Rise of the Horde-Chapter 513

Smoke still hung over the battlefield like a funeral veil.

Where the central wall had stood, there was now only a jagged maw of scorched wood and blackened earth. The dead lay thick along the trench lines, too many to count, orcs and Threians mixed together. Some were charred beyond recognition, their armor melted into their flesh. Others remained upright, impaled on makeshift barricades or slumped over the battlements as if they'd simply fallen asleep.

It was the first morning in many days without a direct orc assault.

And still, no one slept. They were afraid to let their guards down. Who knows when those orcs would launch their attack again, and they wouldn't want to be taken by surprise.

Captain Braedon walked the length of the central trench, his steps slow, deliberate. His boots crunched over ash and bone. Every few meters, he passed men too exhausted to speak, leaning on their weapons or tending to comrades with broken limbs, wounds big and small, and haunted eyes.

A scout approached him breathlessly. "No movement from the enemy lines, sir."

Braedon nodded. "Keep watching. They're not gone. They're just preparing for another round of attack."

At the far end of the trench, Sergeant Odric knelt beside a fallen soldier, closing the man's eyes with quiet reverence, the soldier died with eyes wide beside lay multiple orc corpses. Agis stood nearby, knife in hand, scanning the horizon with bloodshot eyes.

"They'll come again," Agis said, not looking at Braedon.

"I know."

Behind them, medics moved wounded toward the inner camp. The medical tents were already overfull. Triage lines extended into the mud. Supplies were down to scraps. Water was being rationed. They are running out of everything and were barely holding on. Words of reinforcement were yet to be heard.

And yet they endured.

Back in the command tent, Major Gresham sat at his writing desk, hunched over parchment that smelled faintly of smoke. A lantern flickered overhead, casting shadows on the dark circles under his eyes.

He dipped his quill into the inkwell. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

Then, with slow and deliberate strokes, he began to write.

"Blue Countess,

I will not waste another word with flowery greetings or meaningless formalities.

This is no longer a request. It is not a plea. It is a declaration:

The men of the Threia under my command have paid in blood for your political games. We have bled, burned, and broken. And in return, we have received nothing.

Your armies sit idle while our barricades crumble. Your coffers remain locked while our dead rot in the sun. Your name is spoken here not with reverence…but with resentment.

I have buried officers I once dined with. I have sent scouts younger than my own nephew into melee because there was no one else left to hold the line. And still you send no reinforcements. No word. No explanation.

Are we to assume that you will continue with this game of yours and leave us to die?

Or are you simply waiting for us to crumble till our last moments, and sweep in to be the savior of the day?"

He paused to dry the ink, his hand trembling.

Then he turned the page.

"Yesterday, we lost the central wall. We retook it…barely. The cost was immense.

We running out of powder. We have no fresh weapons to replace the broken ones. We are running out of food and water.

What we do have is resolve.

You gamble that our resolve will be enough. You gamble with the lives of thousands to preserve your own standing.

Let it be known: if we fall, history will remember not the orcs who defeated us, but the one who left us to die.

We do not fight for our own benefit, Countess.

We fight for the kingdom.

For what remains of our honor.

For the dirt beneath our boots.

May your halls be colder than the graves of my men."

He signed it with a heavy hand, then folded it, pressed the wax, and sealed it with a fist.

Outside, his runner stood waiting, covered in dirt and grime as he too have been unable to clean himself for the past days because of ongoing chaos.

Gresham handed the letter over without a word.

*****

A day's march to the North, beyond the smoke-choked sky, the Blue Countess's encampment basked in the sunlight of a cloudless morning.

White tents stretched in neat rows across a green meadow untouched by the ongoing conflict against the orcs. Musicians played soft harp music in the garden pavilion. Couriers passed through the canvas gates with stacks of letters, many of which were never opened.

In a shaded lounge, the Countess reclined on a cushioned chair. She wore blue silk trimmed with silver, a glass of iced wine at her side. Her face, pale and calm, revealed nothing as she accepted the latest scroll.

She opened the seal. Read in silence.

Then folded the letter again and handed it to her aide.

"File it with the others."

"My lady, he demands…"

"I read it."

The aide hesitated. "Should we…?"

"No."

A moment passed.

"Not yet."

*****

Back at the front, the fog rolled in again by evening.

Odric and Agis returned to their watch post at the central trench, weapons freshly cleaned, armor dented but secure. Their breath misted in the cold.

The soldiers were patrolling around in shifts and in groups as they have learned that too few of them would certainly get themselves quickly by the orcs.

The stench of decaying corpses filled the air, the thick scent of blood and flies were buzzing all round, but they paid no heed to them as they have more important things to be concerned about.

Agis squinted into the dark.

"I hate the wait."

Odric nodded. "I prefer the screams. At least then we know where they are, and where to fight."

From far beyond the horizon, a single horn blew.

Low. Deep. Echoing across the battlefield like a prophecy.

They were coming again.