Rise of the Horde - Chapter 549 - 549
Night fell hard, and under its cover the horde moved without horns. The march out of Yohan’s Watch would be strict: pace, order, and silence. Khao’khen preferred to strike when the other side counted on comfort and the luxury of daylight.
Khao’khen’s march plan was given in low words. Riders … lightweight orc scouts and runners … would leave first at two-hour intervals to test passes and misdirect any watchers. The ogres and the siege weapons would come after the main body had closed the gap; their progress would be slow, deliberate.
Workers would prepare the ground…loosen rock and set pits…at prearranged slots.. Rakh’ashta had already prepared jars with a bitter-smelling oil that, when thrown into a bonfire, released choking smoke that could blind mages or…if mixed properly…burn through enchantments.
“Sakh’arran,” Khao’khen said, “you will take the bulk of the First Horde and hold the eastern knoll. When the signal … three horns … sounds, you charge the line and wedge them. Not to rout them at once, but to split them. Once the shield breaks, the warriors of the different tribes will push through their ranks. Gur’kan will direct the goblins and some of the trolls to the flanks and set their baggage trains on fire. Trot’thar, you will run the skirmishers down the mountain side to harry their rear.”
Drae’ghanna moved closer. “And the mages?” she asked. “They will detect movement.”
“We hide with masked scent and presence,” Hekoth replied. “Small fires smelling of prey, dead leaves burned with a glaze of worm-oil. We make the wind sing false names.”
Khao’khen grunted once. “Good. And after…” he tapped his fingers on his knee…”we do not linger. We take what we can and vanish. The mountains remember blood well, but they forgive those who do not tarry.”
He looked at each commander until their gazes met his. They would march as a single limb, not a scattered hand. In the morning the drums would roll and the horde would be a moving wall of fury and iron.
*****
The quiet hour before dawn saw strange little rituals of preparation. Rakh’ashta blew into a horn of animal bone and called the spirits; Hekoth and Gunn traced glowing sigils along the sleeves of scouts so they might move like shadows.
At one small fire, Khao’khen found Kruk’thar and Throk. The two captains had returned from their ridge-watch that day and sat with wrappings around their feet, cleaning blades.
“You two stayed close,” Khao’khen observed.
Kruk’thar met his eye, expression sober. “We watched the blue host. They crawl now, cautious like wounded wolves. They will be marching much slower, ripe for the taking. More soldiers, more mages. But they do not know the land. They do not know how to listen to the wilds. We will make them sing.”
Throk spat a little on the ground. “They have ice-magic and bright men. We have the ground and our patience.”
“Aye,” Khao’khen replied. “And the warriors of Yohan’s Watch have teeth.”
The chieftain rubbed his hands together and stood. “Sleep then, if one can. At first light we ride. Remember…respect each other in the field.”
It was not a sermon but a command that needed no spiritual backing. They answered by banging cups together…a rough toast, an arrangement sealed by sound rather than words.
*****
Before the march, there was a final inventory. Weapons stacked, wagons counted, scouts posted. The mood inside the fort was taut but confident. In the noisy yards, the grunt of voices braided with hammering, and the drums that had been servants of ceremony the night before now hammered a cadence of war.
Gur’kan summoned the goblins and trolls who will be going with him. “Make sure you carry just enough,” he instructed. Don’t take more than you can carry…We will be moving with swiftness.”
Trot’thar barked his orders to the skirmishers with clipped efficiency. The trolls moved like a well-oiled mechanism, javelins, fire-bottles distributed. The orcs of the Blacktooth and the Ashmaws marched in lines under the commands of their chieftains, while younger warriors follow after them.
At midnight the horde fell into patterns of rest. Some slept; others prepped and rechecked. Khao’khen walked the ramparts one more time, feeling the air and listening to the hum of readiness. It pleased him that his warriors…troll, ogre, goblin, and orc…had worked together to make this watch. In older days these races might quarrel; now each knew the others’ value and had earned a thread of trust.
Before dawn, he called out to the assembled leaders. “We move at first light. Not to conquer so much as to make a point. Let our enemies remember the Fury of the Horde.” He let the words hang and then, beneath the skin of the world, the drums answered.
When the morning song of the horde rose, it was not a cry of mindless fury but a clear, measured cadence … practiced, disciplined, and terrifying in its precision. They filed out beneath the palisades, not in a disorderly crowd but in phased ranks: scouts first, skirmishers next, then the main body, and last, the siege trains and ogres. Each step was taken with the respect of a tribe that had, in the span of a few weeks, learned to be somewhat of an army.
As they slipped into the valleys and up the ridges toward the north, Khao’khen felt the old mountain sigh and seemed to take them in as one of its own. The watch roared like a moving wall of wood, iron, and animal breath, and the first dark outline of the blue host lay waiting up ahead.
They were ready.
*****
Dawn came like a wound: bright and merciless. The mist that had softened the hills curled away and left the Threians exposed…a narrow throat of loose shale and heaped scree between two knife-edged ridges. The Blue Countess’s column funneled into it as if into a throat; wagons ground along the single lane, infantry echoed where there was room, and magic hung like a second skin over the march.
At the head rode Aliyah Winters, face pale under the circlet, cloak pinned against a chill that was less weather than omen. Her mage captains fanned a shimmering net along either wall, scanning for heat and motion. Sir Rhaegar Vance rode a pace behind, visor up, eyes like razors.
They had cautioned themselves. They had layered wards and split their mages into overlapping arcs. But they had assumed the mountains would be the slow enemy … stone, weather, and chance. They had not truly believed the land itself could be made to roar.
High on the west ridge, drums trembled through rock and marrow … the signal of the orcs. The horde had taken position hours before, hidden in folds of scree and behind false cairns. The plan was not one thing but a dozen: wedge, siege engine attack, fire, choking smoke, sudden breaks in the slope, and the thunder of ogre teams hauling ammunition.
Kruk’thar and Throk watched from a notch in the stone, breaths even, eyes on the column below. Sakh’arran’s warbands crouched like muscle behind them; The ogres hunched near the siege engines, ropes coiled, faces set to heave. Goblins scuttled at the rear with fuses and clay jars; trolls checked the tension on twisted wood arms. Rakh’ashta’s jars gleamed in the gloom like black hearts.
Khao’khen’s hand fell. Three drums. The ridge answered with a rolling cadence. Then, as the first wagon creaked between two looming stones, the world changed.
From concealed pits along the ridge, the trolls worked as one. Massive bearers shoved into position, ropes creaked, the wind whistled … and a catapult released. The stone arced through air with a terrible grace and smashed into the wheels of a supply wagon, shattering axle and timber with a sound like a dying tree. Horses screamed; men ducked. The column wrenched to a halt.
“Enemy attack! Take positions!” Aliyah barked. Mages threw pale light across the slope; projectiles hissed back. The ward-wall leapt, slivering ice fangs shot up from the ground to catch and slow the stones. The mages saved much of the wagons from total ruin … but the trap had done its work: the column’s rhythm fractured.
That fracture was what the horde needed. Goblin signals … a thin, high whistle … cut the air. From the east flank, Trot’thar’s skirmishers spilled down the scree in ragged lines, javelins loose, harrying the forward screens. They were swift and on point, most javelins hitting true, destroying formations before melting back. The Blue Countess’s archers answered; metal met metal in a tight, brutal counterpoint.
Then the ballistae opened. From hidden platforms built out of uprooted roots and packed earth, trolls hauled great cross-frames. Ogres, heaving like living cranes, slung massive wooden bolts carved to a deadly point. The first bolts flew, striking shields and horse-chests with withering impact; riders were flung from saddles as armor buckled under the kinetic force. Where a lance might pierce, the engine’s bolt shattered bone and wood like twig and snapped the ordered cavalry into ragged clusters.
Helwain wheeled his cavalry closest to him … a hundred lances, a compact hammer … straight at the ridge, trying to hunt down the engine crews before they could reload. Their horses threw back their heads, riders shouted, and for a heartbeat the steel-and-silk of the Countess’s cavalry glittered like blue lightning. They charged.
Rakh’ashta’s jars erupted then … not all at once, but scattered to semicircles that would drive the enemy column into disarray. A shimmer of oily smoke fanned outward, thick and smelling of pine and rotten citrus, intended to sting lungs and obscure sight. Mages sputtered curses and sealed their mouths with forceful wards; the smoke burned at their focus. Hekoth and Gunn’s runes … thin coils, placed on glance points the night before … shuddered and went dim under the foul scent.
The battlefield became many small storms at once.
On the slope above, Kruk’thar, Throk and the rest of the Verakhs executed a sudden attack. They leapt to nearest gaps, cutting reins and throwing hooked poles to snare horses. A lancer tumbled into the rocks as a rider’s horse reared and fell upon the hedge. Screams rose; iron rang; a small ravine filled with chaos.
At the center, Sakh’arran’s First Horde crashed into the disarrayed infantry. Orc warriors met shield walls; the horde had fought against the pinkskins before and their formations and now used weight and angle rather than pure madness.
Sakh’arran himself drove into a line of spearmen, his blade heaving, but this was a measured push. Men were pushed aside, pinned against rocks, pierced into silence. Yet every step forward cost them warriors and space … the Countess’s archers from the plateau harried the flanks; frost-tipped arrows found seams in armor with surgical accuracy.
To the south, Hekoth, Gunn and a small band of shamans moved like a hairline, sending out waves of heat-haze and false scents. Their craft split bodies of men, while hidden goblin scamps crept to support wagons, slinging burning tar into barrels. Fires licked along rope and canvas; tinder flared; the scent of burnt grain thickened the air … a nuisance that pulled engineers and quartermasters from the front.
Aliyah stood at the center of her command, pale but unbowed. Her mages formed a ring, hands tight in mantra, shifting wards like weaving shields. Loric … old, fragile in appearance, iron in will … called for stones of silence, bitter spheres of cold that hung in the air and suppressed sound. A circle of blue lit around them, deafening human ears and muffling goblin shrieks; it allowed some mages to recompose.
“Focus!” cried Avelle. “Helwain … the ballistae! Cut their crews! Burn them!” His voice, brittle, carried the authority of knowledge.
Helwain saw the ballista rising again and ordered a counter-thrust. A dozen riders turned, braced, and hit the nearest engine with point and iron. The ogres hauling the ammunition roared and swung, their shouts like boulders thrown. One cavalryman hooked a giant hand and was pulled under a wheel; another’s horse smashed into a timber and skidded. The elite cavalry, despite skill, were not equipped to fight trolls and ogres in close quarters; a number fell back, breathless and bloodied.
The midday sun climbed red. Dust and smoke turned the world ochre. For every blow the Blue Countess landed with beauty and precision, the horde answered with weight and guile. Warriors collapsed not only from blade but from exhaustion, from burned lungs, from the impact of stones hurled like meteors. Twice a young Winters mage conjured a narrow ice spire that splintered a catapult arm mid-release, saving dozens. Twice an ogre heaved another rock that crushed a wheel and sent a supply wagon skidding into a ditch.
Near the rear of the column … where supplies clustered … goblins and trolls converged in a blistering raid. They hacked yokes; they slung burning tar at barrels. A supply wagon burst into flame; men scrambled to cut loose harnesses. In the chaos, the Countess’s quartermasters, trained to keep order, threw themselves into saving stores. A mage, pale and shaking, used a binding rune to drag a cart back clear.
From the ridge, Kruk’thar watched the engine crews reload with practiced speed. He signaled with his blade. Throk understood: pull back. The Verakhs were not meant to stay pinned under focused magic. They must remain ghost … strike, unnerve, run.
Khao’khen watched the chaos and leaned forward. The plan evolved in his head. Order the ogre teams to heave great stones alongside the catapults into the narrowest part of the path; when the human line stumbles and seeks to close order, Sakh’aran’s wedge will drive the seam. He raised his horn and blew a long, single note … the war-call that told the siege teams to bear down.
At that sound, the air seemed to tighten. The ogres roared and heaved. Troll crews pulled the cords again, and catapults spat boulders the size of small carts into the human ranks, crushing shields, turning men to pulp under the impact. The ground itself shuddered.
Still, the Winters host did not break. Loric had contingency coils: reflected wards that could redirect shock to empty ground and siphon smoke. “Bind the smell!” he ordered, and junior mages chanted to carve lines of clear air, letting archers breathe and aim.
Helwain, seeing the wedge begin to press, made a hard decision. He gathered the Countess’s reserve cavalry … five hundred riders … and drove them at the incoming enemies. Horses alarmed, lances shattered, Sakh’arran’s front staggered, but the horde’s momentum was iron against mud; an ogre caught a horse in mid-charge and crushed animal and rider alike. Goblins lashed nets to trip the remaining mounts. Horses crashed. The cavalry’s charge had been stopped before it achieved decisive penetration.
When the sun tilted west, both sides were breathing ragged gasps. The place lay strewn with shattered wagons, smoking canvas, dead animals, and warrios clutching wounds. The Blue Countess’s perfect column had been rent and taught to fear the fury of the orcs
Night would come as a problem in itself: smoke and blood and lingering wards would mingle with the dark, and both sides prepared the small decisions that would set the terms for tomorrow.
*****
Twilight fell and with it a cold that bit through cloaks. Both armies took stock.
Aliyah ordered triage: healers moved from man to man, sealing burns, binding crushed limbs, and trying to stem the flood. Her mages, some exhausted…refreshed wards and re-stoked their mental supplies with bitter tea and iron discipline. Loric walked the lines, hands on shoulders, offering blunt, specific counsel. “They use weight and tricks,” he told the Countess. “Counter-weight and counter-trickery. The engines depend on time and reload. If we can break that time…disrupt crews, cut the rope lines, burn their frames…we deny them thunder. Send squads to hide in rock gullies to harry their crews.”
She nodded. “Split into three tasks. One: kill their engines. Two: push their flanks. Three: stop their scouts from bringing the army to bear. Helwain … take the riders. Mages…bind the smoke and weave a web to confuse their sight.”
Rhaegar’s jaw was a hard line. “They’ve the height and the stones. But the engines need men to run. I’ll take a company of blades and a mage couple at dusk and climb the east face. We cut the ropes. We set fires in the catapult pits.”
He departed that night with a specialized force: riders dismounted, small and silent, cloaked in soot and given quick wards to dull scent. They crept into gullies and overhangs … perilous approaches that would have been suicidal in daylight.
Meanwhile, Khao’khen convened a brief council silhouetted against the dying fire. “They will try to cut the ropes,” he said. “Expect a night strike. We guard the engines with trolls and ogres. The goblins will plant false tracks to lure them…and if they come, the witch doctors has his creations.”
Rakh’ashta grinned and rubbed his hands. “I have a new smoke,” he promised. “Not the choking kind that blinds only lungs, but the kind that makes a man see things that are not there: extra hills, phantom soldiers. It will buy time.”
Hekoth’s fingers stained by rune-ink, added, “I will lay a path of cold-sense for our scouts so they move like ghosts. The enemy’s wards will paint lines in the smoke; we will be the shadows between them.”
Night sharpened into tension. Around the catapult pits, trolls kept watch while ogres leaned on staves of splintered oak. The goblins hummed, priming jars, kneading tar. The Verakhs melted into the dark, keeping contact with the ridge watchers and ready to descend again at dawn if the line held.
Rhaegar’s strike came after midnight. He led his silent band up the east face under a moon that stung the eyes. The approach was a jag of stone and root; the riders moved like stalking cats. Ahead, in pits below, the troll crews were wrapped in heavy blankets, dozing lightly between reloads. The ropes were thick and greasy; the bolts and stones lay ready in heaps. Rhaegar’s men slipped into position.
“Burn the ropes,” he whispered. “One spark, then retreat.”
One small group dashed forward, lanterns snuffed, blades coated with pitch. They cut, they struck flint, and a sliver of flame licked the rope. For a blessed instant, the ropes caught and smoldered, and a soft hiss began. One of the trolls rolled, smelled something, and bolted upright … a dull barking cry. The camp thundered.
Ropes burned with sudden speed. The troll crews, half-awake and half-drunken, scrambled. The ogres bellowed and grabbed at torches. Ballistae crews swung, and a bolt of lightning-silver lanced the moonlit sky where Rhaegar’s men had been.
But the attack did what it had to: three engines were left unusable by dawn. The defenders retaliated strongly; many attackers died retreating, but the cost to the catapult line was clear: reload time lengthened, the number of operable engines fell.
As morning bled away, both sides assessed: the Countess had lost many stores but had broken several engine pits; the horde had cost in crew lives and men but had proven the engines’ worth in the chaos they had sewn. The mountains no longer belonged wholly to the horde; it belonged to blood and to toil, contested and paid for by both.
Khao’khen, grim but satisfied, watched the blue host reorganize. “They bleed,” he said. “Not enough to end the march, but enough to slow them. Enough to make them think.”
And Aliyah, looking at shattered wagons and her men’s quiet resolve, felt a new edge harden in her: not only pride, but the cold, efficient hunger of a commander who understood that the mountains would not be tamed by her usual approach.
The day’s fighting had ended in a stalemate of attrition … a brutal lesson written in shattered timber, scorched grain, and fresh graves. The next move would define which side kept the field and which side yielded to the hard calculus of war.
