Rise of the Horde - Chapter 557 - 557
The Orcish Plains were no longer silent.
They groaned.
The earth itself seemed strained beneath the combined weight of blood, shattered ice, fallen men, and the approaching mass of the First Horde. Every footstep sank into churned soil slick with crimson and frost-slush. The wind carried the stink of iron, sweat, and scorched mana…a scent that clung to the throat and refused to be swallowed.
Aliyah Winters did not look away.
She could not afford to.
Her eyes tracked the battlefield with predatory intensity, reading movement, posture, hesitation. She saw panic where others saw noise. She saw opportunity where others saw chaos.
“Signals,” she snapped. “Now.”
The banner in her hand lifted sharply…blue cloth snapping once before settling into its rigid command posture. Horns answered immediately, each blast layered atop the next in precise sequence, the sound bouncing off distant hills and rolling back across the plains.
*****
Aliyah’s voice carried, cutting through screams and steel.
“ARCHERS…FORWARD SCREEN! ALL BOW COMPANIES…MOVE!”
The Threian Archers broke into motion as one. They surged past retreating infantry elements, boots pounding frozen earth, armor light enough to allow speed but heavy enough to deflect glancing blows. Their officers ran alongside them, swords raised not to fight…but to direct.
“Spread out!”
“Five paces! No tighter!”
“Watch the sky…orc skirmishers might come forward!”
The archers did not form tight ranks. They flowed, each unit aware of spacing, forming a broad, flexible killing net rather than a rigid wall. Quivers bounced against backs. Bowstrings were already being checked, fingers rubbed raw with resin and grit.
Behind them…
“INFANTRY CAPTAINS!” Aliyah roared. “REFORM BY REGIMENT AND NUMBER! SHIELD WALLS IN DEPTH…NOT WIDTH!”
Shouted orders cascaded through the ranks.
“First and third, anchor left!”
“Second regiment…rotate wounded back!”
“Spears forward…blades second line!”
Men dragged the wounded aside. Others stepped into gaps without hesitation. Bloodied shields were swapped. Broken spears discarded and replaced from fallen hands. Discipline held…not because fear was absent, but because it was mastered.
Aliyah turned her horse sharply.
“CAVALRY!”
Sir Helwain was already there, helm dented, blade dark with blood.
“Split them,” Aliyah ordered. “Left flank, right flank…harass, threaten, withdraw. No full charge without my command.”
“And the reserve?” Helwain asked.
Aliyah’s eyes flicked back to the advancing orcs.
“With me.”
The cavalry broke into three distinct bodies, hooves churning earth into mud and ice slurry. Cloaks snapped. Lances angled down, but remained sheathed in discipline.
“MAGES!” Aliyah called. “REARWARD! ROTATE CIRCLES…REST NOW OR YOU DIE LATER!”
Sir Loric Avelle planted his staff and nodded grimly.
“You heard her,” he barked. “Sit, drink, breathe. Anyone who faints here dies in the next hour.”
The mages pulled back, hands trembling, faces pale, mana-sweat steaming off their skin as they knelt, drank, and forced themselves into controlled breathing.
Aliyah exhaled slowly.
The board was set again.
*****
Across the plains, Sakh’arran watched.
The human commander was fast.
Faster than many had expected.
“She bleeds speed into structure,” Trot’thar observed. “Impressive.”
“She bleeds arrows into time,” Gur’kan added. “Less impressive.”
Sakh’arran raised his horn.
“Third,” he said calmly.
“Fifth through Eighth.”
The horn blast rolled outward…deep, resonant, unmistakable.
The First Horde answered.
*****
The change was subtle at first.
Then unmistakable.
The 1st and 2nd Warbands halted.
They did not falter.
They did not retreat.
They simply stopped.
Their standards planted into the ground. Shields lowered slightly. Warriors shifted weight, resting without breaking formation.
Meanwhile, the wings advanced.
The Third Warband surged on the left, heavy shields forward. On the right, the Fifth through Eighth warbands pressed onward at slightly different paces, creating a staggered, asymmetrical front.
To a lesser commander, it would have looked disorganized.
To Aliyah Winters, it screamed intent.
“He’s peeling us,” she murmured. “Trying to draw fire where it hurts least.”
She lifted her banner again.
“ARCHERS…IGNORE THE HALTED CENTER! TARGET ONLY THE ADVANCING WARBANDS!”
The order rippled forward just in time.
*****
“DRAW!”
Thousands of bowstrings screamed in unison.
“LOOSE!”
The air filled with death.
Arrows rose in vast arcs…iron-tipped, frost-laced, force-etched…some humming with magic, others whispering silently until impact. The sky itself seemed to recoil beneath the weight of the volley.
From the orcish lines, warband masters roared.
“TOHR’TERRA!”
*****
Shields slammed together with bone-jarring force.
Front ranks locked edge-to-edge.
Side ranks angled inward.
Rear ranks raised shields overhead.
In moments, each advancing warband became a moving shell, layered and interlocked, every angle protected by overlapping iron.
From afar, they looked less like formations and more like creeping bastions, crawling inexorably forward beneath the storm.
*****
The arrows fell.
CLANG…CLASH…CRACK
Iron met iron. Ice detonated harmlessly across shield faces. Force enchantments rippled outward, ringing metal, denting iron, numbing arms…but failing to penetrate.
Arrows shattered by the thousands.
Some slipped through.
A shaft punched into an orc’s throat when his shield dipped a fraction too low. He gurgled and fell, instantly replaced by the warrior behind him.
Another arrow slid through a shield gap and buried itself in an eye socket. The orc screamed once, then went silent as he endured the pain after pulling out the arrow from his eye.
Others struck joints, wrists, ankles.
The Tohr’terra formation was not invincible.
It was efficient.
Casualties occurred…but slowly.
Too slowly.
Inside the shield shells, orcs chuckled.
Some laughed outright.
“Is that all?” one growled as arrows bounced off his shield.
“They tickle!” another barked.
But their arms burned.
Their shoulders screamed.
And still…they marched.
*****
Step.
Shield scrape.
Step.
Mud sucked at their boots. Broken arrows crunched beneath iron soles. Sweat poured down orcish skin, pooling inside armor.
Orcs rotated positions with brutal discipline. Tired warriors shifted inward. Fresh ones stepped forward. Wounded were dragged into the shell’s center or shoved aside without ceremony.
The advance slowed.
Not stopped.
Aliyah watched, calculating.
“They’re burning stamina,” Sir Ferin said grimly. “But not fast enough.”
Aliyah’s jaw tightened.
“Keep firing.”
*****
Volleys continued.
Row after row rotated…one firing, one nocking, one resting for seconds at a time. Fingers bled. Arms shook. Quivers emptied and were refilled from the dead.
An orcish throwing spear arced back…one of the few launched in response…and impaled a Threian archer through the chest, pinning him to the ground. His squad did not stop firing.
They stepped around his body.
The war stretched.
Minutes passed.
Not seconds.
The halted center still waited.
Sakh’arran did not move.
He counted arrows.
Counted breaths.
Counted deaths.
*****
Aliyah felt it.
The subtle shift.
The moment when endurance would meet mass.
She lowered her banner slightly.
“Infantry,” she said, voice steady. “Prepare to engage.”
Behind her, the cavalry stamped and snorted.
Ahead, the walking fortresses crept ever closer.
The Orcish Plains trembled…not from movement alone, but from the knowledge that when the formations finally collided, the world would break open.
And this…this grinding, suffocating advance…was only the beginning.
*****
Aliyah Winters did not hesitate.
The moment the realization fully settled….when the flow of arrows began to thin, when the cadence of the Threian volleys lost its ruthless regularity…she acted, not as a noble, not as a symbol, but as a commander who understood the arithmetic of death.
She turned in her saddle, the motion sharp enough that her horse stumbled on the gore-slick ground before regaining footing. Mud, blood, and shattered ice clung to its legs in heavy, dark layers. The animal’s sides heaved, nostrils flaring as it drew breath thick with the stink of iron and spent magic.
Her gaze locked onto the cavalry gathered near her.
They were battered but intact…helmets dented, cloaks torn, armor streaked with dried and fresh blood alike. Lances lay broken or discarded, swords nicked and darkened. These were knights and heavy riders, men who had trained their entire lives to break enemy formations, to smash infantry lines apart beneath hooves and steel.
Aliyah raised her voice.
“Fetch arrows.”
The words cut through the roar of battle like a blade.
For a moment…just a moment…the cavalry did not move.
Sir Helwain turned in his saddle, visor lifted just enough that Aliyah could see his eyes. Shock flickered there, quickly masked by discipline.
“My Countess,” he began, carefully, “my riders are…
“still breathing,” Aliyah interrupted, her tone flat, merciless. “And the archers, not for long if this continues.”
She gestured toward the forward line.
“They are bleeding arrows faster than flesh. When their quivers run dry, the orcs will stop walking and start running. When that happens, the infantry will not have time to lock shields.”
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice.
“You will carry arrows,” she said. “Or you will carry bodies.”
The choice was not framed as a question.
Helwain closed his eyes for half a breath, then struck his chest with a mailed fist.
“You heard the Countess,” he barked, spinning his horse. “Move! All riders not actively engaged…fetch arrows! Strip the fallen if you must!”
The cavalry scattered.
*****
To an observer untouched by war, it would have looked obscene.
Cavalry…elite shock troops…reduced to supply runners.
Knights dismounted in killing zones, kneeling amid corpses to wrench quivers free from stiffening hands. Straps were cut with daggers when fingers refused to unclench. Some riders scooped arrows from the earth itself, snapping bent shafts free from frozen soil.
Others thundered back toward the rear wagons, horses pushed hard despite exhaustion. Supply chests were broken open, bundles of arrows thrown across saddles, lashed down hastily before riders turned and galloped back into danger.
Not all returned.
A knight leaned too far forward while pulling arrows from a corpse, his back briefly exposed.
An orcish javelin punched clean through him, iron tip erupting from his chest in a spray of blood and breath. The impact pinned him to the ground. His horse screamed and bolted, dragging the body for several heartbeats before the straps snapped.
Another rider dismounted to help…and was crushed when a wounded horse collapsed, legs shattered by an earlier arrow. Both were left where they fell. Their arrows were taken.
Aliyah watched it all without expression.
This was not cruelty.
This was necessity.
****
Ahead of her, the Threian Archers continued their work with grim professionalism.
They did not stand in proud, rigid ranks. Instead, they flowed backward in measured increments…three paces at a time…never turning fully away from the enemy. Their formation remained loose, spacing constantly adjusted as men fell and others filled gaps.
“Loose!”
The command rang out again.
Thousands of arrows leapt skyward, blotting out the sun for a brief instant before gravity reclaimed them.
The orcish warbands advanced beneath the storm.
Every few moments, a few massive figures stepped out from the Tohr’terra formation, muscles bunching as they hurled javelins with terrifying force before retreating back into the shield shell.
The javelins killed brutally.
One tore through an archer’s neck, severing spine and artery alike. His head snapped back at an impossible angle, body collapsing without a sound.
Another punched through two men standing too close together, skewering them as if they were cloth. The rear man screamed until blood filled his lungs and the sound turned wet and bubbling.
The archers adjusted.
Spacing widened. Cadence changed.
They kept firing.
*****
Behind the advancing warbands, the main body of the First Horde marched forward at a deliberate pace.
They did not rush to support the front.
They did not accelerate.
They let the forward warbands absorb the arrows, the carnage, the exhaustion.
War drums beat slowly….deep, resonant booms that rolled across the plains and settled into the chest like a second heartbeat. Each step of the horde was synchronized, relentless.
Sakh’arran watched from his vantage point, expression unreadable.
“She bleeds them slowly,” Gur’kan muttered.
“Yes,” Sakh’arran replied. “And we let her.”
His gaze followed the cavalry ferrying arrows.
“She adapts quickly,” he added. “That makes her dangerous.”
*****
A rider broke from the archer line, his horse lathered white with foam, legs trembling.
He barely stayed in the saddle long enough to reach Aliyah.
“My Countess,” he gasped, voice hoarse, “Sir Ferin reports…arms failing. Quivers cycling too fast. Another quarter hour at this pace and the archers will be spent.”
Aliyah nodded once.
That was all.
*****
She raised her banner sharply.
“Signal the wings,” she ordered.
Horns screamed.
On both flanks of the Winters’ line, cavalry units lowered their lances. Horses surged forward, hooves pounding earth already churned into a nightmare of mud and blood. Riders formed tight triangular wedges, each position drilled into muscle memory.
Their targets were chosen with care.
The 3rd Warband on the left.
The 8th Warband on the right.
Both had advanced farther than the others.
Both were exposed.
Aliyah leaned forward in her saddle, knuckles whitening around the banner pole.
“Break them,” she murmured. “Just enough.”
*****
The warband masters saw the charge coming.
Orders roared out.
“ANCHOR!”
“PLANT SHIELDS!”
“LOCK!”
The Tohr’terra formations adjusted instantly. Front ranks dug heels into the ground. Shields angled downward to catch lance tips. Rear ranks tightened overhead coverage, forming an armored shell that gleamed dully beneath falling arrows.
They became immovable.
The cavalry hit.
The impact was deafening.
Metal slammed into metal with a sound like a collapsing fortress. Lances shattered on shield faces reinforced with muscle and flesh. Horses screamed as they slammed into unyielding mass, some rearing, others collapsing outright.
A wedge punched into the 3rd Warband, crushing two orcs beneath hooves before a sword took a horse’s legs out from under it. Rider and mount fell screaming, swallowed instantly by snarling muscular bodies.
On the right, the 8th Warband bent inward as a handful of riders forced a narrow breach. Swords flashed. Blood sprayed in hot arcs. An orc lost an arm at the shoulder and kept fighting until a second blow split his skull.
For seconds…only seconds…the fortress cracked.
Aliyah felt hope flare.
Then the orcs surged.
Orcs abandoned perfect formation for brutal proximity.
Huge hands dragged riders from saddles. Shields and swords rose and fell. Horses were hamstrung, screaming as they collapsed, crushing men beneath them.
The cavalry fought savagely, but they were now inside the shell…where numbers, mass, and raw strength favored the orcs.
The first charge was driven out.
The riders regrouped.
They charged again.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Each charge tore open momentary gaps.
Each gap closed with blood.
By the third attempt, horses staggered, flanks heaving. Riders bled from multiple wounds. Lances were gone, replaced by swords and desperation.
Aliyah saw it clearly.
Enough.
“Withdraw!” she commanded. “Clean disengage! Now!”
Horns relayed the order.
The cavalry peeled away with grim discipline, dragging wounded free where possible, cutting down pursuing orcs before retreating behind friendly lines.
The Tohr’terra formations re-locked.
Still advancing.
Still intact.
Aliyah straightened in her saddle.
The archers were nearing collapse.
The cavalry had failed to break the formations.
But the battlefield had changed.
The forward warbands were now far ahead of the main orcish body.
Separated.
Exposed.
Her eyes hardened.
“Infantry,” she said.
Her banner rose high.
“ADVANCE THE MAIN LINE.”
Drums thundered.
Thousands of boots moved as one.
Shield walls surged forward, spears bristling, men roaring defiance as they marched into the oncoming orcish fortresses.
Aliyah intended to drown the isolated warbands in bodies.
To crush them before the First Horde could close the distance.
The true slaughter was about to begin.
And the Orcish Plains would remember this moment…not for glory, but for how many died screaming before either side broke.
