Rise of the Horde - Chapter 569 - 569

Far to the south, beyond the churned killing ground and the broken banners left behind, the land sloped gently toward the encampment of the Yohan First Horde.

Night had already claimed the plains there.

Fires burned in disciplined rings, their light contained and measured. Drums were silent. Only the low murmur of thousands of voices carried through the darkness, the sound of a great host at rest but not at ease. Sentries stood in pairs along the perimeter, silhouettes sharp against the firelight, eyes trained outward, ears tuned for anything out of place.

It was one of those sentries who saw them first.

At the edge of vision, where the dark plain blurred into shadow, shapes moved. Not in formation. Not with the heavy, confident stride of a marching warband. These figures staggered. Some leaned on spears like crutches. Others dragged wounded companions whose feet left uneven trails in the dust.

The sentry narrowed his eyes.

More shapes emerged.

Dozens.

Then hundreds…. Then thousands.

He lifted his horn and blew.

The call was short and sharp, a signal that did not speak of attack, but of return.

Across the camp, other horns answered in acknowledgment. Fires flared brighter as warriors rose to their feet, hands on weapons, eyes searching the dark.

The defeated warriors came closer, and the truth could no longer be denied.

They were broken.

Armor hung loose or was missing entirely. Shields were cracked or discarded. Many bore bandages stained black with dried blood. Some walked barefoot, boots lost somewhere between charge and rout. Their faces, usually hard with pride or fury, were drawn tight with shock, eyes hollow, jaws clenched not in defiance but in shame.

A warrior stumbled and fell to his knees just beyond the outer ring of fires. He did not rise. Two others stopped beside him, exchanged a look, then hauled him up between them without a word.

No one cheered their return.

No one mocked them either.

The camp parted as they entered, warriors stepping aside to let the defeated pass. Some watched with grim understanding. Others with narrowed eyes, weighing what they saw against their own hunger for battle.

Among the newcomers who had arrived days earlier, those who had not joined the reckless march north stood together near the outer fires. Their banners still stood upright, untouched by blood or frost.

One old warrior exhaled slowly, tusks gleaming in the firelight. He pressed his fist to his chest and murmured a quiet prayer to the ancestors.

“They did not call us,” he said, voice low. “The spirits were loud enough.”

Another nodded, his gaze fixed on the returning mass. “Glory shouted louder.”

A younger orc clenched his jaw, anger flickering across his face. “And now they return empty handed.”

“Alive,” the old warrior corrected. “That matters.”

Nearby, a group of warriors exchanged looks, some relieved, others shaken. One let out a bitter laugh.

“I would have followed them,” he admitted. “If my leg had healed faster.”

“Be thankful it did not,” his companion replied. “You would be limping back like them. Or not coming back at all.”

As the defeated warriors reached the center of the camp, the chieftains of the Yohan First Horde emerged from the largest command fire. They did not rush. They did not shout.

They waited.

Khao khen stood at the forefront, tall and immovable as carved stone. Firelight traced the scars along his arms and shoulders. His gaze swept over the returning warriors without judgment, only calculation.

He did not speak until the last of them had entered the perimeter.

“How many?” he asked.

A bloodied orc stepped forward, helmet tucked under his arm. He hesitated, then forced himself to meet the Chieftain’s eyes.

“Too many died,” he said simply. “Too many.”

A murmur rippled through the camp.

Khao khen inclined his head once. “You followed your own path.”

The orc swallowed. “Yes.”

“You were not ordered.”

“No.”

Silence stretched.

Then Khao khen spoke again, his voice calm, heavy with authority.

“Then you return having learned what the enemy is.”

He turned slightly, addressing not only the defeated, but the entire camp.

“They are not prey that runs forever. They bleed. They think. They punish mistakes.”

His gaze hardened. “And they kill the reckless.”

No insult followed. No rebuke. The weight of his words was enough.

Among the newcomers who had waited, a low wave of relief passed through them. Some bowed their heads. Others looked skyward, whispering thanks to ancestors long dead.

One warrior muttered, “They chased glory.”

“And found death looking back at them,” another replied.

As the defeated were guided toward the healers and the fires, the camp slowly settled again. Weapons were lowered. Tension eased, but it did not vanish.

The orcish warriors had watched what impatience earned.

And in the flickering firelight, as wounded warriors were tended and stories of frozen arrows and unyielding lines spread in hushed tones, those who had waited understood something important.

Restraint had kept them alive.

And the war was far from over.

*****

Dawn had not yet broken when the sound reached the camp.

It was not the rhythm of war drums, nor the blare of a horn. It was something heavier, slower, a layered rumble that rolled across the plain like distant thunder trapped close to the ground. Sentries along the southern perimeter turned their heads almost in unison, ears catching the cadence of many wheels and many hooves moving together.

Torches were raised.

Out of the darkness, a line of lights appeared, wavering like fireflies at first, then resolving into lanterns hung from tall poles and wagon frames. Shadows stretched long before them, cast by beasts of burden pulling massive loads across the packed earth.

The supply train from Yohan had arrived.

Word spread through the camp faster than any command. Warriors rose from their places near the fires, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, others already grinning with sharp tusked smiles. The mood shifted almost instantly, the edge of tension that had lingered since the defeated horde returned easing like a clenched fist finally opening.

The wagons came in long columns, each creaking under its burden. Thick wooden wheels groaned as they rolled over ruts carved by weeks of marching armies. The beasts that pulled them snorted and huffed, hides slick with sweat, eyes dull but steady. Some were massive horned draft animals bred in the lowlands around Yohan. Others were shaggy mountain beasts accustomed to steep paths and thin air.

Each wagon was marked with the sigil of the city. A snarling wolf carved deep into the wood, its jaws open in an eternal challenge.

Grain came first.

Sacks upon sacks of it, stacked high and tied with heavy cord. The smell of it drifted through the camp, dry and earthy, and more than a few orcs inhaled deeply, stomachs growling loud enough to draw laughter.

Behind the grain came meat.

Whole carcasses wrapped in salted hide. Smoked slabs hung from iron hooks along the sides of wagons. Barrels packed with preserved fish from the rivers and streams. Fresh game too, recently butchered, still red and heavy with promise. Blood dripped from one wagon as it passed, spattering the ground and drawing appreciative murmurs from nearby warriors.

Then came the brews.

Large casks bound in iron bands, each stamped with marks denoting strength and origin. Dark ales that burned going down. Thick fermented drinks brewed from mountain roots and honey. Even a few wagons carrying stronger spirits reserved for chieftains and war chiefs, their scent sharp enough to make eyes water.

Weapons followed.

Crates of spearheads wrapped in oiled cloth. Bundles of arrow shafts and javelins. Axes with fresh edges that gleamed in torchlight. Swords of Yohan iron, plain but brutally effective. Shields stacked like walls, their figures unblemished, their rims unbent.

Armor came last.

Helms. Breastplates. Greaves. Layered hides reinforced with metal scales. Nothing ornate. Nothing ceremonial. Everything made to be worn into battle and returned dented or not at all.

As the wagons rolled deeper into the camp, overseers barked orders, directing them toward designated storage rings. The process was efficient. Practiced. The city of Yohan had fed the army before.

Khao khen watched the arrival from near the central fire, arms folded across his broad chest. Firelight reflected in his eyes as he took in the sight, calculating even as relief settled quietly into his posture.

“The timing is good,” one of the elders murmured beside him.

Khao khen nodded. “It needed to be.”

The Chieftain knew the truth of it better than most. Numbers had swelled faster than expected. Warriors from distant clans. Survivors of shattered tribes. Bands of young fighters seeking purpose. All had arrived hungry. All had eaten from the same stores.

Those stores had been thinning.

Hunger did not make orcs weak. It made them dangerous.

It sharpened tempers. It turned old grudges into fresh fights. It made discipline fray and pride flare. In the days before the supply train arrived, there had already been scuffles. Broken noses. Split lips. One incident that had nearly ended in bloodshed before a war chief intervened.

Food was not just sustenance.

It was control.

As the first sacks were unloaded, warriors gathered nearby, watching with open anticipation. Some laughed openly now. Others slapped each other on the shoulders, spirits lifting as if a weight had been pulled from their backs.

A young orc near the outer fire let out a bark of laughter. “I was starting to dream of gnawing on my shield.”

His companion snorted. “You would break your tusks.”

“I would die fed,” the first replied, grinning.

Nearby, one of the newcomers who had chosen not to chase the pinkskins earlier sat heavily onto a crate, relief washing over his features.

“The ancestors watch,” he said quietly. “They kept my feet planted.”

Another nodded. “Hunger makes fools of even strong warriors. Now there will be fewer reasons to fight our own.”

As meat was distributed to the cook fires, the camp filled with sound and scent. Knives thudded against chopping blocks. Fat hissed as it met flame. The crackle of roasting flesh carried across the encampment, and the low rumble of satisfied conversation grew steadily louder.

Even the defeated warriors, those who had returned from the failed pursuit, found their shoulders easing. Bowls were pressed into their hands. Cups filled. No accusations were thrown. No mocking words spoken.

They ate.

And with each mouthful, the sharp edge of shame dulled just enough to let exhaustion take hold instead.

One of them sat with his back against a wagon wheel, chewing slowly, eyes unfocused.

“We were fools,” he said at last.

“Yes,” his companion replied, tearing into a slab of meat. “But we are living fools.”

Around them, the camp of the Yohan First Horde changed character.

Where earlier there had been tension simmering beneath the surface, now there was weight and warmth. Warriors sprawled closer to the fires. Laughter grew louder. Songs began, crude and rhythmic, voices overlapping without care for harmony.

Brews were cracked open.

Not in excess. The overseers made sure of that. Enough to lift spirits. Not enough to dull readiness.

Khao khen watched it all unfold, his expression unreadable.

Supplies would not solve every problem. He knew that. Old grudges still existed. Pride still burned. The newcomers still needed to be integrated or restrained.

But tonight, at least, hunger would not be the spark that lit those fires.

The Orcish Horde was fed.

And a fed horde was a horde that could be shaped.

As the first light of dawn crept over the plains and touched the edges of the camp, the supply wagons stood emptying one by one, their arrival marking a turning point as important as any battle.

The war was far from over.

But now, the orcs were ready to continue it.