Rise of the Horde

476  Chapter 476

The Threian camp was a picture of exhaustion. Three nights. Three nights of snatched sleep, punctuated by the maddening, unpredictable appearances of Drok'tagar's Fourth Warband.

The constant threat, the jarring sounds of call for battle erupting at odd hours, had eroded the soldiers' morale to a dangerous low. Faces, usually etched with the grim determination of seasoned warriors, now bore the grey pallor of sleep deprivation.

Eyes, once bright with fire, were dull and bloodshot, reflecting the flickering campfires with a hollow gleam. The rhythmic clang of armor being cleaned, usually a sound of routine and order, was punctuated by groans and the low mutterings of men struggling to stay awake.

Agis slumped against a wagon, his head lolling. He hadn't felt truly awake in days. The constant adrenaline surges followed by the crushing exhaustion were taking their toll. He tried to remember the last time he'd slept for more than an hour without being jolted awake by the shriek of a horn or the roaring war cries of the orcs. The memory felt distant, hazy, like a dream he'd almost forgotten.

Beside him, a young recruit, barely a man, shivered despite the warmth of the fire. His eyes were wide and unfocused, his grip on his spear loose and unsteady. The weight of his armor seemed to have doubled, each movement a monumental effort. Agis felt a surge of pity, mixed with a grim recognition of his own mirroring state. They were all shadows of their former selves, walking corpses fueled by adrenaline and sheer willpower. Nôv(el)B\\jnn

"Another night," Agis mumbled, his voice rough with fatigue. "Another night of this."

A gruff voice beside him answered, "Quiet, Agis. Rest while you can." It was Sergeant Odric, his face showing the same weariness as everyone else, but with the added burden of responsibility.

He looked around the camp, his expression heavy with concern. The strength of the Threian army rested upon its soldiers' shoulders; now those shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

From his vantage point on the overlooking cliff, Khao'khen observed the scene with detached curiosity. He had watched the gradual decline of the Threian army's morale with a grim satisfaction.

Drok'tagar's Fourth Warband, though small in number compared to the Threian force, had proven remarkably effective in their harassment. He'd underestimated their ability to follow his arrangements almost perfectly and successfully shatter the enemy's resolve through relentless disruptions.

"They are crumbling," Khao'khen murmured to himself. "A few more nights, and they would be ripe for the taking."

Then, movement on the horizon. A slow, steady column of reinforcements advancing towards the weary Threian camp. The sight sent a wave of disappointment through him. He had already expected the Threian camp to call for reinforcements. Drok'tagar's objective to weaken the enemy had been successful but now a new challenge had arrived.

"Slow," Khao'khen muttered, his eyes narrowing. He counted the cavalry, estimating their numbers. Two thousand, perhaps a little more. Then came the infantry, twice that number. The scale of the reinforcements was significant. But it was what followed that truly caught his attention.

"By the spirits," Khao'khen breathed, leaning forward. The slow-moving wagons, straining under their enormous burdens, revealed their cargo. Massive siege cannons, larger than any he had ever seen, were being hauled towards the Threian camp.

The sight sent a chill down his spine, not because of the weapons themselves, but because it signaled a change in strategy. This was not a simple reinforcement; this was a clear indication that the Threian leadership really meant business and they are going to deal with them as swift as they can by bringing out their big guns.

The arrival of the reinforcements didn't immediately lift the Threian soldiers' spirits. The exhaustion was too profound, the strain too great. The new arrivals brought with them supplies and fresh troops, but the initial wave of relief was muted by the lingering impact of the sleepless nights. The cannons, though a powerful symbol of hope, seemed to stand as monuments to the sheer brutality of the war.

"Finally," Sergeant Odric said, his voice barely a whisper. "Finally, some rest."

As the new troops took over guard duty, and some tired soldiers were able to find a few hours of rest, Agis watched the setting sun. The light seemed softer, somehow kinder, even with the ongoing threat.

The reinforcements were here. But the mental toll of the previous days clung, leaving the soldiers with a weary exhaustion that even sleep might not fully alleviate.

The struggle was far from over, and though hope arrived with the reinforcements, the weight of the battles to come still rested heavy on their minds. Khao'khen, from his vantage point, watched it all unfold, recognizing that the outcome of the war might not be as easily determined as he had initially believed.

The flickering lamplight cast long shadows across the rough-hewn table in the Threian camp's command tent. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, a stark contrast to the crisp, clean smell of Major Gresham's meticulously pressed uniform.

He sat ramrod straight, his gaze unwavering as Captain Baldred, a man whose weathered face spoke volumes of years spent battling the harsh realities of frontier warfare, detailed the recent orcish incursions.

Lieutenants Gerber and Kael, younger and of lower ranks, stood rigidly at attention, their expressions betraying a mixture of apprehension and weariness. The weight of command, recently transferred from Baldred to Gresham, hung palpable in the air.

"These orcs, sir," Baldred began, his voice a low rumble, "they're… different. Not the mindless, brutal hordes we're used to. They've been harassing our camp, yes, but in a weird way. They show up roaring their battle cries as they call as for battle just like the orcs that we had dealt with before, but as soon as we mobilized the troops for the fight, they just...retreat." He tapped a worn map spread across the table, his finger pointing at the current location of the orcish camp. "They're avoiding direct confrontation, always retreating before we can even engage them. And they're showing… restraint."

Gresham remained silent, his eyes scanning the map, his mind already piecing together the puzzle. He wasn't a man for dramatic pronouncements; his leadership style was one of calculated precision, of meticulous planning. He'd inherited a situation fraught with complexities. The previous reports had painted a picture of typical orcish savagery, yet Baldred's account suggested a different, far more unsettling picture.

"They're… cunning, sir," Baldred continued, emphasizing the word. "They seem to be studying our movements, learning our patterns. It's unsettling, almost intelligent." He paused, his gaze fixed on Gresham, seeking confirmation, perhaps even reassurance, from the newly appointed superior officer.

"Unusual," Gresham agreed, his voice calm and measured, devoid of the emotion that simmered beneath the surface. "The reports I've reviewed from the outlying posts corroborate your observations. Increased scouting activity, coordinated attacks… It's not the typical chaotic savagery of unorganized orcish bands." He picked up a report, a sheaf of parchment bound with twine, and briefly glanced at the details. "There's mention of unusual looking orcs… sneaking around… This suggests leadership, organization… something beyond the average orcish war party."

Gresham's silence, while unsettling to the others, was not one of inaction. It was the calculated quiet of a mind processing information, weighing options, and formulating a strategy. He was known for his methodical approach, for his ability to analyze seemingly disparate pieces of information and synthesize them into a coherent picture. He was a master of strategy, and this situation, while unusual, was precisely the kind of challenge he relished.

"Captain Baldred," Gresham finally said, his voice still low but carrying an undercurrent of steely resolve, "I want increased patrols. Double the number. We need to understand their movements, identify their command structure, and uncover their intentions. We need eyes everywhere."

"Sir, the terrain…" Baldred began, but Gresham raised a hand, silencing him.

"I understand the limitations, Captain. We'll work with what we have. Lieutenant Gerber, I want you to focus on improving our intelligence gathering. We need better communication between our forward scouts. Lieutenant Kael, you'll assist Captain Baldred with patrol deployments."

Gresham tapped the map again. "I want a detailed topographical survey of the area where these group of orcs have been spotted at. Identify chokepoints, potential ambush sites, any strategic advantages we can exploit." His gaze was piercing, leaving no doubt about his expectations.

Baldred nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. This wasn't just about dealing with a few disruptive orcish bands; it was about identifying and neutralizing a potential threat of a different scale altogether.

"Sir," Baldred said, "we've noticed a pattern. They consistently avoid open conflict, preferring just harassing us by their presence. It's clear that they're conserving their strength for something larger or they are so few in numbers that they don't dare risk engaging us."

"Something larger, perhaps," Gresham murmured, his eyes fixed on the map. The implication hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet understood: This was not simply a matter of suppressing a few unruly orcs; it was a potential harbinger of a far larger and more dangerous conflict.

He knew that the fate of the Threian camp, perhaps even more than that, rested on his ability to understand the nature of this new and unsettling threat, and to respond accordingly. The task ahead was immense, but Gresham, a man accustomed to facing down the grim realities of war, would meet the challenge with the same unwavering determination he'd always shown.

The flickering lamplight continued to cast its shadows across the table, a silent witness to the gravity of the situation and the quiet resolve of the man now entrusted with the camp's fate. The night was long, and the struggle, it seemed, was about to become considerably more complicated.