Rise of the Horde

474  Chapter 474

The wind carried the scent of fresh leaves, wood and something else, something acrid and unsettling – the unmistakable tang of orc. The Threian Vanguard, a force numbering over a five thousand, stood poised on the northern side of the Narrow Pass. In front, nestled on the other side of the gnarled and rocky and narrow terrain, was the orcish encampment. A disconcerting stillness hung in the air, a silence more menacing than any war cry.

Captain Baldred, his face etched with lines of weariness and grim determination, addressed his lieutenants. His voice, though low, carried across the wind-whipped expanse.

"Three days," Baldred began, his gaze sweeping across the assembled officers. "Three days we've been stalled. No scouts return. No spies penetrate their defenses. What do we know about the orcs below?"

Lieutenant Gerber, his eyes sharp and alert, stepped forward. "Sir, their numbers are estimated to be… substantial. At least as many as ourselves, perhaps more. Their camp is well-defended, fortified positions dug into the natural terrain." n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"And their intentions?" Baldred pressed, his voice tight. "Are they preparing for an attack? A siege? Or are they simply… waiting?"

Lieutenant Kael, a seasoned veteran with a scarred face and a grim expression, offered his assessment. "Sir, their inactivity is concerning. Orcs aren't known for patience. This stillness... it's unnatural. It suggests a plan, something carefully laid out."

A murmur rippled through the assembled officers. The fear was palpable, a silent current flowing beneath the surface of their stoic expressions. They were the Threian Vanguard, elite warriors, but even the bravest felt the chill of the unknown.

"We need information," Baldred declared, his voice firm despite the tension. "We need eyes inside that camp. We need to understand their strength, their strategy. Without that, we're blind, vulnerable."

"Sir," Gerber spoke, "we've tried. Every attempt has failed. Their sentries are vigilant, their defenses formidable. Even some of our best scouts haven't returned."

"Then we need a new approach," Baldred stated, his gaze unwavering. "We will send in a small team, cloaked and under the cover of darkness. Their mission: to observe, to gather intelligence, and above all else, to return alive."

A silence descended, broken only by the whisper of the wind. Each officer understood the risk. The odds were stacked against them. It was a suicide mission in all but name. Yet, silence meant consent.

Later that evening, four figures emerged from the Threian camp, their movements fluid and silent. They were Sergeant Odric, a master of stealth and deception, along with three skilled scouts. Their faces were grim, their hearts pounding. They carried only the bare minimum of equipment – knives, rations, and a few lengths of rope. Their task was perilous, their chances slim.

Odric paused on the edge of the precipice, looking down into the rocky terrain. The orcish camp was as organized as well as their own camp, or maybe even better. Tents, fires casting flickering shadows that danced like malevolent spirits. The sounds of orcish chatter were carried on the breeze, and the clash of metal, the sounds of sharpening weapons, added to the unease.

"Remember," Odric whispered, his voice barely audible, "observation only. No unnecessary risks. Our lives depend on gathering information, not engaging the enemy."

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The four shadows descended into the darkness, their skills tested against the unforgiving terrain and the ever-present threat of discovery.

A few hours later, Odric and two of his companions emerged from the shadows, battered but alive. Their faces were etched with exhaustion and the grim understanding of what they had witnessed.

"Sir," Odric reported to Baldred, his voice hoarse, "their numbers are far greater than we initially estimated. Easily double than our estimation. Though they don't possess siege weapons, their gears are no joke . They are equipped with uniformed iron armors, there were two kind of such armors. Based on our observations, the orcish camp is filled with two types of orcish warriors, spear wielders and the other swords."

"Their plans?" Baldred pressed, his eyes fixed on Odric.

"Sir, they plan a coordinated attack at dawn in three days. A simultaneous assault on our flanks, combined with a direct frontal charge from their main force. Their goal is to overwhelm and crush us before we can react. That is based on this diagrams written on this map." He presented the parchment that he had taken from one of the biggest tents of the enemy camp.

A wave of grim determination swept over the Threian officers. The situation was dire, far worse than they had anticipated. But they were Threian soldiers, true to their duties. They would not yield.

Baldred turned to his lieutenants, his voice carrying the weight of command. "In three days..." he whispered. "Send out our fastes riders to inform the army closest to us. We will need reinforcements if we are going to survive their assault. For the meantime, prepare the defenses. Prepare for probing attacks."

The preparations were frantic, but orderly. The Threian Vanguard, facing uncertainty found a strength born of determination. The dawn arrived, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, a breathtaking backdrop for a battle.

The orcs arrived as predicted by Baldred, a roaring tide of savagery. But the Threians were ready.

But things took a confusing turn, the group of orcs just showed, stood still then turned around to retreat after creating noise. The Threian soldiers exchanged confusing looks, the question in their minds, 'The hell just happened?'

After the orcs disappeared from their sights, the Threian soldiers was just left their staring at the horizon with confusion etched on their faces.

Khao'khen, his massive orcish frame barely concealed by the shadows of a nearby boulder, watched with the intensity of a predator assessing its prey. The air, still crisp with the remnants of the night's chill, carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and something else, something subtly acrid – the lingering trace of fear.

He'd let them in, of course. The small band of Threian scouts who had infiltrated the camp the previous night hadn't been a genuine threat, not to the main force. Their presence was his deliberate design, a carefully orchestrated probe into the heart of the Threian military's responsiveness and organization. He needed to know their weaknesses, their strengths, their patterns. Information was the currency of survival in this brutal world, and he was woefully short.

His own past, shrouded in the mystery of his transmigration from another world, felt distant and unreal. The memories of that past life – the sterile gleam of technology, the comfort of predictability – were fading, replaced by the harsh realities of this existence.

He was now Khao'khen, an orcish warrior, and his knowledge of this world's intricate political and military landscapes was painfully limited. His earlier skirmishes with Threian forces had been chaotic, desperate struggles for survival, offering little opportunity for strategic observation. He'd been a pawn, tossed between warring factions, always fighting for his next breath, not for strategic advantage.

This, however, was different. He was no longer a pawn. He was a player, albeit one with a severely limited hand.

"They're swift with their actions," Khao'khen muttered, his words barely audible above the crackling fire. He spoke mostly to himself, the habit born from years of solitary contemplation, a necessity when surrounded by those who spoke a different tongue and understood less of his world-weary thoughts.

A gruff voice broke the silence. It was Maghazz, the overall commander of the Verakhs, a skilled orc whose loyalty was as unwavering as his loyalty was considerable.

"Pinkskins," Gorok spat. "They seem to be capable of providing more challenge than the dark-skinned ones to the south."

Khao'khen was already used to the way that the orcs called the others, the Threians as 'Pinkskins', the Ereians as 'Dark-skinned Ones', and the Elves as 'Long-ears.

"Looks like it," Khao'khen replied, "They are more organized than the Ereians and they seem...more capable.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, ominous shadows across the Threian encampment. A heavy silence, punctuated only by the occasional nervous rustle of armor or the creak of a shifting stake, hung in the air. The day's unnerving events had left their mark on every soldier, from the grizzled veterans to the greenest recruits. The orcs' inexplicable incursion, their sudden, silent retreat – it defied all logic, all experience.

Baldred, the Threian commander, stood apart from the main body of troops, his gaze sweeping across the camp. His usually stoic features were etched with a deep furrow of concern. He was a man accustomed to the brutal realities of war, a man who understood the language of bloodshed and the grim calculus of battle.

But this… this was something different, something unsettlingly unpredictable. Orcs were known for their savage ferocity, their bloodlust, their relentless pursuit of conflict. This display of… restraint? It was baffling.

He ran a hand through his short, dark hair, the gesture betraying the unease that churned beneath his calm exterior. The lack of a conventional engagement, the absence of casualties, only amplified the mystery and, consequently, the danger.

His mind raced, trying to piece together a plausible explanation. Was this a feint, a clever ruse designed to draw them out, to expose their vulnerabilities? A reconnaissance mission, perhaps? Or something far more sinister, something they hadn't even begun to comprehend?

His soldiers, mirroring his own apprehension, remained vigilant. Every shadow seemed to writhe with potential threat. Each snap of a twig, each rustle of leaves, sent a fresh wave of tension through the ranks. They were primed for action, their hands hovering near their weapons, their eyes darting nervously into the encroaching darkness.

The usual camaraderie, the relaxed banter of a camp settling down for the night, was absent. Only a strained silence, broken only by the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith hammering a horseshoe, provided a fragile sense of normalcy.

The night deepened, the stars emerging as faint pinpricks in the inky sky. Baldred continued his patrol, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel path. He checked the perimeter defenses, ensuring that every sentry was alert, every watchtower manned. He had ordered extra patrols, doubled the number of guards, and ensured that all weapons were cleaned and ready for immediate use. He wouldn't allow another surprise attack. Not while he was in charge.

Despite his efforts, a sense of foreboding clung to the air like a shroud. The unnerving silence of the night, the absence of the usual orcish howls and battle cries, created a more profound sense of unease than any cacophony of war could have. The quiet suggested a more insidious threat, a predator lurking in the shadows, biding its time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

As the hours crawled by, the tension remained palpable. Baldred knew that his soldiers were exhausted, their nerves frayed, but he couldn't afford to relax his vigilance. The orcs' unusual behavior demanded a cautious response, a heightened state of alertness that could only be sustained through unwavering discipline and relentless preparedness.

Sleep was a luxury they couldn't afford. The night was young, and the enemy, however unpredictable, remained at large. The Threian camp, shrouded in darkness and anxiety, waited. The wait itself was a weapon, a test of endurance as much as it was a tactical maneuver. Baldred knew, with a chilling certainty, that the night held more than just darkness. It held a terrifying uncertainty, a threat that remained unseen, yet powerfully present.