Make way for the frost’s vengeance!” he had bellowed, his voice booming unnaturally as magical amplification laced his words.
The orcs reeled, momentarily stunned by the sudden storm. Khao’khen’s commanders screamed orders, but the Griffon Knights dove with divine precision, cutting deep into the unprotected flanks of the orcish horde. Siege engines that had once hurled fiery death into Threian lines were crushed beneath massive hooves or split apart by focused blasts of glacial magic.
And through this chaos, Gresham had seen his chance.
He was a bloodied man, armor broken and helmet lost, a sword gripped tight in his left hand…his right arm had gone numb sometime after the fourth wave. Still, his voice rose as he rallied the survivors.
“To the Baron! With me! Fall back! By the light, we live today!”
They did not retreat with honor, only desperation.
The ground was soaked in failure, and every step back felt like treason. But Gresham knew that to stand and die was not victory…it was convenience for the enemy. The Baron’s intervention was the sword-edge between life and death.
Now, in the aftermath, Gresham stood on a hill overlooking the remnants of what had once been a battlefield. What remained of his command had regrouped there: fewer than five thousand men, many wounded, all hollow-eyed. Standard-bearers stood still as statues, their flags drooping.
The Baron approached, his steed…a griffon larger than the others…landing beside him with a blast of wind.
“Major Gresham,” the Baron greeted, bowing low with a knight’s flourish. “You look like hell.”
Gresham chuckled darkly, a bitter rasp. “Aye… But not dead. You have my thanks, lad.”
The younger man dismounted and removed his helmet, revealing a sharp-featured face marred only by a small scar across his left brow. His frost-blue eyes glimmered with contained fury.
“I would not have let you fall,” he said softly. “Family, even distantly, does not abandon its own.”
Gresham eyed him wearily. “You’ve grown. Last I saw you, you were a boy trying to master sword forms in the southern court.”
“That boy is long dead,” the Baron replied. “Slain by war and expectation.”
They walked among the wounded. Soldiers bowed their heads to the Baron as he passed. He acknowledged each with a brief nod, his gloved hands clenched behind his back.
“I knew this land was hostile,” Gresham murmured, “but I did not expect the orcs to rally so quickly. Their leader… he’s not like the others.”
“That’s new,” the Baron responded.
“He fights like a commander, not a beast. Coordinated attacks. Rear strikes. Even feints.” The major continued.
They reached the central field where healers worked tirelessly. Scribes scribbled names, matching faces to lists of the dead. Pyres burned in the distance, the smoke thick and unending.
“I lost more than two-thirds of my command,” Gresham muttered. “Even the siege gear is gone. The bastards targeted it first.”
The Baron’s jaw tightened. “You held them longer than anyone else could’ve. And at least we got information about this orcish army.”
Nearby, a pair of soldiers laid a white cloth over a body missing its lower half. The symbol of the Snowe family was stitched on the fallen man’s chestplate.
“A cousin,” the Baron said quietly. “I didn’t know him well.”
“Still family,” Gresham replied.
They stood in silence, watching the body be added to a pyre. When the flames rose, they cast strange shadows over the broken land.
“Have you scouted further east?” Gresham asked.
The Baron nodded. “My huntsmen found tracks. A major force moved northeast, near the base of the Tekarr Mountains. It might be another orcish host. Or survivors.”
Gresham frowned. “Then this… this is another army?”
“Perhaps,” the Baron confirmed. “To the northeast, we destroyed a big orcish army under the leadership of General Snowe…but it came with a great cost.”
“Threia must know,” Gresham said. “They must receive word that the orcs are banding together.”
The Baron’s eyes narrowed. “The General would certainly send word to Threia.”
*****
By nightfall, they had begun preparations for the march. Wounded who could ride were mounted. Those who couldn’t were left under the care of healers and guards within a makeshift camp fortified with scavenged spikes and broken carts. Runners were dispatched north and west to contact other Threian units.
Before they departed, Gresham stood before the survivors.
“We were meant to die here,” he said, voice carrying over the dying wind. “But death came and passed us by. That means we have purpose still. We do not flee…we strike again. We do not mourn…we fight. We do not fall…we rise.”
A cheer rose, ragged but defiant. The Baron nodded, approving.
And so they rode again. Beneath a sky bruised by ash and war, they pushed northwards. Towards General Snowe.
But the flames they left behind marked more than survival.
They marked the beginning of a new phase in this war…a war no longer of ambushes and skirmishes, but perhaps of nations.
