Rise of the Horde - Chapter 566 - 566

The battlefield did not pause for anyone. Even with the fall of the towering chieftain, the orcs pressed on, driven by bloodlust, pride, and the momentum of their charge. The gap he had carved into the Threian line was being patched, but not without cost. Cries of men and orcs alike echoed across the battlefield, mixing with the thud of boots, the clash of iron, and the high-pitched twang of arrows.

Sir Rhaegar Vance staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his eyes and nose. His armor was dented, streaked with mud and gore, and one gauntlet was split at the wrist. He raised his sword weakly, then tightened his grip as a new wave of orcs surged forward. Their eyes were alight with fury. Some carried axes, others crude blades jagged and uneven. Some had torches and war drums strapped to their backs, pounding a rhythm of death into the chaos.

Behind him, the Threian infantry tried desperately to reestablish their lines. Captain after captain barked orders, trying to coordinate soldiers whose discipline was frayed from hours of combat, fear, and exhaustion. But the men of Threia, though battered, were still aware of disciplined warfare. They had been trained not to scatter even under overwhelming pressure.

“Form shield walls!” bellowed a veteran officer. “Do not let them split us again! Hold the line!”

Men raised their shields, slamming them together to form the overlapping bulwark they had learned to trust. Spears and pikes jutted forward, catching orcish weapons in their points and forcing attackers to parry or pull back. Every thrust, every stab, every swing tore into someone, and the earth became slick with blood and sweat. Orcs fell even as others replaced them in waves, their shouts and war cries blending into a horrifying chorus of rage and death.

Aliyah Winters stood behind the reformed line, her scepter grasped tightly. She could feel the raw power of her mages vibrating in the ground beneath her, the ice magic they wielded humming through her fingertips. She raised her scepter, pointing toward the advancing orcs. With a flick, a sudden storm of shards of ice shot forward, piercing through the first wave of attackers. Orcs screamed, some frozen mid-step, others reduced to bloody splatters on the mud-streaked ground. The air seemed to shimmer with frost as the mages unleashed wave after wave of cold destruction, slowing the enemy’s charge even as more surged forward.

At the front, the archers kept their pace, releasing volley after volley of arrows. Shafts streaked through the air, embedding into orcish shields, faces, and limbs. The men rotated constantly, sprinting from rear to front, pulling fresh quivers from runners who risked their lives weaving between the chaos. Some archers faltered, hands blistered from repeated draws, shoulders screaming in pain, yet they fired relentlessly, covering every inch of the front line with a deadly hail.

The orcs, relentless and brash, mocked them in a guttural chorus, a mixture of broken dialects from different clans. “Gor’kha! Kill, smash, burn! Patra’kkh!” they shouted. Every chant carried fury and an attempt at intimidation, but also coordination among themselves, a dangerous improvisation of unity without discipline.

In the center, Rhaegar and the fallen chieftain’s body had become a symbol. Orcs hesitated at the sight of their leader’s death, but their comrades pressed on. Men fell on both sides, trampled, stabbed, or crushed beneath the weight of their enemies. The melee was close, personal, and brutal. Threian spears were driven into orcish chests; swords swung, parried, and glanced off armor. Orcs clawed, gouged, and smashed shields with bone-crunching strength.

Despite the relentless pressure, the Threians adapted. Soldiers fought in pairs and trios, flanking orcs where possible. They jabbed, sidestepped, spun, and slammed weapons together in a chaotic rhythm. Orcs were not invincible; their strength was undeniable, but precision and teamwork could bring them down. One particularly massive orc grabbed a Threian and swung him into a mud puddle, only to be stabbed repeatedly by two soldiers from opposite sides. He roared, swinging blindly, and took a sword to the neck.

The ground was a mess of mud, blood, and broken weapons. Spears snapped, shields cracked, helmets dented. Every inch gained was bought with lives. The air was thick with screams, the clash of iron, and the acrid smell of sweat and blood mingling with dust stirred up by the furious movement of men and beasts.

Aliyah barked orders ceaselessly. “Focus fire! Target the leaders! Keep the line steady!”

The mages obeyed with disciplined precision. Bolts of icy magic shot forward, freezing small pockets of orcs in place, shattering shields, and sending warriors sprawling. Some orcs were trapped mid-step, impaled upon their own comrades’ weapons. The archers rotated relentlessly, firing through the gaps in the melee to inflict maximum casualties.

At one point, a particularly massive orc warrior charged into the Threian archers, cutting down three men before he could be slowed by a hail of arrows that pierced his armor. He fell to the mud, but not before taking several archers with him. Runners rushed forward to resupply quivers, drag back the wounded, and patch the lines.

Sir Rhaegar fought like a whirlwind at the center. He parried blows from one massive orc, drove another back with a shield bash, and stabbed at a third with calculated precision. Blood soaked his hair and dripped down his armor. Every strike was a negotiation with death, every breath a gamble.

The battle’s chaos radiated outward. On the left flank, Threian cavalry fended off smaller groups of orcs attempting to flank the line. Horses slipped in the mud, hooves crashing into orcs and men alike. Riders swung swords and spears, and the ground was churned into a quagmire of death and motion.

On the right, the mountain’s edge constrained movement. Threians there braced their shields, forcing the orcs to funnel through narrow channels. Blades clashed against shields, fists struck necks, and every misstep could mean death. Archers found temporary safety behind walls of infantry, sending shafts into the orcish ranks as best they could.

The orcs roared, screamed, and mocked in twisted chorus. “Gor’mak! Kill! Blood! Smash! To’krash! Fight! Fight!” Each shout seemed to carry strength, spurring others forward, but it also revealed their disorganization. Without leaders, some surged too far, leaving themselves vulnerable to coordinated counterattacks.

Aliyah’s eyes never left the battlefield. She measured distances, gaps, and the timing of each strike. She adjusted the mages’ volleys to cut off the orcs’ attempts to regroup. She signaled archers to shift positions, ensuring that the hail of arrows struck at the most vulnerable points.

The blood was thick in the mud. Men and orcs alike were drenched, armor shattered, shields broken. Some Threians were trampled under foot while some orcs were impaled by spikes, arrows, or blades. The screams of the dying became a backdrop, constant and unyielding. Yet the line held. Inch by bloody inch, the Threians regained control where the orcs had pushed.

Sir Rhaegar, at the center of the carnage, drove back wave after wave of orcs. He ducked beneath axes, sidestepped swings, and drove his sword into exposed flesh. Around him, Threians rallied to him as if drawn by an invisible magnet. Shields locked, spears jabbed, and together they created a moving wall of coordinated fury that pushed the enemy back toward the center of the breach.

The chieftains might be dead or injured, but their presence lingered in the fearlessness of the orcish attackers. For every one that fell, another surged forward, screaming, swinging, killing. And for every Threian that fell, another took their place, shield raised, sword in hand.

The mages struck again. A crystal of blue ice arced high, descending in a storm of jagged shards upon a cluster of orcs attempting to rejoin the fray. Orcs shrieked as limbs were impaled, shields shattered, and teeth flew. Another surge of frost swept across a muddy hillock, freezing boots to the ground and leaving a handful of warriors pinned until spears thrust through their bodies.

Arrows cut through the air relentlessly. Heads rolled. Limbs flew. Armor splintered. Blood pooled in trenches, flowing down the scarred earth like small, twisted rivers.

Aliyah’s scepter glowed brighter, pulsing with the magical aura of her remaining mages. She whispered incantations, sending walls of frost to seal pockets of the orcish charge, slowing their momentum. A handful of orcs froze mid-charge, the ice crystallizing around their bodies. Some broke free with violent effort, cracking bones in the process.

And all around, the infantry ground forward, holding, pressing, stabbing, shielding, rolling, and swinging. Chaos was the currency of the battlefield, and both sides paid it in full. The screams, the clashing metal, and the shouts of officers and chieftains created a cacophony of death.

This was war in its purest, most merciless form. The ground churned with the weight of bodies. The air was thick with frost, blood, and the acrid smell of sweat. The battle was not decided yet. Neither side had broken, but the Winter’s Army was beginning to find its rhythm, punishing the overconfident orcs with precise, devastating volleys and icy destruction while maintaining their fragile, bloody cohesion.

Sir Rhaegar Vance stood at the center, soaked in blood, breathing raggedly, sword and shield both nicked and battered. Around him, the Threians pressed forward. And Aliyah Winters, staff glowing with raw mana, watched the battlefield with eyes sharp as crystal. They were outnumbered, weary, and battered…but they were still alive. And for now, that was enough.

The next wave of orcish attacks would come. But the Threians would be ready.

*****

The chaotic roar of the battlefield did not pause for anyone, yet Sir Ferin Luthen’s eyes had already spotted a moment in the madness. On the right flank of the Threian lines, the orcish attackers had pressed hard, their shouts and axes creating a press of bodies that threatened to overwhelm the weary infantry. Yet even in this chaos, there was a crack….a slight overextension of the orcs’ leftmost warband. Their formation, though brimming with confidence and fury, had become stretched and uneven as they pushed forward. Ferin’s mind raced, his instincts honed over countless campaigns. There was an opportunity here, a way to strike without endangering his own men.

“Gather what can follow,” he shouted over the din, his voice carrying even above the screams of battle. “We take the heights. We bring the rain to them!”

Immediately, a thousand archers…Threian marksmen, battle-hardened yet still filled with the thrill of revenge…rallied behind him. Quivers were slung over shoulders, bows checked, and magical efforts clutched in hands. Ferin led them up the slopes of the Lag’ranna Mountains, the climb steep but deliberate. The mountainside was jagged, dotted with loose stones and occasional outcrops of rock that served both as cover and obstacles. Each step was measured; the archers knew that a single misstep could send one of them tumbling down hundreds of paces into the battle below.

The ascent was arduous, but the reward was clear in Ferin’s mind. From this vantage point, they could see the entirety of their right flank, the spread of the battlefield extending into the distance, the clash of iron, the churned earth, the fallen and dying, and the relentless advance of the orcish horde. The Threian infantry below continued to hold the line, their shields interlocked, their spears braced, but the orcs were relentless. Ferin’s presence above would change that.

“Keep tight formation!” he called. “Steady. Focus. The moment we are ready, we unleash hell!”

The archers adjusted, forming ranks across the rocky ledges. They braced themselves against boulders, against each other, and prepared to let loose the fury that had been held back only by the fear of hitting their own troops. Now, from this height, the battlefield below was theirs to dominate.

“Let them have it,” Ferin whispered to himself, raising his bow.

A single signal….a sweep of his hand downward….sent the first volley flying. Shafts imbued with concentrated magic streaked through the air, trailing faint azure glows. They fell upon the orcs’ leftmost warband with devastating effect. Shields splintered as the magic imbued arrows slammed against them. Some orcs were pierced directly, collapsing onto their comrades, bodies tumbling into the churned mud. Others had limbs shattered mid-step, screaming as their life drained in red ribbons across the battlefield.

The archers did not pause. Arrows rained down in relentless volleys. Ferin’s eyes, sharp and calculating, directed their fire. “Target the leaders! Focus on the bigger ones! Don’t let them organize!”

Down below, the orcs’ lines began to falter. Confusion spread like wildfire through their ranks as chieftains and warriors alike were struck down. One massive orc, arms swinging wildly, tried to rally his comrades, only to have an arrow pierce his shoulder and another strike through the eye slit of his helm. He collapsed forward, crushing two of his fellows beneath him, their shrieks swallowed by the continuing storm of arrows.

“Again! And again!” Ferin roared, drawing another arrow from his quiver and firing. The line of archers behind him followed suit with precision, each shaft aimed to cause maximum disruption, maximum carnage. The air above the battlefield seemed to vibrate with the force of the volleys, the sound of twanged bows echoing off the cliffs.

The effect was immediate. Orcs staggered, fell, screamed, and fought desperately to maintain cohesion. Their once-cohesive push along the right flank began to buckle, gaps appearing between warriors as bodies piled up in the mud. Those who were not struck froze momentarily, unsure whether to advance or retreat. Threian infantry below noticed the sudden break, their morale bolstered as shields were squared and spears pressed forward into the disorganized orcish ranks.

A captain of the infantry, noticing the sudden weakness on the enemy’s right, sent a signal to his comrades. “Prepare to exploit! On my mark!” The soldiers shifted, boots scraping the rocky soil as they edged toward the weakened flank, muscles coiled like springs ready to explode. The push of the infantry, coupled with the relentless magical arrow storm, created a choke point where orcish warriors found themselves trapped between the heights and the infantry line.

From their vantage, the archers could see every move. Ferin’s keen eyes scanned for clusters of chieftains or heavily armored warriors. Each was a target. When one such figure lifted his axe to rally a group, Ferin fired, his arrow finding its mark with surgical precision. The chieftain fell backward, taking three others with him. The sight was both horrifying and exhilarating. Around him, his comrades’ momentum faltered as fear and chaos spread.

Magic overwhelmed the orcs. Some of the more experienced archers were adept at imbuing their arrows with elemental frost. These shafts were tipped with a fine, blue energy, causing splinters of ice to erupt upon impact. Orcs struck by these arrows would have their joints seize or shields freeze momentarily to the weapon, often causing them to fall prone, limbs splayed awkwardly. The battlefield below now looked like a sea of red and blue which was blood mixing with icy fractures as the orcish push was brutally halted.

Even as arrows rained down, the orcs fought desperately. One massive brute managed to break through a small pocket of the front line, roaring as he swung his great axe. He cleaved through the mud-soaked armor of a Threian soldier, sending him screaming to the ground. Another archer’s arrow found its mark, piercing the brute’s chest and sending him down with a howl that echoed up to the cliffs. The relentless violence was as much psychological as physical. The orcs were not used to being cut down from above while simultaneously pressed below.

Ferin himself loosed arrow after arrow, his movements fluid and practiced. Every arrow counted, every strike disrupting the rhythm of the orcish advance. Around him, the Threian archers were inspired, their fear replaced by a dangerous exhilaration. For the first time in hours, they felt in control of a segment of the battlefield, and their precision grew more deadly with each passing moment.

The battlefield below was chaos magnified by fear and firepower. Orcs stumbled over one another, their advance collapsing in places while still pressing in others. Threian infantry, noticing the disarray, pressed forward, stabbing into the sides of the staggered attackers, adding to the carnage. Spears pierced torsos, swords cleaved through limbs, and the cries of dying orcs filled the air.

Ferin’s voice carried from the heights. “Do not stop! Not until they break! Fire for every step they take!” The Threian archers responded with grim delight, knowing that their position was nearly unassailable. The cliffside had turned the tide on this flank, transforming an overextended enemy push into a slaughter ground.

The orcs began to retreat in small clusters, unwilling to be mown down further by the merciless shower of arrows and frost. Chaos reigned supreme among their ranks, a mix of panic, rage, and disbelief at how quickly the advantage had shifted. The other warriors who had been pushing forward faltered as they saw their comrades fall, unsure whether to advance or regroup.

From the vantage point, Ferin allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction, though he remained focused. “Hold your positions. Maintain volleys. Let them learn the price of overconfidence.”

The right flank of the Threians had become an anchor, steady and lethal. The combination of disciplined infantry below and the relentless aerial arrow assault from the heights ensured that the orcs could not exploit their initial advantage. The sight of their slaughtered warriors cascading into the mud below spread confusion and fear among those further back, giving the Threians precious time to reorient their lines elsewhere.

The mountaintop continued to echo with the sound of twanged bowstrings and the faint, eerie hum of magic-imbued arrows, each one a harbinger of death. Orcish war cries turned into screams and curses as bodies fell, limbs were severed, and the ground became slick with the red tide of battle.

And in the midst of it, Sir Ferin Luthen stood at the edge of the cliff, quiver replenished, bow in hand, eyes scanning the battlefield for the next target. The massacre below was a symphony of calculated destruction, orchestrated by precision, discipline, and the deadly combination of magic and steel. The orcs, once confident and mocking, were now scattering, bleeding, and faltering, their momentum shattered by the unwavering fire from above.

The right flank of the Threian army, protected by mountains, now held firm. From this vantage, the future of the battle seemed momentarily in their grasp, but Ferin knew better than to relax. The battlefield below remained a living, writhing tide of death, and one misstep could turn the tide again. Still, for now, the archers’ relentless volleys were a deadly promise of hope and vengeance, cutting the incoming horde into pieces before they could reach the steady shields of the Threian infantry.

The winter’s army had found its anchor. The fight, though far from over, had found a measure of control on the chaos-wracked battlefield. And from the heights of the Lag’ranna Mountains, Sir Ferin Luthen and his thousand archers rained death upon all who dared approach.