Rise of the Horde - Chapter 544 - 544
The next dawn broke under a sky the color of ash. Wind swept cold from the mountain peaks, dragging gray clouds low across the plains. The joint camp of the Snowe’s and the Blue Countess’s host stirred like a great beast waking … banners snapping, horns calling, and hundreds of feet crunching frost-hardened earth.
The time for departure had come.
For two days, the camp had held its uneasy truce. The Blue Countess’s troops, immaculate and composed, kept to their upper terraces; the Snowe’s, grim and scarred, lingered near the slope below. They exchanged supplies, shared firewood, even drank together once … but it was a brittle peace, built on necessity rather than trust. And now, even that necessity was ending.
Major Gresham stood beside a rough-hewn wagon, watching his men prepare to march. Their armor still bore the stains of the last battle … rust-brown blood crusted on mail, dented helms hammered back into shape. The soldiers moved without chatter, eyes hollow but steady. Each knew the road north would still be hard; each accepted it without complaint. They had no illusions left.
Beside them, the Griffon Knights assembled with silent efficiency. The beasts, still recovering from wounds, stamped restlessly as handlers tightened saddles and reins. Frost steamed from their nostrils, wings half-unfurled in the morning wind. Their riders checked armor and blades with the quiet precision of professionals who had seen too much death to waste motion.
And across the slope, the Blue Countess’s army prepared as well … a picture of order and grace. Their mages gathered in concentric circles, staff-tips glowing faintly as they synchronized their barrier spells. The archers polished silver runes on their arrows. Even the infantrymen stood like statues in their clean armor, the blue and silver of House Winters gleaming as though it had never seen dirt.
To the Snowe’s soldiers below, it looked less like an army departing for war and more like a festival procession leaving a garden.
Between the two hosts ran a single road … narrow, muddy, flanked by frostbitten grass. It was on this road that the Baron of Frost now walked, his cloak trailing white mist as he approached the meeting point.
The Blue Countess herself waited there, surrounded by her household guard and a few high officers … among them, the ever-watchful Sir Loric Avelle, and behind him, the sneering shadow of Captain Rhaegar Vance.
Aliyah Winters looked radiant, as though untouched by sleepless nights or worry. Her pale hair gleamed beneath a circlet of ice-blue metal; her robes shimmered faintly, woven with enchantment. She smiled as the Baron drew near … a smile polite enough to hide anything she wished.
“Baron,” she said, inclining her head. “Major. The time has come to part ways.”
The Baron bowed slightly, no more than protocol demanded.
“So it seems,” he replied. “You will move south?”
“To meet the orcish host you spoke of, yes,” she said. “My scouts report movement in the plains further to the south, seemed like the orcs you spoke of, built fortifications there. If those reports are true, I will meet them there before they reach further north.”
Her tone was calm, confident … almost eager. The prospect of battle seemed to excite her, though Gresham noticed it was not the kind of excitement born from necessity. It was performance … the anticipation of a stage well-prepared.
“And you?” she asked, her gaze flicking toward the Baron. “You go north to rejoin your General?”
The Baron nodded once. “General Snowe is amassing our strength near the pass to recover from the previous battles against the orcs. If the orcs have learned coordination, then it is likely they will band together once again. We’ll need every sword still able to stand.”
Aliyah’s smile deepened faintly. “How dutiful of you. The Snowes are nothing if not predictable.”
The jab was soft, but it landed. Gresham’s jaw clenched, but the Baron did not rise to it.
“Predictable,” he said, “is another word for steadfast. And steadfastness keeps borders from burning.”
The Countess’s laugh was quiet and cool. “Perhaps. Though I wonder sometimes whether the Snowes love the taste of failure or simply refuse to admit defeat to it.”
Sir Avelle shifted uneasily. “My lady…”
“It’s quite all right,” the Baron interrupted smoothly. “The difference, my lady, is that we accept our shortcomings and learn from it…harsh, cold, unforgiving. We do not seek to charm it into gentleness.”
Their eyes met … frost and sapphire, two different shades of the same coldness. Around them, soldiers paused to watch, the tension of old rivalries crackling like static in the air.
At last, the Countess inclined her head again, the ghost of a smile still on her lips. “Then I wish you well, Baron. May your frost not crack before we meet again.”
The Baron bowed once more. “And may yours not melt before blood is spilled.”
When the exchange ended, the two commanders turned from one another like actors leaving a stage. The Countess’s horn sounded … soft and melodic … and her column began to move southward in perfect formation, banners lifting into the wind. The shimmer of spelllight followed them, fading slowly into the haze.
Behind them, the air grew colder, harder. Gresham exhaled, his breath turning white.
“Well,” he muttered. “That went better than I thought.”
The Baron’s expression didn’t change. “She’s glad to see us go. The feeling’s mutual.”
“Do you think she’ll actually meet those orcs?”
The Baron looked southward. “She’ll meet them,” he said. “But whether she understands them … that’s another matter.”
****
By noon, the Threian column under the command of the Major had begun its slow march north.
The road wound through dew-covered meadows and low, dying forests. Their wagons creaked, the wheels half-rotten from mud and cold. The soldiers trudged with heads down, wrapped in whatever cloth they could find. Every few hours, a griffon shrieked overhead … a sound both proud and broken … before circling low to rest again.
The Baron rode near the front, his proud mount moving with steady rhythm. Major Gresham marched beside him on foot, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the horizon. They said little … words felt unnecessary among men who had already shared too much silence.
By dusk, they reached a rise overlooking the lowlands. Behind them, the last shimmer of the Blue Countess’s column was vanishing into the south, a ribbon of blue fading between the hills. Ahead, the north opened like a wound … tall grasses, scattered boulders, and the burnt down settlements of destroyed orcish tribes scattered along the orcish lands.
One of the scouts rode up. “My lord, Major,” he said. “The next stretch of plains is clear. No sign of pursuit.”
“Good,” Gresham said. “We make camp near the stream before nightfall.”
The Baron dismounted and stood for a moment at the crest of the hill, watching the sky grow red. The sunset caught the frost in his hair, turning it silver-white. He could still hear the echo of the Countess’s laughter in his memory … bright, musical, and hollow.
“She’ll fight her war her way,” he said softly. “And we’ll fight ours.”
Gresham joined him, gazing north. “And when it’s done?”
“When it’s done,” the Baron replied, “the Frost will still be here. The Blue will be gone.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of destruction and distant chaos. The two men turned back toward their army … weary, diminished, but resolute … and began the climb down to where the fires were being lit.
Behind them, the last trace of the Blue Countess’s magic faded from the air, leaving only the honest chill of the land. It was colder, harsher, and somehow purer.
The army of Major Gresham and the Baron of Frost moved on … northward, toward the waiting banners of General Snowe.
*****
The southern plains of the Orcish Lands stretched wide and gold under the noonday sun. The cold that still clung to the northern ridges gave way here to open grassland … wildflowers and dry brush bowing beneath a warm breeze. The air smelled faintly of thyme and dust.
Across this rolling landscape moved the army of the Blue Countess, a slow-moving serpent of color and order … banners of azure and silver rippling lazily, armor glinting like a thousand fragments of the same sky.
It was a march more befitting a royal parade than a war campaign.
Aliyah Winters, the Blue Countess of the House of Winters, rode near the front astride a white mare with a silver mane, the reins braided with silk cords. Her cloak fluttered gently behind her, trimmed in pale fur that shimmered faintly with enchantment. At her side, a dozen attendants rode … courtiers, aides, and guards in gleaming armor traced with glowing sigils.
They laughed among themselves. Someone was playing a lute.
Behind them, the army advanced in measured rhythm. The infantry marched first, though “infantry” was too crude a word for them … these were soldiers of spectacle. Their uniforms were spotless, their steps perfectly timed. The glint of their spearheads caught the sun in a cadence of light.
Behind them came the archers, riding on wagons or light steeds, their quivers carved and lacquered, the fletchings dyed blue and white. They spoke little, conserving their strength, their eyes sharp and confident.
Then came the mages … hundreds of them, in formations of five and ten, cloaked in robes embroidered with silver runes. Each carried a staff that thrummed faintly with restrained power. The air shimmered faintly around them, the scent of ozone trailing in their wake.
Even the cavalry of House Winters was touched by magic … their spears bound with runic cords, their mounts wearing thin armor that glowed faintly in the sun. Every so often, a rider would whisper a word, and his horse’s hooves would burn faint blue, leaving no dust in their passing.
And all around them, magic … subtle, constant, almost decorative. Barriers of comfort spells kept the heat from their faces, illusions softened the glare, and a gentle enchantment scented the air with lilac and myrrh.
War, for them, was not a desperate affair. It was an art. A performance.
The Countess’s army moved in beauty and ease, the very picture of confidence. They had seen the battered remnants of Major Gresham’s forces … mud-caked, limping, haunted … and they could not understand how such soldiers could have been so mauled by mere orcs.
The Blue Countess herself had said as much the night before their departure.
“The Snowes see monsters in shadows,” she had remarked over wine. “Their men fight as if they were born to die in the cold. They do not realize that discipline without grace is nothing but suffering. We, on the other hand, will show the orcs that elegance and intelligence can tame even savagery.”
Her officers had raised their glasses in agreement.
Now, as the army rolled on, her words echoed in every stride of horse and beat of drum.
The scouts rode wide, banners gleaming … but they did not press far. They had no reason to. The open plains felt safe. The reports of orcs in the south were taken seriously only as an opportunity … a chance for the Countess to prove her brilliance, to show Threia that war could be fought beautifully, without the dirt and despair that seemed to cling to the Snowe banner.
Sir Loric Avelle, her oldest mage retainer and also her master, rode behind her carriage, his armor duller than most. He had seen more battles than any of her bright-eyed captains, and his silence stood out amid their laughter.
He looked back often, scanning the horizon, the ridgelines, the distant hills. There was movement there … faint, almost imperceptible … but too rhythmic to be wind or game.
He said nothing. Not yet.
The Countess turned once to him, her smile calm and knowing.
“Sir Avelle,” she said, “you’re watching shadows again.”
“I am, my lady,” he replied. “Because sometimes, the shadows watch back.”
She laughed lightly. “Then let them. I have mages enough to turn darkness into glass.”
*****
Far behind them, half a league to the west, something stirred amid the dry brush.
The Verakhs had been following the Threian column for days … silent, patient, keeping their distance. They had seen the humans’ misery, their wounds, their exhaustion. They had expected that column to continue north. But when it divided, and the brighter, softer one turned south, the Verakh scouts followed that instead.
It was curiosity first … and then disbelief.
From the crest of a low hill, hidden beneath camouflage cloaks of woven grass and dirt, the Verakh scouts watched the shining army roll past.
One of them, a scarred orc with one broken tusk, murmured in their guttural tongue, “By our ancestors, they sing as they march.”
Another grunted. “No shields up. No pickets far. The mage-lights glow like torches. They want to be seen.”
Their leader, Kruk’thar, lay flat on his belly, eyes squinting through cover. His dark red skin blended with the earth; only the faint shimmer of a scar across his temple caught the light.
“They are not afraid,” he said slowly. “They are sure.”
One of his warriors, an orc with a split ear, snorted. “Then they are fools. We could strike their tail and they’d not notice until our blades reached their throats.”
Kruk’thar moved his gaze. “No. Not yet. Look there … see the staffs, the robes, the sigils? Every third rank holds a mage. Those eyes can see through smoke, through illusion, through heat. If we get too close, they’ll burn us from the hills before we draw iron.”
He crawled backward, gesturing for his warriors to follow. They moved like serpents, silent and low, until they reached the cover of a shallow ravine where the rest of his group waited … twenty Verakhs, a mix of orcs and trolss. All wore cloaks of gray and brown, their armor muffled with rags to stop the clink of metal.
They crouched around him, listening.
Kruk’thar spread a rough map in the dirt … crude lines marking the Blue Countess’s route. “They go south,” she said, “towards the previous battlefield. Their pace is slow … half march, half dance. We’ll follow the flank, keep the wind between us and their eyes.”
An orc rumbled low. “Why not strike?”
“Because,” he said sharply, “I want to know them. These are not the same as the ones before. Those in the north fight like wolves. These…” he glanced toward the horizon, where a shimmer of blue banners swayed … “these fight like peacocks. But peacocks can still peck the eyes from a snake if it gets too close.”
There was a murmur of grim laughter.
The Verakhs waited until night fell. When the stars came out, the glow of the Blue Countess’s camp could be seen for miles … a constellation of mage-lights, each flickering with controlled brilliance. It was beautiful and foolish, like a beacon shouting, Here we are. We fear nothing.
Kruk’thar crouched beside a half-buried stone, eyes reflecting the distant glow.
“They think themselves untouchable,” he murmured. “They see us not as hunters, but as beasts.”
“And what are we, then?” the trolls asked.
Kruk’thar’s grin was all teeth. “Patience made flesh.”
