Rise of the Horde - Chapter 560 - 560

The roar that rose from the orcish lines did not come all at once.

It began as a low thunder, a rolling vibration that crawled through the ground and up the bones of every warrior standing upon the open plains. Then it grew, layered upon itself, hundreds of voices merging into thousands, old battle chants colliding with new ones, tribal cries overlapping until language itself blurred into raw intent.

Victory was coming.

Sakh’arran felt it before he fully saw it.

He stood upon a slight rise of trampled earth where he could clearly see the broken bodies, the boots stained dark with blood ground of the battlefield ahead. Around him the command circle of the Yohan First Horde still functioned with grim efficiency. Horn bearers stood ready. Messengers ran and returned. War chiefs shouted reports that barely needed saying.

The enemy was breaking.

Not everywhere. Not yet.

But enough.

Sakh’arran lifted his arm slowly, deliberately, so that those nearest him would see the motion before they heard the order. His expression remained hard and controlled, but his eyes burned with something fierce and calculating.

“Now,” he said. “We finish this.”

He turned his gaze toward the mass of hulking figures waiting behind the main line. They had been restless for hours after the initial clash, stamping their feet, flexing, arguing loudly among themselves. Their impatience had been a constant noise behind the disciplined rhythm of the First Horde.

“The Rumbling Clan,” Sakh’arran called out. His voice carried, sharp and unmistakable. “You will take the right flank of the pinkskins. Break it. Shatter it. Leave nothing standing.”

A wave of sound answered him, immediate and deafening.

At the head of that wave stood Dhug’mhar.

The chieftain of the Rumbling Clan threw his head back and laughed, a booming, echoing sound that cut through the sound of battle like a drumbeat. He slapped his chest with both hands, muscles bulging obscenely beneath his armor, which was less protection than ornament, designed as much to show his physique as to deflect blows.

“Did you hear that,” Dhug’mhar shouted, flexing again as if the battlefield itself were watching him. “They finally need the strongest.”

He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck from side to side, then pointed toward the distant Threian right flank where formations wavered and cavalry scrambled.

“I will carve my name into them,” he boasted. “They will remember my beauty when they die.”

His warriors roared in approval, pounding weapons against shields, boots stamping the ground.

“RUMBLE,” they chanted.

Dhug’mhar lifted his massive weapon high.

“Follow perfection,” he roared. “Follow me.”

They charged.

*****

From the orcish perspective, the battlefield narrowed to a single purpose.

Run. Kill. Break.

The Rumbling Clan surged forward like a living avalanche. Their footfalls shook the earth, sending loose dirt and shattered stones bouncing. The smell of sweat and blood thickened as they passed through the rear of the First Horde and out into open killing ground.

Arrows hissed toward them, some striking home, burying themselves in shoulders and thighs. Orcs grunted, snarled, tore shafts free without slowing. One fell with an arrow through his eye, trampled instantly by the warrior behind him.

Dhug’mhar was already ahead, his long strides eating distance, his laughter rising above the chaos.

“Is this all,” he shouted in broken Threian. “You run like children.”

The Threian right flank saw them coming and felt despair take root.

Captain Merrow screamed himself hoarse trying to bring order to men who had already given everything they had.

“Hold,” he shouted. “Hold the line.”

But they were exhausted. Their shields were dented. Their arms trembled. They had chased retreating orcs only to find those same orcs now forming an unbreakable wall elsewhere.

And now this.

The Rumbling Clan hit them like a falling wall.

There was no measured clash, no shield meeting shield in disciplined rhythm. The impact was violence in its purest form.

Dhug’mhar crashed into the line, his first swing obliterating a shield and the man behind it in one brutal arc. Bone shattered. Blood sprayed across his chest. He flexed again mid stride, grinning wide.

“Too soft,” he mocked. “No muscle.”

A Threian spear thrust toward him. Dhug’mhar caught it, veins bulging as he snapped the shaft, then drove his head forward, crushing the man’s face with a wet crunch.

Around him the Rumbling Clan tore into the flank with savage joy. They grabbed, smashed, trampled. Men were dragged screaming into the press and never emerged. Shields were ripped away and used as bludgeons. Armor folded under repeated blows.

The Threian line folded inward, screams rising as formation dissolved.

*****

Sakh’arran watched the right flank begin to collapse and raised his hand again.

“Let the others join,” he commanded.

Warriors from the allied tribes surged forward, those who had marched with the Horde but not yet tasted the battle that day. They charged with wild cries, eager to prove themselves worthy of standing beside the First Horde.

Axes rose and fell. Clubs crushed skulls. Crude blades hacked into flesh.

They poured into the gaps torn open by the Rumbling Clan, swelling the breach, turning collapse into annihilation.

Behind them the Yohan First Horde eased its assault as ordered. Rakshas in the center advanced with measured steps, spears thrusting in unison, killing with relentless precision. Yurakks slowed their stabbing rhythm, conserving strength, shields locked, blades driving low and deadly.

To the orcs, it was beautiful.

A controlled storm.

*****

Aliyah Winters stood amid the chaos, her scepter gripped tightly in both hands, its crystal head faintly glowing as residual magic bled from earlier spells.

Now she watched the right flank crumble, banners falling one by one, and felt a cold weight settle in her chest.

“No,” she whispered.

Messengers ran toward her, shouting warnings she already understood. Orders were given, contradicted, lost entirely in the roar of battle.

“Reinforce the right.”

“No, pull them back.”

“Hold your ground.”

Too late.

Through dust and blood she saw Dhug’mhar, towering above the press, flexing even as he fought, laughing as men died beneath his blows.

“They are not even committing fully,” Aliyah said aloud, realization dawning. “They are letting others fight.”

Sir Rhaegar Vance stared at the field, his jaw clenched. “They feel that the battle is theirs for the taking.”

Aliyah felt her hands tremble around her scepter.

She raised it slightly, magic flickering, then lowered it again.

The mages were exhausted. The spells she could cast now would not turn this.

The Threian right ceased to exist as a cohesive force.

Cavalry attempted desperate charges, horses screaming as axes split legs and bellies. Riders were dragged down, torn apart before they could rise.

Infantry dropped shields and ran, only to be cut down from behind. Others fought back to back, sobbing prayers as clubs crushed them from above.

Dhug’mhar climbed atop a mound of bodies, blood dripping from his arms, chest heaving.

“Look,” he shouted, flexing again. “Still perfect.”

His clan roared his name as they butchered what remained.

*****

Aliyah backed her horse slowly, eyes fixed on the carnage.

The center still fought. The left barely held.

The right was gone.

She tasted blood where she had bitten her lip, her scepter glowing brighter as her emotions threatened to break her control.

The orcs roared again, unified, triumphant, their voices rolling across the plains in layered chants of victory and mockery.

Aliyah Winters straightened, lifting her scepter fully now, magic gathering despite exhaustion.

If this was to end, it would not end with silence from her.

The result of the battle was being decided.

And the orcs were deciding it loudly.

The moment did not come with a shout.

It came with a silence inside Aliyah Winters’ mind.

For the first time since the banners of the Winters’ Army had crossed into the Orcish Lands, she stopped searching for a way to win. She stopped weighing gambits, stopped counting reserves that no longer existed, stopped imagining how a spell might turn the tide.

She saw the truth of the field as it was, not as it should have been.

The right flank was gone. Not retreating, not reforming. Gone. Broken into fleeing remnants, pockets of desperate resistance already being swallowed by orcish bodies. The center still fought, but the pressure on it was growing by the heartbeat. The left flank strained under relentless blows, its captains screaming orders that fewer men obeyed with every passing minute.

And behind it all, the orcs were not slowing.

They were enjoying themselves.

Aliyah inhaled deeply, the humid air burning her lungs. Her fingers tightened around her scepter until her knuckles whitened. The crystal at its head pulsed faintly, reacting to her turmoil, casting pale blue light across her armor and the blood splashed across it.

She turned to her standard bearer.

“Sound the retreat,” she said.

The man froze.

Around them the battlefield roared. Orcish chants rolled like thunder. Iron rang against iron. Men screamed.

The bearer stared at her, disbelief written plainly on his face.

“My lady,” he said hoarsely, “the men… if we sound it now…”

Aliyah’s eyes did not leave the field.

“I know,” she said. “That is why you will sound it as I command. Not a rout. A withdrawal.”

She turned sharply toward Sir Ferin Luthen, who stood nearby, his face streaked with blood and ash.

“Archers,” Aliyah said. “They do not stop firing. Not for a breath. Loose until your arms fail. You will cover every step of the retreat.”

Ferin swallowed, then nodded. “They’ll die there if the orcs push through.”

“They’ll die everywhere if we do not,” Aliyah replied. “This way, some will live.”

She looked next to Sir Loric Avelle, the oldest of her mages, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his beard matted with sweat.

“Mages,” she said, voice lowering. “Mana gems.”

Loric’s eyes widened slightly.

“My lady,” he began, instinctively, “the cost…”

“I know the cost,” Aliyah snapped, then softened her tone. “I would not ask if there were another way. You will cast only to shield the retreat. Walls. Fog. Ice. Anything to break their momentum. And no more than one gem per mage unless I give the word.”

Loric bowed his head slowly. “As you command.”

Aliyah turned back to the field, raised her scepter high.

“Sound it,” she said again.

The horn blew.

*****

The retreat horn did not shriek.

It did not wail in panic.

It sounded long and steady, a controlled call that echoed across the battlefield in measured tones. Among the Threians, those who still had discipline recognized it instantly.

Withdraw. Not flee. Withdraw.

The archers heard it first.

They tightened ranks even as they fired, stepping back in careful intervals, loosing arrow after arrow into the advancing orcs. Magic flared along bowstrings. Ice kissed arrowheads. Wind guided their flight. Arrows fell like sleet upon the orcish lines, punching through armor, lodging in throats, eyes, joints.

Orcs roared as they were struck, some falling, others tearing arrows free and charging on regardless.

On the shattered right flank, there was no order left to preserve.

Men ran. Horses screamed. Survivors stumbled through mud and blood, pursued by Rumbling Clan warriors who laughed and taunted as they killed. Only when sheets of arrows cut through the space between them did the orcs slow, raising arms, snarling in frustration.

The retreat had begun.

Behind the archers, the mages knelt.

Mana gems were brought forth from satchels and belts, small crystalline stones glowing with stored power. Each mage hesitated for a heartbeat before grasping one.

They knew the risk.

The gem flared as it was activated, foreign mana flooding into their bodies. For a moment, many screamed, their magic circuits straining under the sudden surge. Veins glowed faintly beneath skin. Eyes burned with unnatural light.

Then they cast.

The ground before the orcs froze in a sudden, violent surge. Jagged ice erupted upward, impaling warriors, shattering under their weight, reforming again in uneven walls that forced the horde to slow and regroup.

Fog rolled across the field, thick and biting cold, obscuring vision and muffling sound. Orcs cursed and shouted inside it, their formations faltering as they lost sight of one another.

Winds screamed, not to kill but to push, to shove the orcish advance sideways, breaking momentum just enough.

Every spell cost dearly.

One mage collapsed after casting, blood streaming from his nose and ears. Another screamed as his hands blackened, magic circuits burned beyond recovery. Loric Avelle stood among them, staff planted firmly in the ground, forcing himself to remain upright through sheer will.

“Hold,” he rasped. “Just a little longer.”

*****

The orcs were confused at first.

They had expected a rout.

Instead they found resistance.

Arrows continued to fall. Ice walls rose and fell. Fog stole their vision. Warriors cursed as they stumbled over bodies they could not see.

Dhug’mhar roared in fury when a wall of ice forced his clan to slow.

“They run,” he snarled. “Why do they still bite.”

Sakh’arran watched from the rear, eyes narrowing.

“They are retreating properly,” he said quietly. “Do not underestimate them.”

He raised his hand.

“Do not overextend,” he commanded. “Let them bleed. The field is already ours.”

Some orcs grumbled. Others laughed, still eager for blood. But the First Horde obeyed. The Rakshas held their line. The Yurakks advanced cautiously, stabbing at stragglers, cutting down those too slow to escape.

The orcs let the archers exhaust themselves.

*****

Aliyah remained mounted near the center, her scepter raised, her voice carrying despite the din.

“Step back,” she commanded. “Shield lines turn. Archers, loose. Mages, now.”

She watched every movement, every collapse, every success. Her mind burned as she calculated distances, timing, the dwindling stamina of her forces.

She saw a group of infantry begin to panic and raised her scepter, sending a pulse of frost across the ground to slow the orcs chasing them.

She saw archers falter and rode forward herself, placing herself where they could see her.

“Hold,” she shouted. “Look at me. Hold.”

They did.

Sweat ran down her armor. Her scepter hummed dangerously, magic strain creeping into her limbs. But she did not lower it.

Not yet.

Behind her, may of the mages paid the price.

One young mage tried to draw upon a second gem without permission. The power surged too violently. His scream cut through the battlefield as his magic circuits collapsed entirely. He fell, alive but empty, sobbing as he realized what he had lost.

Another mage finished her spell and collapsed unconscious, her breathing shallow.

Loric moved among them, barking orders, forcing discipline even now.

“No more,” he said harshly. “One gem only. Save your lives.”

The spells slowed, then stopped.

But the retreat had gained enough distance.

At last Aliyah saw the moment.

The archers had pulled back far enough. The surviving infantry had reformed into a ragged but functional line. The orcs had slowed, content with what they had taken.

Aliyah lowered her scepter slowly.

“Fall back,” she said softly. “All units. Now.”

This time the movement was cleaner.

The Winters’ Army withdrew, battered but alive, leaving the field to the orcs.

Aliyah remained at the rear until the last formation passed her, eyes never leaving the enemy.

Only then did she turn away.

The battle had ended.

Not in an overwhelming victory.

But not in annihilation either.

And that, she knew, was the only reason the war was not already lost.

*****

The field was read again at dawn.

Not by parchment first, but by sight.

The light crept slowly across the open plains, revealing what the night fires had hidden. The ground was no longer grassland. It was a ruin of churned soil and blackened blood, broken bodies pressed into the earth by boots and shields, weapons scattered so thickly that one could walk a hundred paces without touching bare ground.

Sakh’arran stood at the edge of the field, unmoving, his silhouette sharp against the pale morning light. He did not speak. He listened.

The First Horde gathered behind him in ordered silence. Rakshas stood in dense blocks, shields resting against the ground, spears upright. They were fewer than before. Anyone with eyes could see that. Gaps existed where ranks should have been seamless. The Yurakks knelt nearby, stabbing blades laid across their thighs as they cleaned them with methodical care, blood flaking away in dark strips.

Shamans moved among the wounded, chanting low, voices rough from smoke and exhaustion.

Then the reports began.

The messenger approached slowly, fist pressed to his chest. His armor was cracked in multiple places, his shield split nearly in half.

“First Warband,” he said.

Sakh’arran inclined his head slightly.

“One thousand marched to the center,” the messenger continued. “Five hundred and ninety stand in formation now.”

A murmur rippled through nearby warriors, quickly silenced.

The Rakshas had been the anvil. They had stood under arrow storms, endured ice magic, absorbed the full force of the Threian infantry’s pursuit. Their shields were pocked and shattered, their spear shafts snapped and replaced mid battle. Many had died standing, crushed where they held the line.

“Two hundred are confirmed dead,” the messenger went on. “Another two hundred are alive but will not fight again. Crushed legs. Broken spines. Magic burns.”

Sakh’arran absorbed this without expression.

“And the Second.”

The second messenger stepped forward.

“One thousand,” he said. “Six hundred and twelve remain fit for formation.”

Slightly better. Still catastrophic.

The Second Warband had advanced laterally to stabilize the center when the Yurakks began their fallback. They had taken the Threian charge head on, spear points buried in bodies, shields locked so tight that men suffocated where they stood.

“Three hundred dead,” the messenger said. “Nearly a hundred wounded beyond recovery.”

Sakh’arran finally exhaled.

Two Raksha warbands. Two thousand elite warriors.

Barely twelve hundred remained capable of standing in the spear wall.

But the wall had held.

That mattered.

The Yurakks came next.

They were counted differently. There were more of them, and they had been everywhere at once. Advancing. Falling back. Reforming. Stabbing in the press of bodies. Dragging wounded comrades away with one hand while killing with the other.

“The Third Warband,” came the report. “Five hundred marched. Two hundred and eighty-four answer the horn.”

More than two hundred gone.

“The Fifth,” another voice said. “Five hundred marched. Two hundred and ninety remain.”

“The Sixth. Two hundred and seventy-three.”

“The Seventh. Two hundred and sixty-one.”

“The Eighth. Two hundred and forty-eight.”

The pattern was unmistakable.

The Yurakks had bled steadily from the first clash to the final reforming of the line. Their discipline had saved them from annihilation, but discipline could not stop arrows slipping through shield gaps or swords finding bellies in the chaos of melee.

Out of roughly two thousand five hundred Yurakks committed, fewer than one thousand four hundred remained fit for battle.

Still enough to fight.

Still enough to kill.

Then came noise.

Dhug’mhar did not send a messenger. He came himself.

He strode into the command space bare armed, wounds crudely wrapped, blood already seeping through the bindings. His grin was wide, his chest thrust forward as if the dead themselves were an audience.

“A thousand and sixty four of mine ran,” he announced loudly. “Six hundred and fifty nine still stands.”

A bit over five hundred lost.

A heavy toll by any standard.

Dhug’mhar flexed his arms anyway.

“They died well,” he said. “Breaking the pinkskins. Worth it.”

No one argued.

When all was said, the reality settled like weight on the shoulders of every war chief present.

Of nearly ten thousand orcs committed to the battle, more than four thousand were dead or crippled beyond use.

It was not a light victory.

But it was a victory.

And more importantly, the Horde still had reserves untouched, tribes waiting eagerly for their turn.

Sakh’arran turned his gaze eastward, toward where the Threian banners had retreated.

“They lost more,” he said quietly. “And they felt it.”

*****

On the far side of the plains, Aliyah Winters stood amid rows of the wounded.

There were too many to count at a glance.

Men lay shoulder to shoulder beneath makeshift shelters, bandages soaked through, limbs missing, eyes staring blankly at nothing. Healers moved constantly, faces drawn, hands trembling from exhaustion as they chose who might live and who would not.

Aliyah leaned on her scepter, her strength finally leaving her now that command had passed.

The reports came slower here. Harder.

“Infantry,” a captain said, voice hollow. “Ten thousand engaged.”

He swallowed.

“Four thousand three hundred confirmed present.”

Aliyah closed her eyes.

That meant over five thousand were dead, missing, or dying beyond help.

“Of those,” the captain continued, “nearly two thousand cannot fight again. Broken legs. Gut wounds. Crush injuries.”

Archers followed.

“Five thousand deployed,” Sir Ferin said. “Three thousand one hundred accounted for. Most are wounded. Many will not draw again for weeks.”

Cavalry.

“Two thousand rode,” Sir Helwain said quietly. “Six hundred remain mounted.”

The rest lay scattered across the plains, rider and horse alike torn apart in the collapse of the right flank.

Then the mages.

Sir Loric spoke last.

“Four thousand,” he said. “Three thousand one hundred still breathe.”

Aliyah looked at him sharply.

“And the rest.”

“One hundred and eighty dead,” Loric said. “Five hundred and sixty… empty.”

The word struck harder than death.

“Mana gem burn,” he continued. “Their circuits are gone. They will never cast again.”

Aliyah bowed her head.

By nightfall, the numbers were clear.

Of over twenty thousand who had once marched beneath the banner of the Blue Countess, fewer than nine thousand remained fit to fight without hesitation.

They were wounded. Exhausted. Shaken.

Still alive.

Across the plains, the orcs celebrated a hard won victory, their chants echoing into the night.

Aliyah Winters stood beneath her banner and listened.

She had not lost her army.

But she had tasted her first ever defeat at the hands of the orcs.