Rise of the Horde - Chapter 545 - 545
The army of the Blue Countess had made camp upon the soft, sloping fields a good distance from the base of the Lag’ranna Mountains … a gentle place of gold and green, where the grass swayed in evening wind like the sea itself.
By twilight, their tents stood in immaculate rows, silk canopies of blue and silver glowing softly under floating mage-lights. The whole encampment looked like a city of stars that had fallen gently to the earth.
Music drifted through the air. Someone was playing a harp near the officers’ pavilion. Somewhere else, laughter … cultured, measured, not the coarse mirth of soldiers but the pleasant tone of courtiers.
To a distant observer, the Winters host appeared utterly at peace.
Within the heart of the camp, near the largest of the silk tents, Countess Aliyah Winters dined with her officers under a canopy of frostwoven cloth. The table was long and elegant, its surface laden with silver plates and crystal goblets. Wine sparkled in the light of the mage-orbs hanging above like captured moons.
Aliyah herself reclined in a low chair, still in her pale blue armor, though her gauntlets were off and her hair let down. Her beauty was the kind that drew eyes even in the chaos of battle … fair skin touched by moonlight, eyes like winter seas. She smiled as her captains spoke of trivial things: supply counts, horse care, the quality of the latest bread shipment from the southern estates.
No one mentioned the Snowe’s losses. No one spoke of the orcs.
To her right sat Sir Loric Avelle, her oldest mage retainer, weathered and silent. His armor bore scratches that no enchantment could polish away, and his eyes … gray and steady … lingered not on the laughter around him but on the night beyond the torchlight.
Across the table, one of the younger captains, Sir Ferin Luthen, leaned back and gestured lazily with his goblet.
“Still no sign of the savages Major Gresham spoke of,” he said with a grin. “Perhaps they all froze to death before reaching us. It would be a fitting end for creatures too stupid to leave the these lands. Such brutes only knows chaos.”
Another laughed. “Or perhaps the Snowe’s imagined them entirely. They do love their tales of doom … it excuses their failures.”
Aliyah chuckled lightly. “Let them have their ghosts. We deal in substance.” She raised her goblet slightly, the wine shimmering like blood under moonlight. “Tomorrow, we march further south. By sunset, I expect we’ll see the truth for ourselves … and show Threia what disciplined magic can do.”
A murmur of approval circled the table. One of the mage-commanders, a woman with golden rings through her ears, added softly,
“If they do appear, my Lady, they will be ash before they can raise a roar. I have layered wards along our flanks and sent familiar eyes beyond the camp. They will be quickly dealt with once they show up.”
“Excellent,” Aliyah said. “Then tonight, we rest easy.”
And they did.
The camp soon settled into its nightly rhythm … relaxed, unguarded, glowing like a beacon. The sentries numbered few, spaced lazily along the perimeter, their vigilance dulled by comfort. They leaned on spears or sat by small fires, talking quietly or sharing flasks.
The patrols moved in pairs, not squads. They walked short loops near the wagons, humming softly to themselves, boots brushing against grass instead of gravel. Even their armor barely clinked … not out of stealth, but because of enchantments that made their passage quiet and effortless.
A pair of young soldiers walked the southern line, their conversation low.
“It’s hard to believe we’re at war,” one said, smiling faintly as he watched the mage-lights shimmer.
“It feels like a festival,” the other replied. “If all campaigns were like this, I’d never want to leave.”
“Did you see the Snowes, though? Those men looked like ghosts. Like they’d been chewed up and spat out.”
“Aye,” his friend said, shrugging. “But that’s the difference, isn’t it? They fight with mud and blood. We fight with brilliance.”
They both laughed quietly and moved on, unaware that from far beyond the reach of their light, other eyes watched them … low, cold, patient.
Under the cover of the night and along the distant rise of earth, the Verakhs lay in the dark, their bodies painted with ash and clay. They watched the blue-and-silver glow flicker against the night and felt the vibration of music and laughter in the air.
To them, it was blasphemy … the arrogance of pinkskins who had forgotten what death sounded like.
Kruk’thar, their captain, crouched low beside a half-buried boulder. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of wine on the wind. “They smell of flowers,” he muttered. “Even in the dark.”
One of her warriors spat. “Too bright. Too loud. Even the spirits must hear them.”
Kruk’thar nodded slowly. “Let them sing. The louder they sing, the easier they are to find when the storm breaks.”
He focused his gaze again, though the glare from the mage-lights stung his eyes. What he saw was beyond her understanding … towers of glowing ice, men and women shimmering with false stars. It was beautiful. It was obscene.
Behind him, the Verakhs waited, unmoving, their breath low, their blades darkened with oil. They would not strike tonight. Not yet.
But the hunt had begun.
*****
At the far edge of the Winters camp, near the edges where the cool breeze blew, stood the tent of Sir Loric Avelle, the oldest mage in the Countess’s service.
He had once been a scholar of the Grand Arcanum, but age had bent his back and dimmed his once-sharp eyes. Yet what he lost in strength, he gained in instinct … the quiet, unexplainable sense that comes only to those who have survived long enough to see patterns others cannot.
He sat outside his tent, his cloak draped around his thin shoulders, a small fire burning before him. His gnarled hands were clasped over a wooden staff that pulsed faintly with residual magic.
Around him, the night was peaceful … too peaceful.
He watched the mage-lights bob lazily through camp, heard the laughter and music, the clinking of cups. Somewhere nearby, a soldier sang softly, a lullaby from the northern coast.
But beneath all that, Loric heard something else. A silence that pressed against his bones. The kind of silence that listens back.
He closed his eyes.
At once, the world changed. The scent of wine and silk faded, replaced by grass and earth and something feral. He felt the pull of distant motion … not seen, but felt … a weight in the dark.
His old heart tightened.
“Watchers in the dark…” he whispered to himself. “What are you?”
From within the camp, a soft female voice called, “Master Avelle?”
He turned to see Countess Aliyah herself approaching, her silver gown gleaming faintly under the mage-lights. She moved like the moon … serene, unbothered. Behind her trailed two of her handmaidens, each beautiful in their own right.
“Still awake, old master?” she asked, smiling faintly.
Loric rose slowly, bowing his head. “Old bones don’t rest well, my Lady. The night feels… uneasy.”
Aliyah chuckled gently. “You worry too much. There is nothing out there but wind and grass.”
He looked at her with tired eyes. “Wind can hide breath. Grass can hide eyes. There are things that are already in front of use but we still fail to see.”
For a moment, her smile faltered … just slightly … before returning, practiced and perfect. “Ever the poet, Master Avelle. You sense ghosts where there are none. My scouts report clear skies and quiet plains.”
Loric looked past her, toward the dark ridges beyond the camp. “Scouts see with eyes. I listen with what remains of my soul. And my soul tells me … we are not alone tonight.”
Aliyah sighed softly and reached out to touch his arm. “Rest, Master. Tomorrow, you’ll see we have nothing to fear. Orcs are nothing but just stronger and more resilient savages than barbarians.”
She turned and left, her attendants whispering as they followed.
Loric stood alone again, the laughter returning to the air. But he did not sit. He tightened his cloak, leaned on his staff, and stared into the dark until his eyes watered. His instincts were clearly telling him that something is out there.
Out there … beyond sight, beyond hearing … something was waiting, watching.
And in that moment, though he could not see them, the Verakhs turned their gaze directly toward him.
“That pinkskin seems to feel our presence…” Throk muttered under his breath.
“Perhaps…” Kruk’thar replied, “but as long as the alarm is not raised, we are still safe.”
Two watchers, separated by darkness and pride, locked eyes across the void of the night … neither seeing, both knowing.
The camp of the Blue Countess slept on in comfort, unaware that something out there has their eyes on them and were just waiting for an opportunity to strike.
The grass whispered softly in the wind.
And the silence, patient and alive, listened back.
