Rise of the Horde

484  Chapter 484

The Lag'ranna Mountains, once echoing with the thunderous roars of the three "Thunder Makers", now fell silent. Their absence, a strategic masterstroke by Khao'khen had drastically altered the tide of the battle.

The relentless pursuit of the Threian infantry, previously fueled by fear and the devastating power of those enormous cannons, faltered. The orc casualties, once mounting with each desperate flight, began to lessen.

Sakh'arran at the very front of the orcish formation, raised a hand. The deep, guttural command for the horn of battle sliced through the chilling mountain air. A cacophony of horns, echoing the Horde Chief's order, reverberated across the jagged peaks. It was the signal. The Yohan First Horde, held back until this crucial moment, began its advance.

The horde's movement was not a chaotic rush, but a deliberate, chillingly efficient surge. It was the methodical advance of a predator, long biding its time, now unleashing its full, terrifying power.

The synchronized footfalls of thousands of orcs, the scrape of metal against metal, the low guttural growls and battle cries—all unified into a monstrous symphony that bounced between the mountain walls. The sheer scale of their numbers was enough to inspire dread, even at this distance.

Grog'nark, a veteran orc scarred from countless battles, led the remnants of his tribe down the mountain slopes. His breath hitched in ragged gasps, his muscles burning from the frantic retreat.

He glanced back, seeing the relentless Threian pursuit thinning. The pressure was easing, yet the grim reality of his dwindling numbers gnawed at him. He watched as warriors from his tribe stumbled, fell, and were swiftly dispatched by the relentless Threian blades.

The Threian infantry, still fueled by the adrenaline of the chase, had little time to react. They were caught between their momentum and the rising tide of the Yohan First Horde. Their disciplined formation, once a symbol of strength, was now stretched thin and vulnerable as they attempted to halt their advance. The first clashes were brutal.

The Yurakks, with their immense shields forming an impenetrable wall, held the line. The Rakshas, their spears quickly finding their mark as their preys came charging towards them. Their spears now dripping with fresh Threian blood. Some Threian blades found purchase in orcish flesh, but the sheer weight of the orcish onslaught began to push them back.

The ground was rapidly turning into a crimson mire. The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood, the screams of the dying, and the guttural roars of the orcs. The Threian shields, once shining brightly, were now marred with dents and scratches, many splintered and broken. Their once-proud ranks began to crumble under the unrelenting pressure.

One Threian soldier, his face contorted in a mask of agony, stumbled, his leg pierced by a Raksha's spear. He fell, his armor useless against the brutal efficiency of the orcish weaponry. Another, attempting to parry a blow, found his sword deflected by an orcish shield, leaving him exposed to a vicious spear thrust blow that shattered his skull open.

The battleground, a narrow defile between the mountains, became a scene of relentless carnage. Each step forward cost lives; each retreat cost more. The ground was slick with gore, littered with broken weapons, and the mangled bodies of both Threian and orcish warriors.

Grog'nark, despite his exhaustion and the death that surrounded him, felt a surge of grim satisfaction. The retreat from the Tekarr Mountains had been disastrous; now, this new engagement allowed him to salvage some pride. He fought with the fury of a cornered beast, his weapon a blur of motion, each swing aimed to end a life.

The Threians, though skilled and disciplined, were outmatched. Their initial momentum had been broken; their line, once unbroken, now resembled a shattered rampart.

The Yohan First Horde, initially restrained, now unleashed its fury. The weight of numbers, the brutality of their attacks, overwhelmed the Threian defenses. The relentless advance continued until the Threian ranks, once a formidable force, began to retreat, leaving behind a trail of the dead and dying.

The Yohan First Horde, victorious in this hard-fought clash, continued its advance into the Tekarr Mountains, their war cries echoing through the valley, a chilling testament to their relentless power. The battle was far from over, but for now, the tide had turned. The silent strategy had borne fruit. The cost, however, remained horrific, a chilling testament to the brutal realities of war.

The Threian line buckled. One moment, it was a wall of spears and shields, the next, a chaotic mess of broken limbs and spilled entrails. The Yohan First Horde, a tide of muscles, armour and snarling savagery, surged forward relentlessly.

Their disciplined ranks, honed through months of training and of brutal warfare, swallowed the Threian resistance whole. Orcs from the Rock Bear and Black Tree tribes, their faces contorted in bloodthirsty grins, flanked the main assault, their axes and clubs a whirlwind of death. They needed no command; the scent of blood and the promise of slaughter were invitation enough.

Lieutenant Deramis watched the carnage unfold with grim resignation. His own group, once a proud unit, was now a shattered remnant. Men screamed, not in pain only, but in terror, a sound that cut through the roar of battle like a knife.

He saw a young soldier, barely a man, his face pale with fear, collapse under the weight of a massive orcish axe, his body bisected in a spray of crimson. Another, his leg a mangled stump, crawled desperately towards the rear, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. The air itself seemed thick with the coppery tang of blood, a suffocating blanket of death.

The rhythmic thud of boots on earth, the clash of metal on metal, and the sickening crunch of bone were a relentless symphony of destruction. Each fallen Threian was another crack in their already weakening defense. Their once-bright shields, now scarred and dented, offered little protection against the relentless onslaught. The ground, once firm, was now a mire of mud, blood, and the scattered remnants of broken weapons. The very air vibrated with the collective agony of the dying.

On the higher ground, the Threian marksmen, finally finding some semblance of order, established a firing line. Their "boomsticks," as they called their primitive rifles, barked out a thunderous barrage. Their bullets ripped through the orcish ranks, tearing limbs from bodies and scattering the enemy momentarily.

But the effect was fleeting. The orcs, seemingly immune to fear, pressed on, their numbers replenished by fresh waves emerging from down below. The marksmen's fire provided only a temporary reprieve, a thin veil against the unstoppable tide of the enemy's advance. n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Deramis' gaze shifted towards the other mountainside. He desperately searched for any sign of the "Thunder Makers," the Threian artillery unit, their powerful siege weapons their last hope.

A heavy silence hung in the air where their thunderous booms should have echoed. Their silence was a chilling omen, a stark reminder of their dwindling options. The delay, however long it may be, felt like an eternity in the face of the unrelenting pressure.

The enemy was closing in, relentlessly pushing towards the center. He could feel the despair creeping into the hearts of the remaining soldiers. Their eyes, once full of resolve, were now dulled with a mixture of fear and exhaustion.

He saw a squad of men, surrounded by a pack of orcs, desperately trying to hold their position. Their shields splintered, their spears broken, they fought with a furious energy born of desperation. One by one, they fell, their struggles ending in silent finality. The orcs, fuelled by the bloodlust, moved on, their eyes already focused on the next target.

The sun, a malevolent eye in the darkening sky, seemed to mock their suffering. The wind carried the stench of death, mixing with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. The cries of the dying, the snarls of the orcs, and the sporadic boom of the marksmen's rifles created a horrific symphony of destruction.

Deramis knew that without the "Thunder Makers", their position was hopeless. The orcs, fueled by blood and the momentum of their relentless assault, would soon overwhelm them. He closed his eyes momentarily, picturing the faces of his fallen comrades, their lives extinguished in this brutal slaughter.

He reopened his eyes, his gaze unwavering, even as another wave of orcs crashed into their ranks. He gripped his weapon tighter, his knuckles white, preparing himself for the inevitable. The weight of command, the responsibility for the lives of his men, pressed down on him. He knew they were losing. He knew they were likely to be annihilated. Yet, he stood his ground, a solitary figure amidst the chaos, determined to fight until his last breath.

Some of his men fell around him. Their bodies lay scattered across the ground, a testament to the ferocity of the battle. He saw one of his closest friends, his face ravaged by the sharp and huge javelin hurled from somewhere, lying lifelessly among the corpses, a silent end to his brave fight.

Deramis found himself alone, surrounded by the dying and the dead. The weight of defeat was heavy on his soul, the loss of his men a crushing blow. The Yohan First Horde moved towards their firing position, a tide of merciless warriors who would show them no mercy.