Rise of the Horde - Chapter 562 - 562

The retreat did not become a rout.

That alone was a testament to Aliyah Winters.

Yet neither did it become peace.

From the first hour after the withdrawal began, the orcs made it clear that they would not allow the Winters’ Army even the smallest illusion of safety. They did not charge. They did not attempt encirclement. They did not test the archers in force. Instead, they followed. Always close enough to be seen, never close enough to be fought.

The shadowy orcs were the first sign.

They appeared as shapes at the edge of vision, fleeting shadows between trees, figures crouched atop rocks or ridges that should not have been reachable so quickly. Threian scouts learned to fear the sudden absence of birdsong more than the sound of horns. When the wilds fell silent, it meant eyes were upon them.

The Warg Cavalry followed not long after.

They did not gallop. They paced.

Wargs moved with a tireless lope, jaws slack, breath steaming in the cool dawns and dusks. Their riders were relaxed, weapons slung, some even laughing among themselves as they tracked the slow progress of the pinkskins. The beasts never tired. They never strayed far. When the Threians attempted to halt early or alter their marching routes, the Wargs adjusted with unsettling ease.

Each night, fires flickered just beyond arrow range.

Each night, horns sounded.

Each night, the Winters’ Army slept less.

By the third night, the men had begun to understand the truth.

They were not retreating from an enemy.

They were being escorted out of orcish lands.

*****

Aliyah Winters rode at the heart of the column, her scepter resting across her lap, her posture rigid despite the exhaustion gnawing at her bones. She spent every waking hour calculating distances, estimating morale, and weighing impossible choices.

Her army was still intact in name.

In spirit, it was fraying.

Infantry units had begun to blur together. Companies that once marched with banners and clear command structure now moved as grim clusters of men bound by familiarity and fear. The wounded slowed the pace, but leaving them behind was unthinkable. Every decision cost lives somewhere.

She received reports constantly.

“The Warg riders are closer tonight.”

“Orcish scouts were spotted within the perimeter.”

“A deserter was found torn apart beyond the rear line.”

“We counted new banners among the orcs at dusk.”

Always the same conclusion.

Their numbers were growing.

On the fourth day, Aliyah summoned her commanders under a canopy hastily erected during a midday halt. Dust clung to everything. Sweat darkened armor straps. The smell of unwashed bodies and old blood hung heavy.

Rhaegar Vance spoke first.

“They are not pressing us because they do not need to,” he said quietly. “They know we must keep moving. They know where we are going.”

Sir Loric Avelle, pale and visibly weakened, nodded. “They are bleeding us without drawing iron. Every night of fear is another cut.”

Sir Ferin Luthen added grimly, “My archers are down to half efficiency. Not from wounds. From exhaustion. They cannot keep this up indefinitely.”

Aliyah listened, saying nothing at first.

She already knew.

She also knew the reports from the scouts.

Orcs were coming from everywhere.

*****

The orcs came singly at first.

A lone warrior trudging out of the hills, carrying a battered shield marked with an old clan sigil. A small band of hunters emerging from clustered withered trees, drawn by the sound of war drums. Survivors of shattered tribes who had heard that a Great Chieftain defeated the invaders again and again.

They did not arrive timidly.

Each group announced itself.

Drums would beat. Horns would sound. Voices would rise in guttural chants that rolled across the plains and forests alike. When new arrivals joined the Yohan First Horde, they were met not with ceremony but with laughter, boasts, and immediate integration.

Warbands swelled.

Clans long thought destroyed appeared again, reduced but unbroken. The Broken Fang remnants arrived with fewer than two hundred warriors, their banner stitched together from scraps. The Ash Spine hunters came with no banner at all, their bodies painted in ritual scars. The Red Hollow clan marched in silence, every warrior wearing the skull of a beast slain during the old hunts.

Scouts counted constantly.

Then stopped trying to be precise.

The Yohan First Horde had begun as a formidable force.

Now it was becoming something else entirely.

A convergence.

Reports filtered back to Aliyah through desperate scouts who risked their lives to count fires and banners.

“Another thousand joined last night.”

“There are at least three new orcish warbands joining them each day that passes.”

“Those riders of the giant beasts are boasting openly. They say this will be the final chase.”

“They speak of the Chieftain’s plan. A second horde.”

That last report chilled Aliyah more than any other.

A Second Horde meant organization beyond a single campaign. It meant a war machine being built in real time, forged by victory and momentum.

And her army was the anvil upon which it was being shaped.

*****

The days blurred together.

March. Halt. Skirmishless tension. Night.

The orcs never ceased.

On the sixth night, a Threian patrol vanished entirely. No screams. No signs of struggle. Only blood found at dawn, carefully smeared across stones in deliberate patterns that meant nothing to humans and everything to orcs.

On the seventh night, a Warg rider rode openly near the camp perimeter, stopping just beyond arrow range. He dismounted slowly, raised his arms, and shouted something in orcish that no one needed translated.

“We are still here.”

Then he mounted again and rode away.

No arrows were fired.

Aliyah forbade it.

The psychological toll was immense.

Men flinched at shadows. Horses shied at every sound. Camp followers wept openly. Even hardened veterans began whispering prayers.

And still, the orcs came.

By the end of the week, the scouts’ estimates had become staggering.

The Yohan First Horde now numbered well over thirty thousand.

Perhaps more.

No one could be sure.

New tribes arrived daily. Some marched under crude banners. Others carried none, simply falling in behind the existing warbands. Orcish warriors drilled openly in the distance, their battle lines expanding. Orcish formations grew thicker, denser, more confident.

And always, at the center, the Golden Wolf was visible.

Not as a relic.

As a symbol.

The Amazzfer still stood among the frontlines, blood crusted across his armor, wounds wrapped hastily, his presence a living standard. Orcs pointed him out to newcomers, roaring approval.

“This one holds the Wolf!”

“The Chieftain walks with us!”

The myth grew with every step.

*****

By the eighth day, the land itself began to change.

The trees thinned. The soil grew harder. Hills gave way to long stretches of open ground broken only by scattered stone outcroppings. The air felt different, cooler, less oppressive.

The northern reaches of the orcish lands.

Aliyah recognized it immediately.

This was as far as she could go without risking pursuit into territory better suited for a final encirclement.

Her army halted briefly upon a broad rise overlooking a shallow valley. From there, the full scope of what followed them could finally be seen.

It was immense.

A sea of orcs stretched across the landscape, fires burning in countless clusters. Warbands drilled. Beasts were fed. New arrivals continued to trickle in even as the Winters’ Army watched.

Aliyah felt something inside her settle.

Not despair.

Resolve.

She had done what she could.

She had brought her army out alive.

Barely.

Now, the cost would be counted.

As horns sounded again behind her, not to signal an attack but to announce continued presence, Aliyah turned her scepter upright and gave quiet orders.

Prepare defenses.

Rotate watches.

No one sleeps alone.

The orcish horde had not attacked.

Not yet.

But the message was unmistakable.

They were not done.

And they would remember the Blue Countess.

So would the lands that had watched her army bleed its way north, trailed by the greatest gathering of orcs seen in a generation.

The chase was far from over.

*****

From a distance, the horde looked invincible.

The fires stretched across the plains and foothills like fallen stars, countless points of red and gold flickering beneath the darkening sky. Drums echoed from one end of the encampment to the other, not always in rhythm, not always coordinated, but constant. Warriors moved everywhere, sharpening blades, boasting, brawling, drilling, feasting, arguing.

To an outsider, it would have seemed like triumph incarnate.

To the orcish commanders, it was a warning.

Khao’khen stood upon a rise of broken stone at the northern edge of the encampment, gazing down at what he had unleashed. The wind carried the smell of smoke, sweat, blood, and cooked meat. It was the smell of war, familiar and comforting in small doses.

Now it was suffocating.

The horde had grown beyond what any single mind could easily grasp. When the Yohan First Horde had first begun its march, it had been a disciplined host, forged from warriors who had trained together, suffered together, bled together, fought together, and learned together. They understood formation. They understood restraint. They understood that not every battle was won by charging headlong into the enemy.

The newcomers did not.

They arrived with fire in their eyes and ignorance in their hands.

Every day, more came.

Not summoned by messengers or banners, but drawn by rumor. By whispered tales carried on the wind of a Great Chieftain who had broken the pinkskins again and again. Of mighty warbands that fought like beasts unleashed. Of enemies fleeing rather than standing their ground.

Victory was a beacon.

And orcs followed beacons.

*****

The first crisis had not been blood.

It had been hunger.

On the third day of pursuit, hunting parties began returning with less game. Herds had been thinned. Wilds stripped bare. The land, generous but not infinite, began to show the strain of feeding tens of thousands of warriors.

Food distribution became a battlefield of its own.

Older warbands received priority, not by decree but by tradition and force. New arrivals found themselves pushed to the edges of supply lines, handed smaller portions, or told to hunt for themselves. Arguments erupted daily.

A Raksha captain reported that two newly arrived clans nearly came to blows over a butchered aurochs carcass. Yurakk warriors intervened before blades were drawn, but the resentment lingered.

“This horde eats like a beast that does not know it is wounded,” Gur’kan remarked bitterly during one late council.

Khao’khen did not disagree.

More warriors meant more mouths, more egos, more demands. Orcs were not soldiers who accepted rationing quietly. Hunger made them reckless. Pride made them dangerous.

And hunger was spreading.

*****

The new arrivals brought strength, but not cohesion.

Many of them came from clans that had never fought in the same manner as they did. Their wars had been raids, ambushes, and brief clashes followed by retreat. Their leaders ruled through brute dominance, not structured command.

They saw the Yohan First Horde and misunderstood it.

They saw formations and assumed slowness.

They saw restraint and assumed fear.

They saw patience and assumed weakness.

Within days of arrival, small gatherings began forming at the edges of the encampment. Warriors who shared no old grudges gravitated toward one another, united by ambition rather than loyalty.

“They retreat,” one young warrior said, pointing north toward the distant dust trail of the Winters’ Army. “They bleed. Why do we wait?”

Another spat into the fire. “The Chieftain has not given the order. But no one said we cannot take heads.”

Whispers spread.

Not rebellion.

Not yet.

But impatience.

*****

As the horde grew, ancient rivalries resurfaced with terrifying ease.

Clans that had not seen each other for decades now camped within sight of one another. Old scars were remembered. Old insults retold. Warriors compared trophies and lineage, each boast a challenge disguised as pride.

The Black Tooth remnants nearly clashed with the Bone Spire hunters over accusations of cowardice during an ancient war. Only the intervention of Yurakk warriors prevented bloodshed.

Another night, two champions fought a ritual duel that nearly escalated into a full skirmish when onlookers began shouting encouragements. The Rakshas were forced to disperse the crowd with drawn weapons.

Khao’khen received reports constantly.

Fights broken up.

Challenges issued.

Threats whispered.

The orcish horde was strong.

But it was not united.

*****

Those who had marched with Yohan from the beginning watched the newcomers carefully.

They did not boast.

They did not join the brawls.

They sharpened their blades, repaired their armor, trained in silence.

They had seen what discipline achieved.

They had seen what reckless charges cost.

They had watched entire warbands die because someone thought strength alone was enough.

When new warriors mocked their formations, they said nothing.

When outsiders scoffed at their restraint, they said nothing.

But they remembered.

And they marked faces.

*****

The greatest threat did not come from those who had joined the Yohan banner early.

It came from those who had not joined at all.

Independent warbands.

Loose alliances of newly arrived clans who camped near the horde but did not formally integrate. They followed the Great Chieftain’s victories, but not his command.

These warriors spoke openly of attacking the pinkskins.

“They are broken,” one such leader argued. “Why should we wait for permission to claim glory?”

Others agreed.

They began planning.

Quietly at first.

Scouts were sent without approval. Small groups slipped northward under cover of night, not to attack, but to watch. To measure. To imagine.

They returned with tales of exhausted soldiers, sagging formations, wounded men barely able to stand.

The temptation grew.

*****

Khao’khen knew.

He always knew.

Reports reached him within hours. Verakh scouts loyal to the horde tracked not only the enemy but their own. Yurakk warriors listened to campfire conversations. Rumors were weighed carefully.

During a late council, Trot’thar spoke plainly.

“Some of the newcomers plan to strike on their own.”

Sakh’arran’s jaw tightened. “Fools.”

Gur’kan growled. “If they attack and fail, they will draw the enemy’s fury upon all of us.”

“If they succeed,” another chieftain added grimly, “they will claim the glory and undermine command.”

Khao’khen listened in silence.

He did not issue an order.

Not yet.

The horde was a blade still being forged. Strike too soon, and it would shatter. Hold too long, and it would rust.

For now, he watched.

*****

As days passed, the Winters’ Army continued its slow retreat northward, always watched, never attacked.

The horde followed.

And within it, pressure built.

New warriors chafed at restraint. Hunger sharpened tempers. Pride demanded action. Groups of unbound warriors gathered nightly, speaking in hushed tones of raids, ambushes, and glorious slaughter.

“They flee like prey,” one snarled. “We dishonor ourselves by waiting.”

Another replied, “The Great Chieftain waits because he is strong enough to choose. We are strong enough to take.”

No blades were drawn.

No banners were raised.

Yet.

*****

Late one night, Khao’khen stood alone again, staring north.

He knew the truth that none of the newcomers understood.

The Winters’ Army was wounded, yes.

But wounded beasts were dangerous.

A premature attack could harden the enemy’s resolve, force them into desperate measures, or fracture the horde before it was ready.

Victory required timing.

Not hunger.

Not pride.

Behind him, the horde roared and murmured, a restless giant struggling against its chains.

Soon, someone would strike.

Whether he ordered it or not.

And when that happened, the true test of his leadership would begin.

Not against the pinkskins.

But against his own kind.

The drums continued to beat.

And the night listened.