Rise of the Horde - Chapter 577 - 577

The Snowe encampment sprawled across a series of low hills overlooking the Garthum River, its fortifications a testament to military engineering and desperate necessity. Unlike the Winters position in the mountain passes, General Aelric Snowe had chosen open ground where his superior tactics and remaining cavalry could be brought to bear. Three concentric rings of earthwork defenses surrounded the camp, each topped with sharpened stakes and reinforced with whatever materials could be scavenged from the surrounding area.

It had been nineteen days since they had last received word from the capital.

Nineteen days of silence.

Nineteen days of constant orcish harassment.

General Snowe stood atop the command tower, a wooden structure hastily erected but solidly built, his weathered face set in grim lines as he surveyed the approaching enemy. The dawn light caught the glint of crude weapons and armor, hundreds of green-skinned warriors emerging from the tree line to the east.

“How many this time?” he asked without turning, knowing his aide would be recording the details.

“Five hundred, perhaps six,” Lieutenant Cordell replied, his spyglass trained on the orcish formation. “Mixed clans again. I see Blacktusk banners, some Ironfang war paint, and… yes, Bloodmoon totems. No unified command structure visible.”

“Same as always,” Snowe muttered. “Brave individually, stupid collectively. Send word to Colonel Thaddeus. Infantry to the eastern ramparts. Cavalry to hold in reserve at the second ring. And someone wake the Baron. His griffons should be airborne before these savages get too close.”

“At once, General.”

As horns sounded across the camp and soldiers moved to their positions with practiced efficiency, Snowe allowed himself a moment of grim reflection. They had repelled twenty-three separate attacks in the past nineteen days. The orcish dead numbered in the thousands. His own casualties remained relatively light… fewer than a hundred killed, though the wounded count was climbing steadily.

But supplies were running dangerously low. Arrows could be recovered from the battlefield, but they broke or became unusable. Food was down to half-rations. The horses were suffering from the constant alerts and limited fodder. And the griffons…

He pushed the thought away. The griffons would hold. They had to.

The orcs came in their usual disorganized mass, war cries echoing across the valley as they charged toward the eastern defenses. They had learned, at least, to avoid the open killing ground directly in front of the ramparts. Instead, they angled their approach, trying to use the scattered rocks and sparse vegetation for cover.

It didn’t help them.

“Archers!” Colonel Thaddeus roared from his position on the ramparts. “Range three hundred yards! Elevation fifteen degrees! On my mark!”

Three hundred bowmen drew in unison, their arrows nocked and ready. The Snowe forces lacked the frost magic of the Winters mages, but they compensated with superior archery discipline and better equipment.

“Loose!”

Three hundred arrows arced into the sky, their iron heads gleaming briefly before plummeting into the charging orcs. The volley fell like deadly rain, and screams erupted from the orcish ranks as warriors fell with shafts through shoulders, chests, and throats.

“Second volley! Loose!”

Another wave of arrows. Another dozen orcs fell, their bodies tumbling and rolling as momentum carried them forward even in death.

“Third volley!”

But by now the orcs had closed to within a hundred yards, and their natural resilience showed. They came on despite their losses, bellowing rage and hatred, axes and spears held high.

“Switch to rapid fire! Choose your targets!”

The disciplined volleys gave way to individual shooting as archers picked their targets. An orc chieftain, distinguished by his ornate shoulder guards and the skull-topped staff he carried, took an arrow through the eye and collapsed mid-stride. A massive warrior wielding a two-handed axe managed to get within fifty yards before three arrows found his chest in rapid succession.

Then the orcs reached the outer earthworks.

The first wave scrambled up the sloped embankment, their clawed hands finding purchase in the packed earth. They met a wall of spears at the top. Infantry positioned behind the stakes thrust downward with brutal efficiency, impaling orcs as they tried to crest the rampart.

An orc with a scarred face and missing tusk lunged forward, ignoring the spear that punched through his shoulder. He grabbed the weapon’s shaft and yanked, pulling the soldier off balance. Before the man could recover, the orc’s axe caved in his helmet with a sickening crunch.

But the gap in the line closed instantly. Two more soldiers stepped forward, their spears finding the orc’s throat and belly. He died choking on his own blood, his body tumbling back down the earthwork.

“Hold the line!” Thaddeus shouted. “Don’t let them establish a foothold!”

The soldiers held. Shields locked together, spears thrusting in coordinated strikes, they formed an impenetrable barrier. Orcs fell by the dozens, their bodies piling up at the base of the earthwork.

Then the sky darkened.

Not with clouds, but with wings.

The remaining Griffon Knights of the Frost Baron’s company swept down from the eastern hills like avenging angels. There were only nine of them left… less than a third of the original force… but each rider and mount was worth ten ordinary soldiers.

The Baron of Frost led the formation, his armor gleaming silver in the morning sun, his scepter gleaming and ready. His griffon, a magnificent beast named Stormclaw with feathers of white and gold, screamed a challenge that sent instinctive fear through the orcish ranks.

The griffons struck the rear of the orcish formation like a hammer blow.

Aldric’s ice spear took an orc warrior clean through the chest, the impact lifting the massive body off the ground before the Baron released the weapon and drew his sword. Stormclaw’s talons, each as long as a man’s forearm, raked across another orc’s back, shredding leather armor and the flesh beneath.

To his left, Knight-Captain Serra on her griffon Dawnfeather executed a diving strike that ended with her mount’s beak crushing an orc’s skull like an eggshell. Her sword flashed out, taking another warrior across the throat as Dawnfeather’s wings buffeted two more orcs off their feet.

Young Knight Brennan, barely twenty but already a veteran of a dozen battles, brought his griffon Ironwing in low, the beast’s claws scoring deep furrows across the ground as it charged through the orcish ranks like a scythe through wheat. Orcs scattered before the griffon’s fury, and those too slow were trampled or torn apart.

The orcish assault broke almost immediately. Facing coordinated infantry to their front and griffon-mounted knights to their rear, the survivors fled in panic. Some tried to fight back, hurling spears and axes at the diving griffons, but the great beasts were too fast, too agile. The few projectiles that came close were deflected by the knights’ shields or dodged entirely.

Within ten minutes, the battle was over. Nearly two hundred orcs lay dead or dying on the field. The rest had scattered into the wilderness, their war cries replaced by the sounds of panicked flight.

The griffons circled once more before landing inside the camp’s perimeter, their riders dismounting with practiced ease. Stable hands rushed forward to tend the great beasts, checking for wounds and offering water and meat.

General Snowe descended from the command tower to meet the Baron personally. The younger man… for Aldric was barely thirty, young to hold such a title… approached with the confidence of someone who had just proven his worth yet again.

“Well executed, Baron,” Snowe said, offering his hand. “Your timing was impeccable as always.”

“Thank you, General.” Aldric removed his helmet, revealing a face that was handsome despite the scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his jaw. “Though I must report… Stormclaw took an arrow to the wing. Minor wound, but it will limit our effectiveness for the next few days.”

Snowe’s expression tightened. “How minor?”

“He can still fly, but not at full speed. I’d recommend keeping him grounded for at least three days to allow proper healing. Otherwise, we risk a more serious injury during combat.”

Which meant effectively losing their most powerful aerial asset for three days. Snowe nodded curtly. “See to it. We’ll manage with eight.”

“General,” Aldric said quietly, his voice dropping so only Snowe could hear. “We’re down to nine griffons from our original numers. The mounts are exhausted from constant deployment. The riders are holding up, but…” He gestured toward the eastern horizon where smoke still rose from orcish cook fires. “There are always more of them.”

“I know,” Snowe replied. “But what choice do we have? Without the griffons, our casualties would triple. We’d lose control of the battlefield entirely.”

“I’m not questioning the necessity, sir. I’m just… reporting the reality. We can’t keep this pace indefinitely.”

“No one expects you to, Baron. Just hold until reinforcements arrive.”

Aldric didn’t say what they were both thinking: that reinforcements should have arrived weeks ago. That the capital’s silence was beginning to feel less like bureaucratic delay and more like abandonment.

*****

Day twenty-one brought a different kind of challenge.

The attack came at dusk, when the light was failing and visibility was poor. Nearly a thousand orcs from at least four different clans had gathered, and for once, they showed something resembling coordination. Not true unified command, but at least agreement on basic timing.

They hit all three sides of the camp simultaneously.

The northern assault came from the Bonecrusher Clan, three hundred warriors led by a chieftain whose name translated roughly as “Skull-Taker.” He was a monster of an orc, standing nearly nine feet tall, his body a mass of muscle and scar tissue. In his hands, he wielded a war maul so large that a human would need two hands just to lift it.

The northern defenses were held by Captain Harwick and two companies of heavy infantry. They were veterans of the Borderlands campaigns, hardened men who had faced orcish raids before. But they had never faced anything like Skull-Taker.

The chieftain crashed into the line like a living siege weapon. His war maul crushed shields, shattered spears, and caved in armor with equal ease. Men flew through the air from the force of his blows, bones broken, organs ruptured. Within moments, he had created a gap in the defenses ten feet wide.

“Focus fire on the big one!” Harwick roared, but arrows simply bounced off the chieftain’s thick hide or embedded themselves harmlessly in the layers of crude armor covering his torso.

Skull-Taker killed seven men in as many seconds, his maul swinging in devastating arcs. Blood sprayed with each impact. Screams filled the air. The other orcs poured through the gap he created, widening the breach with savage efficiency.

“Fall back to second line!” Harwick ordered, realizing the position was lost. “Controlled withdrawal! Cover each other!”

But before the retreat could be executed, a shadow fell across the battlefield.

Knight-Captain Serra brought Dawnfeather down in a screaming dive, her lance aimed directly at Skull-Taker’s exposed back. The chieftain, his attention focused on the infantry before him, never saw her coming.

The lance struck between his shoulder blades with the force of a ballista bolt. The enchanted steel punched through thick hide, dense muscle, and bone, erupting from the chieftain’s chest in a spray of dark blood. Skull-Taker’s war maul fell from nerveless fingers. He took two stumbling steps forward, then collapsed face-first into the mud.

Serra wheeled Dawnfeather around for another pass, her sword now drawn. The griffon’s talons raked across two more orcs, disemboweling them in passing. Her blade took another across the throat.

With their chieftain dead, the Bonecrusher assault lost its momentum. The orcs who had pushed through the gap found themselves isolated and surrounded. They fought with desperate fury, but within minutes they were cut down or forced to retreat.

“Reform the line!” Harwick bellowed, and his men moved with practiced efficiency to close the breach.

On the eastern side, the battle was going differently.

The Blackfang Clan had brought warg riders… fifty mounted orcs on massive wolf-like beasts that stood five feet tall at the shoulder. They swept along the base of the earthworks, their speed making them difficult targets for the archers.

“Cavalry!” General Snowe commanded from his vantage point. “Counter their mounted forces! Don’t let them establish a harassment pattern!”

The Snowe cavalry, two hundred heavy horsemen in full plate armor, thundered out from the second defensive ring. They swept around the earthworks and crashed into the warg riders with devastating force.

Lance met crude armor. Horse collided with warg. Steel rang against iron. The impact sent both forces reeling, riders tumbling from saddles, mounts screaming in pain and rage.

A warg leaped at a Threian knight, its jaws gaping to reveal teeth like daggers. The knight’s lance took it through the throat mid-leap, the momentum driving both beast and rider to the ground. The knight rolled clear as the warg’s claws scrabbled weakly, then went still.

Another orc rider swung a massive chain-flail, the spiked ball at its end crushing a horse’s skull. But before he could strike again, two Threian knights converged on him from opposite sides. Their swords found gaps in his armor, and he fell bleeding from a dozen wounds.

The melee was brutal and chaotic. Horses screamed. Wargs howled. Men and orcs roared challenges and death cries. Blood turned the ground into a slippery morass.

But the Threian cavalry had better armor, better training, and better discipline. Within ten minutes, the warg riders were broken, the survivors fleeing with the cavalry in pursuit.

“Recall the cavalry!” Snowe ordered. “Don’t pursue beyond visual range! It’s a trap!”

Horns sounded the recall, and the cavalry wheeled about, returning to the camp’s perimeter. Just in time… from the tree line where the wargs had fled, fresh orcish warriors emerged. Hundreds of them, waiting in ambush.

“They’re learning,” Snowe muttered. “They’re actually learning to set traps.”

On the southern approach, the third prong of the attack hit hardest. Six hundred orcs from the Ironhide and Bloodspear clans charged together, their combined numbers threatening to overwhelm the defenders through sheer mass.

Baron Aldric led four griffons in a series of diving attacks, their aerial assaults breaking up the tightest concentrations of orcs. Each pass left a dozen bodies in their wake, talons and beaks and rider weapons taking a terrible toll.

Young Knight Brennan brought Ironwing down directly in the center of an orcish formation, the griffon’s landing crushing two warriors outright. Brennan’s sword flashed in the dying light, taking an orc across the eyes, another through the throat. Ironwing’s beak clamped down on a third orc’s shoulder, the bone crushing audibly before the griffon flung the body aside.

But an orc with a crude spear thrust upward, catching Ironwing in the chest. The griffon shrieked in pain and fury, its wings beating frantically as it tried to gain altitude. Brennan leaned low over the beast’s neck, his sword taking the spear-wielder’s head off in a single stroke before Ironwing managed to lift clear.

“Ironwing’s wounded!” Brennan called out over the combat. “We need to pull back!”

“Cover him!” Aldric commanded, and the other three griffons formed a protective formation around Brennan as they climbed away from the battlefield.

Without the griffons’ constant harassment, the southern assault pressed harder. Orcs reached the earthworks and began climbing, their numbers allowing them to swarm over the defenses despite horrific casualties.

“Second line, advance!” Colonel Thaddeus roared. “We hold them at the earthworks!”

Fresh troops surged forward, their spears and swords meeting the orcs at the crest of the ramparts. The fighting was hand-to-hand, brutal and desperate. Men died screaming. Orcs fell with multiple wounds. Blood ran down the earthwork slopes in rivulets.

A massive orc chieftain, his face hidden behind a helmet made from a bear skull, drove his way up the rampart through sheer determination. He killed four men before reaching the top, where he found himself face-to-face with Colonel Thaddeus.

The two warriors circled each other for a moment, then clashed. The orc’s axe came down in a overhead chop that would have split Thaddeus in half. But the colonel sidestepped, his own sword sweeping across the orc’s extended arm and severing tendons. The axe fell from nerveless fingers.

The chieftain roared and lunged forward, trying to grapple. Thaddeus ducked under the reaching arms and drove his sword up through the orc’s groin, twisting viciously. The chieftain’s roar became a shriek of agony. He fell to his knees, and Thaddeus’s second strike took his head clean off.

“Push them back!” Thaddeus bellowed, and the Threian line surged forward, driving the orcs down the earthwork slope.

The battle raged for two hours as darkness fell completely. Torches were lit along the ramparts, their flickering light creating dancing shadows that made the fighting even more chaotic. But gradually, inevitably, the orcish assault lost momentum.

Without unified command, each clan eventually decided to preserve its own warriors rather than die for glory that would be claimed by other clans. First one group withdrew, then another, then all of them.

By midnight, the battlefield was quiet except for the moans of the wounded.

General Snowe walked among the casualties, his face grim in the torchlight. The surgeons worked frantically, trying to save those who could be saved. The priests moved among the dying, offering final prayers and comfort.

“Casualty report,” he said to Lieutenant Cordell, who looked exhausted and haunted.

“Forty-three dead, General. Ninety-seven wounded, thirty of those seriously. We lost twelve horses. And…” Cordell hesitated. “Knight Brennan’s griffon, Ironwing. The wound was deeper than we thought. He’ll live, but he won’t fly again. Not in combat.”

Which meant they were down to eight griffons. Less than a third of their original strength.

“And the orcs?”

“Estimate four hundred dead. Maybe more. Hard to count in the dark.”

Snowe nodded slowly. A victory by any measure. They had held all three assault points, killed ten orcs for every man lost, and maintained their defensive position.

But it didn’t feel like victory.

Baron Aldric approached, his armor dented and bloodstained. “General. Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“We can’t keep this up much longer. The griffons are exhausted. The men are exhausted. We’re running low on everything except corpses to bury.” Aldric’s voice was quiet but intense. “And still no word from the capital. It’s been three weeks, General. Three weeks of silence. What if they’re not coming?”

“They’ll come,” Snowe said, but even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow.

“Will they? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like we’ve been forgotten. Or worse… abandoned.”

Snowe wanted to argue, to reassure the younger man that help was surely on the way. But he couldn’t. Not honestly.

“Get some rest, Baron. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

Aldric saluted and walked away, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion and doubt.

Snowe stood alone on the ramparts, looking out at the darkness where he knew more orcs were gathering. Always more orcs. He had sent fifteen ravens to the capital. Fifteen desperate pleas for reinforcements, for supplies, for any acknowledgment that the crown knew or cared what was happening in the east.

Fifteen ravens.

Not one reply.

He pulled out a small notebook, the pages filled with casualty reports, supply inventories, and tactical assessments. His handwriting grew more cramped and urgent with each entry.

Day twenty-one, he wrote. Repelled coordinated assault. Heavy casualties on both sides. Supplies critical. Morale deteriorating. Still no contact with capital.

He paused, pen hovering over the page, then added one more line:

How long can we hold?

He didn’t write the answer, because he didn’t know it.

But he feared he would find out soon.

Very soon.