Rise of the Horde

477  Chapter 477

The wind, biting and cold, whipped across the Lag'ranna Mountains as Khao'khen descended with his Verakh warriors. The moon, a sliver in the inky sky, cast long, skeletal shadows that danced with the swirling snow.

Behind them, a single, hardy squad remained, cloaked in the mountain's gloom, tasked with observing the Threian camp and reporting any changes.

The arrival of the Threian reinforcements, and more specifically, the colossal cannons, had forced a significant recalibration of Khao'khen's strategy. The previous plan, a slow, harassment, was now no longer viable. Those cannons, monstrous things of metal and fire, posed an unacceptable threat.

Their range and destructive power were too great a risk to ignore; a single volley could decimate his tightly-packed formations, the very core of his fighting strength.

Khao'khen, his face grim beneath the fur of his cloak, surveyed the sleeping orcish camp. The silence was heavy, broken only by the creak of the wind and the distant howl of a wolf.

The addition of the Threian cannons had shifted the balance of power dramatically. He needed a plan, and he needed it quickly. A plan that wouldn't involve a direct confrontation with those devastating weapons.

"Warriors of Yohan," Khao'khen's voice, low and gravelly, cut through the night. "We vacate the camp immediately. Quietly. Efficiently."

A murmur rippled through the assembled warriors. Confusion flickered in their eyes, but discipline prevailed. They knew their chieftain; his word was law. Questions were for another time. The Verakhs, renowned for their swiftness and stealth, moved with practiced efficiency. They dismantled their makeshift shelters, packed their meager supplies, and melted into the shadows.

"Drok'tagar must be informed," Khao'khen added, his gaze unwavering. "The Fourth Warband needs to know of this change of plans."

A swift runner, chosen for his endurance and speed, was dispatched. He would carry the news to Drok'tagar, the Warband Master of the Fourth Warband, across the treacherous rocky terrain. The message was simple: abandon the harassment. Rendezvous with the rest of the Horde . Nôv(el)B\\jnn

"The cannons.... are the problem, aren't they?" Grunted Maghazz, one of Khao'khen's most trusted warriors. His face was etched with worry.

"Yes," Khao'khen confirmed, "those cannons are a death sentence for any of our formation that comes within their range. A direct assault is suicide."

"So, what is the plan, chieftain?" another Verakh asked, his voice tight with suppressed anxiety.

"We will not engage them directly," Khao'khen declared. "We will strike at their weakness. Their supply lines. We will harass their rear, cut them off, make them bleed supplies, until they're forced to retreat or, at the very least, unable to use those cannons effectively."

"A protracted war of attrition?" Maghazz questioned, his brow furrowed. "It will be a long and bloody campaign. "

"It is the only way," Khao'khen replied, his voice firm. "We cannot afford a frontal assault, we fight where we can pick our battles, where the advantage is on our side. We are also outnumbered as we stand, we must proceed with caution. We'll hit hard and fast, then disappear before they can regroup. We'll cripple them slowly but surely."

"It will take patience," another Verakh commented, "but it's better than a slaughter."

"Patience, then," Khao'khen agreed. "But patience does not mean inaction. Every strike must count. Every loss must hurt. They will underestimate us. Let them. We will use their arrogance against them. "

By the time the first streaks of dawn painted the eastern sky, the orcish camp stood deserted. The fires were extinguished, the tents collapsed, leaving behind only the ghosts of a recent presence. The sudden abandonment was a testament to the Horde's' efficiency and their unwavering obedience to their chieftain. The mountains swallowed them, leaving behind only silence and the lingering scent of woodsmoke.

"Inform the scouts to keep a close watch on the Threian supply lines," Khao'khen instructed his lieutenants as they marched through the pre-dawn gloom. "Our first target will be their ammunition storage. We strike swiftly, and then we disappear back into the mountains before they even know we were there."

The cold wind seemed to whisper its approval, as if the mountains themselves were conspiring with the Verakhs in their plan to outmaneuver the Threian army.

The upcoming campaign would be long and arduous, a test of endurance and skill, a grim dance of attrition and stealth. But Khao'khen knew, deep in his heart, that it was the only way.

He had devised a way to fight the giant cannons, not with brute force, but with cunning, patience, and the element of surprise. The cannons were their nightmare, but the mountains were their ally. And they would make the Threian army pay for the arrogance of bringing those massive siege engines to the Narrow Pass.

*****

The pre-dawn darkness clung to the valley, a thick, suffocating blanket pierced only by the faintest glimmer of approaching sunrise. Major Gresham, his breath misting in the frigid air, adjusted the collar of his thick wool coat.

He surveyed his assembled force – half his infantry company, augmented by a contingent of marksmen, their "boomsticks" gleaming dully in the gloom. Flanking the infantry stood two of the six colossal cannons, their black barrels glinting menacingly. These were no mere field pieces; these were the dwarven Thunder Makers, each capable of unleashing a devastating barrage.

"Ready the special weapons," Gresham commanded, his voice low but firm. The order was met with the practiced efficiency of seasoned soldiers. The gunners, their faces grim and determined, swung the massive weapons into position, the rhythmic creak of metal on metal echoing in the stillness.

Gresham felt a grim satisfaction. This surprise assault, swiftly planned last night, was the product of his swift thinking. He was anticipating a brutal, bloody fight, a desperate struggle against a powerful enemy.

"Fire!"

The earth shuddered under the impact of the first blast. The roar of the cannons was deafening, tearing through the pre-dawn quiet. Two massive iron balls, each bigger in size than that of a man's head, ripped through the flimsy wooden palisades of the orcish camp. Gresham watched with a grim smile, anticipating the ensuing chaos. This was to be the beginning of the end.

But the anticipated response never came. There was no answering roar of fury, no panicked cries, no frantic sounds of an alarm being raised. Only silence. An unnerving, heavy silence that was far more disturbing than the din of battle.

"Another volley!" Gresham ordered, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. This was not how it was supposed to go. He had anticipated resistance, a desperate fight, but not this unnerving quiet. This was wrong. This was deeply wrong.

Again, the cannons roared, shaking the very ground they stood on. Again, the silence remained unbroken. The air hung heavy with the scent of gunpowder and…something else. Something acrid, something faintly sweet, something that sent a chill down Gresham's spine.

"Sergeant Odric!" Gresham called out, his voice betraying a hint of the growing unease he felt. "Send out a scouting party. Find out what the devil is going on."

Sergeant Odric, a seasoned veteran with a perpetually worried brow, saluted crisply. "Aye, sir." He quickly selected four of his most experienced men, whispering quick instructions. The scouts moved out, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom towards the silent orcish camp.

"What do you make of it, Sergeant?" Gresham asked, his gaze fixed on the direction of the scouting party. He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. His plan, his strategy, seemed to have fallen apart before it had even begun.

"I don't like it, sir," Odric replied, his voice tight with tension. "Too quiet. orcs ain't known for their quiet retreats."

Minutes stretched into an eternity. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird. Gresham felt a growing sense of dread, a premonition of disaster hanging in the air.

Then, the scouts returned, their faces pale, their movements jerky and frantic.

"Sir!" Sergeant Odric's voice was hoarse. "The… the camp is empty. Completely deserted."

"Empty?" Gresham's voice was barely a whisper. The words hung in the air, heavy with disbelief. He looked towards the wrecked remains of the orcish encampment. The cannons had done their work, leaving behind a scene of destruction, yet the orcs were gone.

A silence fell upon them, a heavier silence than the one which had preceded the assault. This wasn't the victory he had anticipated. This was…worse. The feeling of unease deepened into a profound sense of dread.

This unsettling quiet, this sudden, inexplicable desertion—it was a chilling harbinger, a prelude to something far more terrifying. What had happened here? And more importantly, where had the orcs gone?

The questions hung in the air, unanswered, a terrible weight hanging over the entire army. This wasn't a victory; this was the beginning of something far more dangerous.

The enemy was gone, but the threat felt far more palpable than before. The pre-dawn silence now held a far more ominous weight. The silence was broken only by the thump-thump-thump of Gresham's own heart.