Rise of the Horde - Chapter 551 - 551
The heat lay thick over the orcish war camp like a heavy, wet blanket. The sun had not yet dipped low, but the dense canopy of the tree-ridden terrain cast long shadows that stretched like dark fingers across the trampled earth. Insects droned. The scent of sap, sweat, blood, and damp soil swirled together, rising on the humid air. Somewhere in the distance, a Rhakaddon bellowed… deep, resonant, the kind of sound that made the lesser creatures scatter.
Nearly twenty thousand orcs occupied the clearing and the surrounding woods. Tents of hide and bark leaned against towering roots. Great lines of warg-riders paced like wolves anxious to be unleashed. Warriors hammered stakes into the earth, marking boundaries or preparing sheds. Smiths pounded metal, and the fire pits burned with the smoke of roasting meat.
But at the center of it all, past the lines of warriors and the clamor of activity, was the War Council Circle, a raised platform of flat stones stacked with purpose. Around it sat the chieftains of the tribes…each decorated with scars, bone ornaments, tusk piercings, and trophies of kills.
And at the head of them all stood Khao’khen, Chieftain of Yohan.
He wasn’t the tallest among them but, his shoulders were broad, his skin a shade of green. His eyes, strangely calm for an orc, carried an unspoken intensity …the gaze of someone who measured everything, who spoke only when necessary. His weapons were not ornate, nor were his armor carved with designs like some of the other chieftains. He wore practicality, discipline, and quiet authority like they were armor.
As the last of the chieftains took their place, the murmurs slowly died.
Dhug’mur of the Rock Bear Tribe sat heavily on a carved log, arms crossed. His tribe’s warriors were huge, thick-bodied orcs who wore plates of stone-reinforced metal. Dhug’mur himself bore multiple scars all over his body. He had been in the fighting …and he wore that fact with pride.
Next to him stood Virkan of the Black Tree Tribe, draped in the tanned hides of forest predators. His tribe were pathfinders, skirmishers, and ambushers…orcs who moved silently through thick undergrowth. His tribal markings of blackened ash spiraled down both arms, marking his status as a shaman-chieftain.
Across from them nearly bursting with restless energy was Dug’mhar of the Rumbling Clan, chieftain of the Rhakaddon riders. His muscles rippled with tension. He sat forward, fingers tapping impatiently on the stone table. Behind him, several Rhakaddon snouts could be heard snorting and stamping in the distance … creatures eager to move, just like their master.
Only a handful of these great beasts could even stand in the cramped terrain. They had been kept at the rear during all earlier clashes, their power untapped.
And Dug’mhar was furious about that.
Raising his chin in challenge, he slammed a fist onto the stone table.
“We talk too much. The pinkskins cut down some warriors, so what? Their blood stained the ground same as ours. They hide in narrow batlefields now … cowards! They fear us. Let me bring the Rhakaddons forward. Let us smash them!”
Dhug’mur snorted loudly.
“Smash them? In the narrow ground they used against us? Your great beasts will wedge themselves between the trees and get peppered by arrows before they move ten steps.”
Dug’mhar rounded on him instantly.
“You think my Rhakaddons weak, stone-bear? You saying your lumbering warriors are better?”
Dhug’mur rose, towering, cracking his thick knuckles.
“I’m saying your beasts need space, and we are fighting in tight spaces. Your pride will get them killed.”
“Then clear the trees!” Dug’mhar barked back. “Rip them out! Burn them! I don’t care! The Rumbling Clan has not tasted battle. We sit back while the others collect scars.”
Virkan exhaled sharply, amused.
“You whine louder than the Rhakaddons behind you.”
Dug’mhar bared his teeth.
“Say that again, tree-rat.”
“Enough.”
The word was calm.
Final.
Spoken quietly by Khao’khen … but it cut through the tension like a blade.
All three chieftains fell silent, though their eyes still locked in challenge.
Khao’khen didn’t sit. He stood at the head of the circle, one hand resting lightly on the stone. His face was unreadable, his posture relaxed but unyielding.
“We begin,” he said simply. “Report.”
Dhug’mur thumped his fist to his chest first.
“Rock Bear Tribe took the front assault alongside Black Tree. Pinkskins had mages. Strong ones. Frost and air magic. We pushed through their first lines, but the ground bottlenecked. Couldn’t form full ranks. Lost more than expected.”
Khao’khen nodded once.
“How many?”
“Seventy-three dead. Twice that wounded. But my warriors stand ready.”
“Good,” Khao’khen answered.
Virkan followed, rolling a tooth between his fingers.
“Black Tree lost fewer … we moved through the roots and ferns, struck from the sides. Their archers are disciplined. Their arrows carried magic. Toxic to the flesh. Not poison,” he corrected, noting Khao’khen’s brief glance, “but the arrows burned. Flesh froze around the wounds. I’ve seen human enchantments before. These are stronger.”
Dhug’mur spat.
“Mages. Always the mages.”
Virkan smirked.
“Not afraid of them, are you?”
“I fear nothing!” Dhug’mur snarled.
Khao’khen raised a hand … not a command, just a subtle reminder to remain focused. Both chieftains quieted.
Finally, Khao’khen turned to Dug’mhar.
“You and your clan have not entered the fighting yet.”
Dug’mhar’s jaw twitched, shame and anger mixing.
“The terrain was not worthy of us,” he growled. “Narrow paths. No clear charges. We would have crushed our own warriors if we pushed forward. I chose restraint.”
It was the closest thing he could give to admitting reality without letting too much pride leak out of his voice.
Khao’khen nodded again.
“Yes. You chose correctly.”
A few murmurs rippled through the circle … surprise from Dhug’mur, raised brows from Virkan.
Dug’mhar blinked. “You… agree?”
“You kept your warriors alive. You protected your beasts. Pride does not win wars. Discipline does.”
The Rumbling chieftain sat a little straighter, some of his bluster softening.
Khao’khen stepped forward.
“The pinkskins who came… this army is not the same as the ones we crushed before. These are different soldiers. We know nothing of their leader and there strategy. No name. No history.”
His voice dropped lower, thoughtful.
“But they fight with discipline. Their mages respond quickly. Their archers strike hard. Their infantry does not break easily. This is a new force.”
Dhug’mur thumped the ground. “And we will crush them all the same!”
“Perhaps,” Khao’khen answered. “But not carelessly.”
Dug’mhar leaned forward again, fists clenched.
“Cheiftain, I say this, give me open land, and I will trample them beneath the Rhakaddons. Let the Rumbling Clan take honor of the next assault.”
Dhug’mur barked a laugh.
“You? Let your beasts do the work while you sit high on their backs? The Rock Bears will break the pinkskins again.”
Virkan chimed in with a cold smile.
“You are both too loud. The Black Trees will strike next. We move unseen. We kill unseen. Let the forest claim them.”
Three chieftains.
Three demands.
Three claims to honor.
Voices grew heated. Warriors from each tribe watching from below the platform began murmuring, betting, growling. The tension was starting to ripple outward like a stone thrown into water.
Then Khao’khen raised his voice just slightly.
“Enough.”
It was not a shout.
But it was the sound of stone grinding.
A sound that stopped even the Rhakaddons from snorting.
Khao’khen’s gaze swept across them.
“All of you want to strike first. All of you want the honor.”
He paused. “Good. That hunger makes a host strong. But if you let that hunger blind you, you will lead this army to stupidity and defeat.”
He stepped closer to the stone table, planting both palms on it.
“You want to fight? Then hear me.”
The jungle fell silent.
Even the insects seemed to pause.
“The pinkskins hold their ground well in narrow terrain. Their magic can strike as from afar. Their arrows sting from distance. Their infantry forms tight walls. They want us to charge them where the trees bind us.”
He tapped the map … marked by crude lines drawn on bark parchment.
“We will not give them what they want.”
Dhug’mur leaned in. “What then? We wait?”
“No,” Khao’khen said. “We move.”
His fingers traced a broad arc away from the area of the previous clashes.
“We send scouts further east and south. Find open terrain. Openings in the jungle. Clearings. Grasslands if they exist. Rivers. Any place where the horde moves as one.”
He turned his dark eyes toward Dug’mhar.
“And especially where the Rhakaddons may run.”
Dug’mhar’s eyes glimmered. “So you will unleash us?”
“When the time is right,” Khao’khen said. “Not before.”
Virkan spoke next, slower than usual. “You wish to draw the pinkskins out of their safe ground?”
“Yes.”
Dhug’mur frowned. “They will not chase us like fools.”
“They will,” Khao’khen said simply. “Because they cannot remain where they are.”
Virkan narrowed his eyes. “You think more pinkskins will come?”
Khao’khen nodded.
“An army this disciplined did not come here by accident. Someone sent them. Someone with purpose. They did not march all this way to sit in a narrow pass. They will come chasing after us.”
Dhug’mur’s brows furrowed. “They came to fight us.”
“And they will,” Khao’khen said. “But they are not here to die in a choke. They will move. They will choose their ground. And when they do, we must be ready.”
He looked around the circle.
“The next battle will not be fought in a narrow battlefields. It will be in a place where all of our tribes may fight. Where the Rhakaddons may charge. Where the Black Trees may flank. Where the Rock Bears may break their shield walls.”
The chieftains were silent now, thinking, calculating.
Khao’khen continued.
“Until we find that place, we strike only probing attacks. Small forces. Fast. Test their reactions. Learn their rhythm. Their strengths. Their weaknesses. Do not commit your full strength.”
Dhug’mur and Virkan nodded slowly.
Dug’mhar frowned. “And my clan?”
“You hold,” Khao’khen said firmly. “You wait for open ground. When we find it, your clan will lead the charge.”
Dug’mhar blinked. “Lead? First?”
“Yes,” Khao’khen said. “Your beasts are wasted here. But when the land opens, I will give you your moment.”
Dug’mhar’s chest swelled with pride.
Dhug’mur grunted. “Hmph. Let the beast-riders have the first strike. The Rock Bears will finish what they start.”
Virkan chuckled softly. “And the Black Trees will claim the heads before either of you.”
Khao’khen let the boasting pass.
It was the nature of orcs to hunger for honor … as long as they obeyed strategy, such hunger was a powerful weapon.
Khao’khen lifted his hand.
“Then it is decided. Send scouts. Move quietly. Watch the pinkskins. Measure their movements. Strike fast, strike small.”
His eyes hardened.
“And when they march… we will crush them.”
A low rumble went through the council, a growl of anticipation.
Khao’khen stepped off the stone table.
“Prepare your warriors,” he said. “The next battle will be soon.”
As the chieftains left to rally their tribes, the buzzing of insects returned, mingling with the bark of wargs and the distant bellow of Rhakaddons.
The wind carried the hot scent of earth and blood.
The war was only beginning.
******
The temporary camp of Countess Aliyah Winters sprawled across a broad patch of firm ground surrounded by sloping ridges and thick vegetation. Humidity clung to every breath. Evening’s dying light filtered through towering palms and great-leaved trees, casting copper and gold over the tents.
Despite the oppressive heat, the camp moved with disciplined coordination … wounded being carried to the healers’ tents, mages marking perimeter wards, infantry erecting sharpened stakes in staggered lines, cavalrymen watering their steeds. The air was filled with murmurs, clanging metal, low chants of restorative spells, and the distant crackle of magefire used to burn away dense foliage for clear sightlines.
It was a camp on alert, not at rest.
In the center rose a tall command pavilion of blue and silver cloth, reinforced with wooden poles and trimmed with arcane symbols. Two guards clad in Winters’ blue armor stood watch at the entrance, gripping froststeel blades that faintly smoked with cold enchantment.
Inside, a large table of reinforced planks was covered by a living map: a magically animated projection woven by several mage-apprentices. Lines of blue light represented the Winters host, while faint red flickers marked known or suspected orc positions.
Aliyah Winters, the Blue Countess, stood at the table’s head. Her armor … a masterwork blend of silversteel plates inlaid with ice-crystal channels … shone faintly in the lamplight. Strands of her hair fell loose from her braid as she leaned over the map, face calm but eyes bright with calculation. Though young for a commander of so large an army, she radiated quiet authority.
Around her were the pillars of her military force:
Rhaegar Vance, her most trusted knight … tall, broad-shouldered, his armor decorated with the Winters crest. Sir Loric Avelle, oldest and most powerful mage of the army, tall and thin like a weathered oak, with long white hair and piercing eyes. Sir Helwain, commander of the cavalry, decisive and stern-jawed, still bearing dust and sweat from patrol. Sir Ferin Luthen, master of the archers, sharp-eyed and long-limbed, his quiver always strapped even during council.
Outside, the sky deepened into indigo. Inside the pavilion, the last of the commanders entered, and Aliyah lifted her chin.
“Everyone is present. Let us begin.”
Rhaegar stepped forward first.
“Our casualties from the ambush have been fully accounted for, my lady,” he reported grimly. “A thousand dead. Two thousand wounded … though, as you expected, most are minor injuries. The men and women able to fight still greatly outnumber the fallen.”
Sir Helwain grunted, crossing his arms.
“Damn orcs hit us hard. And cleverer than the border raiding bands we’ve crushed before.”
“They weren’t raiders,” Ferin said quietly, eyes dark. “Their formation was too deliberate. Their strikes too unified.”
Aliyah nodded, her voice low but steady. “I agree. This was a coordinated attack, not a disorganized rush. Which means…”
“They have a leader worthy of respect,” Sir Loric finished, stroking his beard. “Perhaps even a strategist. Rare among orcs… but far from impossible.”
A brief silence.
Then Aliyah’s fist tapped softly against the table.
“We can lament losses tomorrow. Tonight, we must ensure there will be no repeat of that ambush.”
Two scouts stepped forward briefly … scouts in light armor, their bodies still damp with rain and sweat.
“The orcs pulled back after their clashes,” one reported. “Not far … less than a league from where we broke contact. They’ve made a large camp. Big enough for ten tribes.”
“Twenty thousand, by our best estimates,” the second scout added.
Helwain cursed under his breath.
Rhaegar inhaled sharply.
Ferin’s jaw tightened.
Aliyah, however, did not flinch. Only her brows drew together slightly, her mind already moving.
She turned to the scouts. “Thank you. Rest. Eat. Your work now passes to us.”
The scouts saluted and left.
Sir Loric flicked his fingers, and the map shifted to represent the scout data … glowing red clusters marking approximate orc positions.
“Twenty thousand orcs,” Helwain muttered. “Nearly equal to our number.”
“Almost,” Rhaegar corrected. “We still hold superiority in mages and archers.”
“And if the terrain were open grassland,” Ferin added, “that superiority would be decisive.”
“But it is not,” Aliyah said. “The terrain is not favorable … thick, humid, loud.”
She looked at Loric. “Tell us what this means.”
The old mage gestured, and thin streams of frost gathered from the ambient magic, forming a miniature illusion of the narrow path where they were ambushed.
“Orc tribes excel in chaotic, close-quarters fighting,” Loric explained. “Tight terrain aids them. Our infantry lines cannot fully deploy. Our cavalry is restricted. Even our mages’ range is halved by thick brush and tree density.”
The illusion shifted, showing the tangled trees, the thick vines, the canopy blocking high-angle spells.
Sir Helwain scowled. “Damn trees. Can’t ride ten paces without smacking my helm on a branch.”
Ferin nodded. “My archers cannot volley properly. Arrows catch on vines, deflect on wood. I had dozens complain their shots bent mid-flight.”
“Magic arrows?” Rhaegar asked.
“More reliable,” Ferin admitted, “but still affected. The trees eats projectiles.”
Aliyah exhaled slowly.
“If the orcs want us to fight in that terrain, we must not oblige them.”
Sir Loric’s thin lips curled in faint approval. “Exactly.”
Aliyah looked over her commanders, reading fatigue, frustration, and determination.
“Tell me,” she asked softly, “what sort of orc force are we facing? These were not untrained brutes.”
“Correct,” Loric said. “Based on the coordinated timing of their charges, the disciplined pressure they applied, and the lack of infighting among separate tribes… this host is unified under a single strong warlord.”
“Unifying orc tribes is no simple task,” Helwain said. “Takes power, fear… or respect.”
Rhaegar leaned an elbow on the table. “Or all three.”
Aliyah’s gaze darkened, though not with fear.
“With that many tribes together, they’ll be vying for the honor of striking us again,” she said. “We should expect multiple probing attacks … not overwhelming ones, but constant tests. They will want to measure us. Feel our responses.”
Loric nodded. “Already their scouts move through the trees. I have felt the weave shift as they brush against our wards.”
“Then we must decide where to take this war,” Aliyah said.
Her knuckles tightened on the map table.
“Because if we remain here, in this dense tangle…”
“We will bleed to death one skirmish at a time,” Rhaegar finished grimly.
Aliyah straightened. “Let us hear options. All of them. Speak plainly.”
Rhaegar spoke first, as he often did.
“We head further south or pull-back north,” he said. “The land grows clearer the farther we move from the tree-ridden terrain. Eventually, we reach wider terrain … better for cavalry and mages.”
Helwain nodded vigorously. “My riders are useless here. But give me open ground, and I’ll run circles around their tribes.”
Sir Ferin tapped his fingers thoughtfully. “My archers too. A single open ridge, and we can rain death for hours.”
Loric gestured slowly.
“I can shape the battlefield if the terrain allows it. Frost walls, ice platforms, storm channels. But the canopy here disrupts our power. I cannot bring down the heavens when the trees block the sky.”
Aliyah absorbed every word.
Then her eyes lifted.
“And the risk?”
Rhaegar answered immediately. “The orcs may see withdrawal as weakness. They will follow.”
“Good,” Helwain said with a feral grin. “Lure them out. Make them chase us onto ground of our choosing.”
Ferin frowned. “But they are not stupid. If they sense a trap, they will halt.”
Aliyah nodded. “And if they halt, we have lost the advantage.”
Silence again.
Then Sir Loric, who had been watching the glowing red orc-markers on the map with a furrowed brow, finally spoke.
“They will not stay where they are,” he said quietly.
Everyone turned to him.
Loric looked at Aliyah, his eyes sharp.
“Their warlord is testing us.”
Aliyah’s pulse quickened.
“You’re certain?”
“As certain as I am of the frost in my veins,” the old mage said. “The first attack was a probe. Their retreat was measured. They are gathering information. Planning. This is not a mindless host. They will move soon.”
A ripple of unease passed through the pavilion.
Rhaegar stepped forward. “Then whatever we do, we must do it before they do.”
Aliyah’s decision came swiftly … she felt it click into place like a drawn bowstring.
“We move,” she said.
Everyone straightened.
“We cannot remain in terrain that favors them. Tonight, we send out multiple scout teams. North, south, east, west … full spread. They are to find us land fit for a proper battle. A clearing. A ridge. Riverbanks. Even burned ground will do if it gives us the sky.”
Rhaegar nodded sharply. “I will choose the infantry escorts for the scouts.”
“Good,” Aliyah said. “Ferin … your archers will prepare fire arrows. Not for battle, but for clearing brush if needed.”
Ferin bowed his head. “As you command.”
“Helwain, ready the cavalry. If the terrain opens ahead of us, I want your riders forming our outer shell.”
Helwain grinned. “They’ll be ready.”
“Loric… ward the perimeter. Strengthen the barriers. I want every orc scout approaching this camp to know we are not sleeping.”
Loric’s eyes gleamed with icy certainty.
“It will be done.”
Aliyah inhaled deeply, the scent of incense, sweat, and damp cloth filling her lungs.
“I will not let these orcs dictate the battlefield,” she said, her voice rising. “We choose where to bleed. We choose where to stand. And when their tribes come for us, we will show them the price of challenging the Winters name.”
Her commanders nodded … some solemn, some fierce, all resolved.
As the commanders began issuing orders to their subordinates outside the pavilion, Aliyah lingered at the map table. The red flickers of orc positions pulsed like heartbeat veins across the bark and parchment.
She whispered softly to herself:
“Whoever you are, warlord… you commanded that ambush well. But you will not break us.”
She felt movement behind her.
Rhaegar had returned, clearing his throat gently.
“My lady.”
She looked up, meeting the knight’s steady gaze.
“A thousand dead in one day,” he said quietly. “Many would falter after so heavy a blow.”
Aliyah’s jaw tightened … not with sorrow, but with cold resolve.
“I will carry their memory with me,” she said, voice low but unshaken. “But I will not let grief blind me. Nor rage. Strategy wins wars, not emotion.”
Rhaegar bowed deeply, pride warming his expression.
“That is why we follow you.”
Aliyah turned back to the map.
“The orcs want to test us?” she whispered. “Very well. Let them. When they move, we’ll be ready.”
Outside, the camp exploded into organized activity.
Mages etched frost-wards into the soil
Cavalry riders tightened saddles
Archers strung bows with swift precision
Infantry captains raised shields, stacking them into practice formations
Scouts slipped into the night like shadows
And above it all, the sky rumbled faintly … warm thunder rolling across distant clouds.
In the orcish camp not far away, Khao’khen finished giving his orders.
In the human camp here, Aliyah Winters had now given hers.
Two minds, two armies, two wills, preparing for the inevitable clash.
The moon climbed high.
And the land held its breath.
The war was no longer a surprise. Now it was a contest of strategy.
