Rise of the Horde - Chapter 568 - 568

The rout spilled outward like water from a shattered vessel.

Orcs ran in every direction, no longer a horde, no longer an army, but a mass of broken wills and shattered pride. Southward they fled in the greatest number, pouring back the way they had come, trampling their own dead in their desperation to escape the killing ground. Eastward some ran toward the foothills, only to slow and stumble among rocks slick with frost and blood. A few tried the west, hugging the shadow of the Lag’ranna Mountains, skirting the sheer stone as if the ancient cliffs might shelter them from arrows and memory alike.

None of it was orderly.

Warriors who had bellowed challenges only moments ago now sobbed as they ran, tusked mouths open in ragged gasps. Some clutched wounds with trembling hands, dark blood spilling between their fingers and streaking down their forearms. Others dragged broken legs behind them until the pain became too much and they collapsed, crawling until exhaustion claimed them. Clan banners were discarded like refuse, trampled into the mud, snapped poles jutting from the ground like grave markers.

A massive orc with one eye missing staggered forward, axe still clenched in his hand out of habit rather than intent. He looked back once, seeing the Threian line reforming with cruel discipline, shields locking, spears leveling, archers stepping forward again with mechanical precision. The sight broke something inside him. He roared, a hoarse animal sound of fear and rage, and threw his axe aside to run faster.

Another orc fell to his knees amid the churned earth, his armor split, ribs showing through torn flesh. He reached up as others ran past him, roaring curses at them, begging them, striking at their legs. No one stopped. He was crushed beneath boots moments later, his voice cut off as abruptly as a candle snuffed by wind.

The battlefield itself bore the mark of defeat.

Where once the orcish horde had surged like a flood, now there were only trails of blood and discarded gear marking the paths of flight. The ground was chewed into a grotesque mosaic of footprints, broken weapons, and frozen gore. Frost crept across pooled blood, turning it black and glassy. The air stank of fear, iron, and the sharp, clean scent of ice magic slowly fading.

The Winters’ Army did not pursue far.

They stood amid the carnage, watching their enemy dissolve.

Soldiers leaned on spears, chests heaving, faces streaked with blood that was not all their own. Some laughed weakly, the sound edged with hysteria. Others simply stared, eyes hollow, trying to understand that they were still alive. Healers moved among them, dragging the wounded from underfoot, calling for stretchers, for water, for quiet.

Aliyah Winters remained mounted near the center, her scepter lowered now, its crystal dim. She watched the orcs run with an expression that held neither joy nor mercy, only grim acknowledgment.

This was what defeat looked like.

Far from the battlefield, on a rise overlooking the plains and the broken remnants of the mountain path, another group watched in silence.

Haguk sat astride his warg, the beast’s massive frame steady and alert beneath him. Around him, the riders of the Warg Cavalry and the Verakhs were scattered among rocks and scrub, their mounts crouched low, ears flicking, yellow eyes following every movement below. They had stalked the pinkskins for days, shadowing them like wolves, waiting to see if fear or discipline would claim them in the end.

It had not been the pinkskins.

Haguk exhaled slowly through his nose, a low rumble of sound escaping him. His tusked mouth twisted into something that was not quite a snarl and not quite a smile.

“They broke,” muttered one rider, leaning forward in his saddle. His voice carried disbelief rather than triumph. “All that noise. All that boasting. And they broke.”

Another rider clicked his tongue. “Old ways,” he said. “Too many chiefs. Too many grudges. No spine.”

Haguk shook his head once, heavy braids swaying against his shoulders. “They charged without teeth,” he said. “They forgot how to wait. Forgot how to listen.” His gaze remained fixed on the fleeing orcs. “Death was the only end that march could have.”

Behind him, a few riders snorted and chuckled.

One slapped another on the arm. “Pay up,” he said, grinning wide. “I told you it would be our kin who snapped first.”

The other rider groaned and dragged a clawed hand down his face. “By the ash spirits,” he muttered. “I should have known. I put my tusks on the pinkskins breaking. Thought fear would finish them.”

A third rider laughed openly, a sharp barking sound. “You owe him three bags of dried meat and a flask,” he said. “And maybe your favorite knife.”

“Over my corpse,” the loser growled, though there was no real anger in it.

Further along the ridge, another pair of riders argued in low voices.

“They should have waited,” one said. “Should have watched how the ours fight.”

“They did not see it,” the other replied. “They only heard stories. Stories make fools brave.”

Below them, the orcish survivors streamed past in ragged lines, some so close the riders could see the whites of their eyes. None looked up. None challenged. None even spat curses. They ran as if chased by ghosts.

A young rider leaned forward, elbows on his saddle, watching intently. “If Haguk gave the word,” he said quietly, “we could cut them down now. Easy kills.”

Haguk turned his head just enough to fix the rider with a flat stare.

“No,” he said.

The word fell like a stone.

“They chose their path,” Haguk continued. “They walked into death without waiting for the howl. That is not our fight.” He looked back to the battlefield, where the Threian banners still stood. “And the pinkskins… they earned this ground.”

A few riders grunted in reluctant agreement. Others said nothing.

One of the older riders sighed and shook his head. “So much blood,” he muttered. “For nothing.”

“For learning,” Haguk replied. “If they live long enough to learn.”

The wargs shifted beneath their riders, restless but obedient, muscles coiled, ready. They did not chase. They did not howl. They watched as the defeated scattered like leaves before a storm.

On the battlefield, the Winters’ Army began the grim work of victory.

Bodies were turned, wounded identified, the dead counted and marked. Captured orcs were few, most having chosen flight over surrender. Smoke rose in thin columns as healers burned corrupted gear and tainted ground. Orders were shouted, repeated, obeyed.

The line held.

The orcs did not return.

And far above, among stone and shadow, Haguk and his riders turned their mounts away, disappointment lingering in their posture, wagers settled, lessons learned.

The pinkskins still lived.

And the rowdy kin who had charged alone had paid the price for forgetting what war had become.

*****

Night settled over the Threian camp like a heavy cloak, dark but not suffocating.

Fires burned across the encampment in careful patterns, not the wild scatter of a panicked army, but the deliberate layout of soldiers who still remembered discipline. The flames threw long shadows across tents patched with hurried stitching, across wagons dented by old blows, across armor stacked in uneven piles where blood had been scrubbed away with sand and water until only rust colored stains remained.

The Winters Army looked battered.

And yet it lived.

Men moved through the camp with limps and stiff shoulders, some with arms bound tight against their chests, others leaning on spears or comrades. Bandages were everywhere. Linen strips wrapped heads, forearms, thighs. Some were already darkening with fresh seepage, others crusted stiff with dried blood. The air carried the smell of smoke, boiled leather, crushed herbs, and iron that no amount of washing could fully remove.

Despite it all, there was noise.

Low voices murmured around fires. Laughter broke out in sudden, rough bursts, sharp enough to surprise even those who made it. Someone began to sing an old marching song, his voice cracked and uneven, and after a moment others joined in, not to make it sound good, but to make it loud. To remind themselves that their lungs still worked.

Victory had done what rest alone could not.

It had straightened backs.

Along the outer edge of the camp, the infantry rested in loose formations, shields propped upright beside them like silent sentinels. Many had not bothered to remove their armor completely, only loosening straps enough to breathe easier. Helmets sat on the ground at their feet, dented, split, scarred. Some men stared at those helmets as if only now realizing how close death had come to their skulls.

A pair of soldiers sat back to back near a fire, eyes closed, breathing slow. Their spears lay across their knees. Every few moments one of them twitched, fingers tightening, as if still feeling the press of orcish bodies against the shield wall.

Nearby, a group of younger infantry clustered around a veteran with a scarred face and a voice like gravel.

“I swear,” the veteran was saying, gesturing with a chunk of bread, “the brute was twice my height. Thought my legs would snap when he hit the line. But then Kellan hooked his knee and down he went like a sack of grain.”

One of the younger soldiers laughed. “You’re lying.”

“I am not,” the veteran snapped back, then cracked a grin. “All right. Maybe not twice my height. But he smelled twice as bad.”

The laughter that followed was louder this time, more confident.

Across the camp, healers worked without pause.

They moved from fire to fire, tent to tent, hands red to the wrists, eyes focused, voices calm. Bowls of water were emptied and refilled. Needles flashed in the firelight as torn flesh was stitched with practiced speed when magic run out. When a scream came, it was answered not with panic, but with firm words and steady grips.

“You lived,” one healer told a groaning cavalryman as she tightened a bandage around his thigh. “Do not waste breath complaining about the pain.”

The cavalryman laughed weakly. “If I stop complaining,” he said, “then you should worry.”

What remained of the cavalry camped together on the eastern side, horses tethered close, their flanks still steaming faintly in the cool night air. The animals bore their own marks of battle. Gashes stitched with rough care. Ropes braided hastily to replace broken tack. A groom whispered softly to a nervous mare, resting his forehead against her neck until her trembling eased.

Several knights sat nearby, helmets off, hair matted with sweat and blood. One held a broken lance across his lap, staring at the splintered end.

“I thought we were finished,” he said quietly.

“So did they,” another replied, nodding toward the darkness beyond the camp. “Difference is, we held.”

At the heart of the encampment stood the command area.

Aliyah Winters sat on a low stool beside a broad map table lit by hooded lanterns. Her scepter rested against the table within easy reach, its crystal faintly glowing, not from magic, but from residual warmth. Her armor was scuffed and marked like everyone else’s, though it had been cleaned of blood. A thin line of dried red marked her cheek where a stray shard of ice had cut her earlier in the battle.

She looked tired.

Not the exhaustion of fear, but the deeper fatigue of responsibility.

Around her stood her commanders.

Sir Rhaegar Vance leaned heavily on a crate, his sword resting against his leg. Fresh bandages wrapped his forearm and shoulder, the result of his duel and the chaos that followed. His posture was relaxed in the way of a man who knew the worst was over, at least for now.

Sir Ferin sat nearby, unhelmed, his hands still trembling faintly despite himself. His fingers bore raw marks where bowstrings had bitten deep. A healer knelt beside him, applying salve while Ferin spoke quietly with one of his lieutenants, recounting the effect of the mountain volleys with a mix of disbelief and grim satisfaction.

Sir Helwain stood with arms crossed, gaze sweeping the camp in slow, assessing arcs. Even now, he counted. Fires. Guards. Patrols. Habits did not die easily.

“They are resting,” he said. “But they are not careless.”

Aliyah nodded. “They should not be.”

She looked around at her commanders, then beyond them, at the soldiers moving through the firelight.

“They fought,” she said softly. “After everything, they fought.”

Rhaegar snorted gently. “They were waiting for the chance.”

Aliyah allowed herself a small smile.

Morale had risen not because the losses were forgotten, but because they had been paid for in blood and answered with victory. The soldiers spoke openly now about what they had done. Who they had saved. Who had saved them. Names of the dead were spoken with respect, not despair.

At one fire, a group of archers sat shoulder to shoulder, passing around a single skin of watered wine. Their bows lay nearby, unstrung for the first time in days.

“I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore,” one admitted, flexing his hands. “Thought they’d frozen off.”

“You kept shooting,” another said.

“So did you.”

They fell quiet for a moment, then raised the skin in a silent toast.

Further along the perimeter, sentries stood alert, eyes scanning the dark plains beyond the firelight. Their silhouettes were steady, spears planted, shields ready. They did not slouch. They did not whisper.

They had learned.

The camp was not joyous. There were no grand celebrations, no reckless revelry. But there was confidence. A quiet, stubborn belief that they could endure what came next.

Aliyah rose slowly from her stool, joints aching, and stepped away from the map table. She walked through the camp without escort, nodding to soldiers as she passed. Many straightened when they saw her. Some bowed their heads. Others met her gaze directly, pride and gratitude written plainly on their faces.

“You held,” one infantryman said simply as she passed.

“So did you,” Aliyah replied.

She paused near the edge of the camp, looking back over the fires, the wounded, the living.

They were bruised. They were scarred. They were far from whole.

But they were still an army.

And tonight, beneath the cold stars and the watchful mountains, the Winters Army rested not as prey, but as survivors ready to fight again.