Rise of the Horde - Chapter 547 - 547
The Lag’ranna Mountains slept beneath a silver moon, their peaks glimmering faintly under the pale light. The winds whispered low across the ridges, carrying with them the scent of wood, mud, and campfire smoke.
Far below, the camp of the Winters host sprawled like a glowing constellation against the dark. Hundreds of small fires dotted the wide plains, illuminating rows of tents arranged in meticulous order. Banners of blue and silver fluttered lazily in the night air.
Laughter drifted faintly between the tents. A group of young soldiers huddled around a dice game, the clack of bone on wood breaking the monotony of the quiet.
“Double sixes,” one cried, grinning wide. “You owe me a mug when we reach the next town, Ryn!”
“You cheat even worse than the mages,” Ryn grumbled, tossing the dice back. “Bet you’ve got a charm hidden somewhere.”
“Charm? From who, the Countess?” another soldier laughed. “Maybe if you’re lucky, she’ll let you polish her staff.”
They all laughed … the kind of tired, easy laughter born from routine and the illusion of safety.
Not far away, a group of mages sat in quiet meditation. Small blue runes glowed faintly on the ground around them … wards and barriers layered across the perimeter of the camp. They pulsed gently, each beat like the rhythm of a sleeping heart.
Above them, on the ridges to the west, Kruk’thar crouched among the rocks, his breath misting in the cold. The Verakhs, waited in absolute silence behind him. Their armor was dulled with ash and mude to hide reflections, their faces hidden beneath dark cloth. Even the tips of their weapons were wrapped to muffle sound.
Below, the camp was alive with flickering light and careless motion. Easy prey.
Kruk’thar turned to his fellow captain, Throk, who knelt beside him, one hand pressed to the ground as if feeling the earth’s pulse.
Throk whispered, “We strike the outer fire lines first. Cut throats. Silence the watchers. Then we crawl inward … take the officers before the horns blow.”
Kruk’thar nodded. “No fire. No noise. No trophies. We are ghosts tonight.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the shadows.
He raised his hand … three fingers.
One for preparation.
Two for approach.
Three for blood.
The Verakhs moved.
*****
They descended like smoke, slipping between boulders and brush. The moonlight caught only the faintest gleam of their eyes before they vanished again into shadow. The closer they came, the clearer the camp’s warmth seemed … the soft murmur of conversation, the faint crackle of fire, the low whinny of restless horses.
Throk’s warriors were first to reach the outer perimeter. The sentries there were relaxed … too relaxed. One leaned against his spear, half asleep, the other poking at the dirt with a stick.
A shadow rose behind them.
A blade whispered through the air.
One body slumped without a sound; the other had only time to blink before a thick hand covered his mouth and a blade found his heart.
The Verakhs moved inward.
But as they crossed the invisible line between the slope and the camp … the wards stirred.
At first, it was only a hum … faint, like the vibration of glass touched by a fingertip. Then, with a sudden pulse of light, the runes ignited.
Blue fire exploded across the perimeter.
A shockwave rippled through the night. The Verakhs froze, blinded for a heartbeat … then came the roar of alarm.
“TO ARMS! TO ARMS!”
The camp erupted.
From her command tent, Aliyah Winters jolted awake as the air around her shimmered. The protective sigils carved into the tent’s frame flared to life, casting the interior in cold blue light.
“What in the name of the Light…” she hissed, reaching for her staff.
Before she could move, Sir Rhaegar Vance stood outside her tent, already armored, his expression hard. “Intruders, my Lady! The wards were tripped … we have movement on the west ridge!”
“Form the lines,” she ordered, strapping her belt. “Wake the rest of the mages. No one leaves their formation until the source is found.”
Outside, chaos reigned … but disciplined chaos. The Winters’ army, for all its arrogance, was well-trained. Soldiers poured from their tents, half-armored but moving with purpose. Metal rang, horses neighed, orders were shouted over the din.
“Archers, form on the east rise!”
“Mages, illumination spells…NOW!”
“Get those siege wagons moved!”
Above the noise, old Master Avelle emerged from his tent, his staff glowing with contained power. His white hair shimmered under the moonlight, and his eyes burned with intensity.
“The wards held,” he said grimly to Rhaegar. “But something clever tried to slip through. They masked their presence … not beasts, not spirits. Minds. Trained minds.”
“Orcs,” Rhaegar muttered. “The same who dropped the stones.”
Loric nodded slowly. “Then they’ve grown bold.”
Aliyah emerged then, her cloak thrown over one shoulder, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
“I want every mage scanning the perimeter! If they think they can crawl into my camp and live, they’ll learn otherwise!”
****
Meanwhile, in the dark beyond the lights, Kruk’thar cursed as the blue flames ignited along the wide plains.
“Wards!” he snarled. “Clever bastards!”
Behind him, Throk hissed, “They knew we’d come! They prepared!”
“Fall back!” Kruk’thar barked. “To the rocks! MOVE!”
The Verakhs scattered instantly, retreating in organized silence … no panic, only precision. The ones closest to the light were already vanishing into the crevices, melting back toward the slope they came from.
Arrows whistled through the night … but the humans were firing blind, into the dark.
“Faster!” Kruk’thar growled. “We dawdle any longer, we die!”
*****
Back in the camp, the mages were already working. Their voices rose in chorus, ancient words vibrating through the air. Rings of light expanded outward, shimmering like ripples on water.
One of the junior mages gasped.
“Movement! West slope … twenty, maybe more!”
Aliyah’s eyes flashed. “Cavalry!”
“Yes, my Lady!” Rhaegar swung into his saddle, his men mounting with trained precision. Within moments, twenty riders surged from the camp … weapons drawn, torches blazing.
“Fan out!” Rhaegar commanded. “Don’t let them vanish!”
*****
The Verakhs moved like shadows through the mountain brush. Kruk’thar led from the front, his breath steady but his pulse racing. Every sound behind him … the clatter of hooves, the bark of human voices … felt like thunder in the narrow passes.
Throk followed close behind, muttering curses under his breath.
“They sense us now,” he said. “Their light burns the dark. This is not our ground tonight.”
“Then we make it theirs,” Kruk’thar snapped. “Left, through the hollow path …. the rocky walls will slow their mounts.”
The Verakhs veered sharply, diving into a narrow gorge where the shadows pooled thick and deep. Their boots barely made sound against the rock.
Behind them, the Winters’ cavalry thundered through the terrain, torches held high. Rhaegar’s sharp eyes scanned the cliffs.
“There!” one rider shouted. “Movement!”
But when they reached the slope, they found only footprints … deep, swift, and then gone. The path split into three directions, and the cold wind erased the trail before their eyes.
“Blasted terrain,” Rhaegar growled. “They’re like ghosts.”
Back in the camp, Aliyah paced before her tent, fury simmering just beneath her calm.
“Whoever they were,” she said to Loric, “they knew where our wards were weak.”
The old mage nodded gravely. “They tested our lines. Not to kill … to measure. This was reconnaissance.”
Aliyah’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then we’re being hunted.”
*****
Hours passed. The hunt dragged on through the cold night. The soldiers of the Winters host moved like ants over the ridges … patrols, scouts, mages scanning every inch of rock and brush. But the Verakhs were gone, swallowed by the mountains they knew better than any map could tell.
Far to the south, deep in the Lag’ranna’s heart, the Verakhs finally stopped.
The moon hung low now, and mist coiled in the hollows like breath. Kruk’thar crouched on a ledge, catching his breath, while Throk leaned against a stone, chest heaving.
“That… was close,” Throk muttered.
Kruk’thar didn’t answer. He stared north, where faint lights still flickered far away … the Winters’ camp, restless and angry.
“Next time,” Throk said with a grim smile, “we strike deeper. No wards will stop us.”
Kruk’thar shook his head. “No. We’ve learned what we came for. They’re strong. Too strong for a handful.”
He turned to two younger Verakhs, their armor still slick with mountain dew. “You,” he said, pointing. “Run south. Tell the chieftain what we’ve seen. The pinkskins march. Two armies … one north, one south. Tell him they come with mages, cavalry, and arrogance. And tell him…
He paused, gaze drifting back to the distant glow.
“Tell him that another army might follow soon.”
The two Verakhs saluted with fists to chest, then vanished down the trail at a sprint.
Throk grunted. “And what of us?”
Kruk’thar exhaled, slow and deep. “We play with them, slow them down a bit. Let them chase ghosts until their feet bleed.”
*****
Back in the plains, dawn crept over the mountains. The Winters’ camp was tense and weary. The fires had burned low, and the scent of cold ash filled the air.
Aliyah stood beside Master Avelle, watching the horizon. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion … but her spine straight as ever.
“They’re gone,” Rhaegar reported, dismounting. “We tracked them for miles. Nothing. The earth swallows them whole.”
Loric murmured, “Not gone. Watching.”
Aliyah nodded slowly.
“Then let them watch. If they want war, I will give them a lesson in solid ice.”
But deep inside, even she could not shake the feeling that the mountains were listening … and that somewhere in those shadows, unseen eyes were already smiling.
*****
Yohan’s Watch was alive with sound … not the clash of battle, but the living pulse of a gathered horde.
Smoke rose from hundreds of fires spread across the fortress, their orange glow painting the night with a feverish light. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, sweat, and the low rumble of drums keeping rhythm somewhere in the dark.
Banners of leather and bone fluttered against the wind … the sigils of many tribes, each crude yet proud, planted together in the hard ground.
And at the center of the fortress in front of a fire, sat Khao’khen, Chieftain of Yohan.
He was not a massive orc by the measure of his kind … not the towering bulk of a berserker, nor the scarred monstrosity of a pit-fighter.
Khao’khen’s strength lay not in his size, but in his command.
Even seated, he seemed to command the air around him.
Before him burned a wide pit-fire, the flames licking high and bright. The ground around it had been beaten flat, cleared of stone.
*****
From the shadows of the upper slope, two figures approached … the Verakh messengers, mud-streaked, cloaks torn, their tusks painted with ash. They had run all night through mountain paths, barely pausing for breath.
They fell to one knee the moment they entered the circle of firelight.
“Chieftain,” one rasped, pounding a fist to his chest. “We bring word from Kruk’thar and Throk. The pinkskins … they march south. A host of blue and silver. Many mages. Many lights. We followed them for two nights. They are… soft, but cunning. They have wards and sentries that see without eyes.”
Khao’khen’s gaze sharpened. “And Kruk’thar?”
“Alive,” said the other messenger. “They struck the human camp but were discovered. No losses. They fell back and await orders.”
A deep voice rumbled from behind Khao’khen’s seat.
“That makes two armies,” said Sakh’arran, the Horde Chief of the First Horde, his massive form rising from the shadows. His chest was a mountain of muscle, his lower tusks capped with iron. “The northern one bleeds still, saved by those bird-riders. And now another one comes to our ground. You think they won’t join hands to choke us?”
“They might,” Khao’khen said simply. “But not soon enough.”
He turned toward a smaller figure to his left … thin, wiry, wrapped in a cloak too large for his frame.
The skinny orc, Gur’kan, grinned. “We could bleed them before they reach us,” he said softly. “They think themselves strong enough … let them march blind and feel the teeth of the mountains close upon them.”
Murmurs rose around the fire.
“Enough,” Khao’khen said, his tone carrying over the noise. “Summon them all. The chiefs, the commanders, the leaders. Tonight, we speak of war.”
*****
Within the hour, the center of the fortress was alive with movement.
Torches were planted in a ring, their flames flickering against stone columns worn smooth by time.
From every direction came the leaders of the gathered tribes.
The Blacktree, their leader Vir’khan in his usual get-up, cloak and a staff in his hand.
The Rock Bear, led by the Dhug’mur, his tusks painted white, his arms scarred from years of battles.
The Rumbling Clan, under the lead of Dug’mhar.
The other chieftains also came one after the other.
They came with their guards and advisors, until the place was filled with murmuring voices and shifting shadows.
When the drums stopped, all eyes turned to Khao’khen.
He stood slowly, resting one hand on the handle of his spear …a weapon as taller than him, the edge gleaming dangerously.
“The pinkskins made a move again,” he began. His voice was not loud, but it carried. “A new army is headed towards us. They come with iron and spells, with pride and banners. They think us beasts to be hunted, and our land to be taken.”
A low growl rumbled from the crowd.
Khao’khen raised his hand. “They are wrong.”
*****
Khao’khen gestured toward the messengers, who knelt again.
“Tell them what you saw.”
The older of the two spoke quickly, his words sharp and steady.
“The new pinkskins … they carry magic in their breath. Even their riders wield it. They march slow, like nobles at feast, not warriors. But they are many, and their leader… a woman of cold ice. Blue and silver her colors, her camp full of song. They do not fear.”
Rakh’ashta snorted, reaching into a pouch and pulling out a vial of black liquid. It bubbled faintly. “Then let us teach them fear. Fear makes meat tender.”
His daughter Aro’shanna shot him a disapproving glance. “Not everything needs your potions.”
He grinned, revealing cracked tusks. “You’ll thank me when they choke on smoke and run screaming from my fire-breathing oil.”
The room broke into laughter … rough, genuine, echoing off stone.
Khao’khen allowed it for a moment, then raised a hand. The laughter died instantly.
“We will face them soon,” he said. “But first, we must know our strength.”
Sakh’arran stepped forward, pounding a fist against his chest. “The First Horde stands ready. All warbands, ready to fight. We have ogres eager to join in and goblins from the caves. Give the word, and they will strike with fury.”
Trot’thar bowed slightly. “The sentries report no movement near the streams. The humans still cling to the roads. They trust in their mages to watch the wilds ….”
“And the spirits?” Khao’khen asked. His gaze shifted to Hekoth and Gunn, who sat cross-legged, their staffs laid across their knees.
Hekoth grunted, closing his eyes briefly. “Restless. They smell war on the wind. The land hungers for blood again.”
Rakh’ashta nodded, shaking his bone rattle. “Then we will feed it well.”
*****
The council fell silent for a moment as Khao’khen stared into the fire.
The flames reflected in his eyes … twin mirrors of crimson and gold.
Finally, he spoke.
“This is not a simple war. This is the war that will decide our race’s survival. The pinkskins have tasted our strength and still they come. They believe us still scattered … tribes with different banners. They do not understand that we fight as one now. The mountains remember their own.”
He looked around, meeting each chieftain’s eyes in turn.
“Tomorrow, we march north. But not as scattered tribal warriors. As an army. We will strike the blue host before it can understand us. We will cut its head from its silk body and hang it for the crows to see.”
A roar of approval swept through the gathered clans … drums thundered, feet stomped, weapons struck against shields in rhythm. The old ruin trembled with their voices.
Gur’kan threw back his head and bellowed, “FOR THE HORDE!”
“FOR THE HORDE!” they echoed, the sound spreading through the fortress like thunder.
*****
When the clamor subsided, only Khao’khen and his closest stood near the fire.
Gunn leaned on his staff, his eyes glowing faintly red in the dim light. “They will not expect the full horde to move,” he said. “The humans think us too divided. If we move fast, they will fall as quickly as the ones before.”
Khao’khen nodded. “And so we shall.”
He turned to Trot’thar. “Double your sentries. No fire above the ridge. Let them think we still hide.”
To Sakh’arran, he said, “Ready the First Horde. I want every warband armed and fed before dawn. If they bleed us, it will not be because we were slow.”
And to Rakh’ashta … who was busy pouring his bubbling concoction into clay jars … he said with a faint smile, “Keep your poisons close. I think the humans in blue and silver might enjoy a taste of your craft.”
The witch doctor grinned, his eyes gleaming madly. “They will sing as they burn, Chieftain. I promise you that.”
*****
When the council broke, the camp erupted into motion. Drums beat again, this time not for ceremony but for mustering. Orcs, goblins, trolls, and ogres alike moved with purpose … sharpening weapons, preparing packs, whispering prayers to the old spirits of war.
And high above, on a ridge overlooking it all, Khao’khen stood alone.
The night wind howled across the peaks, tugging at his cloak. He watched the fortress … Yohan’s Watch … now alive with fire and motion.
He could almost feel the weight of the coming clash in his bones.
“Another good battle,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Another song for the dead.”
Then, turning his gaze, he descended to join his warriors.
The drums of the Yohan Horde rolled into the night, their rhythm steady, patient, and deadly … the sound of a people who knew war as breath and earth.
By dawn, they would be moving north, and the land would wake once more to blood and fire.
