Rise of the Horde-Chapter 488 -

The Threian camp, a chaotic sprawl of tents and makeshift structures, was engulfed in flames. Thick, black smoke billowed into the twilight sky, illuminated intermittently by bursts of fire as ammunition stores exploded.

The air crackled with the heat, carrying the stench of burning flesh, timber and rubber. Khao'khen, his tusks gleaming in the firelight, surveyed the scene from a safe distance. His face remained impassive. He gestured sharply to Maghazz who responded with a guttural grunt of acknowledgement.

"Leave it," Khao'khen stated, his voice a low rumble. "The pinkskins lives are forfeit. Our prize is secured."

Maghazz nodded. The order was relayed down the ranks of the Verakh warriors. They were an elite force, clad in dark, practical armor, their weapons gleaming menacingly. No celebration marred their disciplined retreat. They moved with methodical efficiency, their focus solely on securing the captured Thunder Maker and its accompanying ammunition along with some of the muskets that they grabbed along the way.

Two Verakhs, their hands blistered and smoking, were treated by a half-ass healer. One, a younger orc named Mogark, grunted slightly as his burns were cleaned and bandaged, while the other, a veteran named Falkar, simply gritted his teeth and endured the painful procedure.

Two more orcs were also being treated with one still being able to walk on his own while the other had to be supported. Both had been struck by the hasty blasts of the fleeing Threian soldiers. The location of their wounds was obscured by the blood that leaked from their wounds. The pain from their wounds, however, were still manageable.

The Thunder Maker, a piece of weaponry unlike anything the Verakhs had seen up close and personal, was carefully being carried by six hulking orcs on their shoulders . Its design, a marvel of dwarven craftsmanship, hinted at a sophistication that both fascinated and alarmed Khao'khen.

"Maghazz," Khao'khen said, "bring the Thunder Maker to Yohan along with those boomsticks. I want our best minds to study it immediately. We need to know how it works, and if we can possibly replicate it."

"It will be done, chieftain," Maghazz replied, his voice unwavering. The warriors, under Maghazz's direction, formed a protective cordon around the the spoils, maintaining a disciplined and alert formation as they commenced their retreat.

The captured Threian soldiers, around two dozen in number, were bound and marched alongside. Their faces were etched with fear and pain; some bore visible wounds, a few bleeding profusely. The Verakhs showed them no mercy; they were simply burdens to be transported back for interrogation and potentially, for later use as slaves.

The sound of crackling flames and distant screams followed them as they left the blazing Threian camp behind. As they marched along the mountain trails, Khao'khen pondered the captured weapon.

"Maghazz, have you found any documentation detailing this device?"

"No, chieftain. The Threian soldiers were unable to provide any useful information before they fell unconscious. Their language also poses difficulty."

"Let them bleed. There is no need for mercy. Find out among them who is familiar with this weapon, especially its operators. The Thunder Maker and those boomsticks. Those are the prizes of this battle," Khao'khen instructed in a calm tone that belied the grim determination in his eyes.

"The powder... it's different," Khao'khen muttered to himself, examining a small sample of the ammunition powder. "Is it different enough to be replicated?"

"We will find out, chieftain," Maghazz said, his eyes assessing the captured technology. "But more than gunpowder, it seems to be the craftsmanship itself that made it so formidable. Even if we find a similar powder, we may not know how to craft such a device without studying it first, the ores used to craft and how was it crafted."

"Correct," Khao'khen agreed. "Focus on finding out what ore it is made out of first . We should study it carefully. We only have one available in our possession. And if they succeed in reproducing such powerful weapon... our warbands will become unstoppable... possibly" he whispered the last word for he knows that magic also exist in this world. And if the Threians could get their hands on such weapons from the dwarves, what is stopping others from acquiring them too.

"How do we approach the interrogation, chieftain?" asked Maghazz. "The captives seem resilient, despite their wounds."

"Use whatever means necessary to make them talk," said Khao'khen, his gaze falling on one of the bound Threian soldiers, whose eyes showed a stubborn defiance despite the obvious pain he endured. "We shall learn their secrets. One way or another."

The march continued in silence for some time. The only sounds were the crunching of boots on the rocky mountain path and the labored breathing of the captured Threians. The night sky was a canvas of black and purple, with the distant flames from the burning Threian camp serving as a gruesome backdrop to their victory. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and blood.

Later, back at the erected camp of the orcs, Khao'khen oversaw the initial examination of the Thunder Maker. The tinkerers, a grim-faced group of orcs, goblins and trolls worked with grim determination, their eyes carefully examining the device. He observed their work intensely, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

The battle was won. A Thunder Maker was secured along with some boomsticks. The future, for the orcs, looked bright, even through the lingering smoke and stench of the brutal engagement that secured it. But the process of replicating such a weapons would undoubtedly require more effort and more bloodshed. It was a necessary cost, for this was the price of orcish survival against the encroaching pinkskins, and Khao'khen was prepared to pay it.

The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the rough-hewn tables and tents of the Threian camp. The air hung heavy with the scent of woodsmoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood.

Deramis, his tunic stained crimson, approached Major Gresham, who sat hunched over a rough map, his face etched with weariness. Deramis' report was concise, a litany of failures punctuated by gestures towards the map, indicating the positions of his unit and the supposed location of Lieutenant Faris's "Thunder Makers" – a detachment of artillery.

The lack of supporting fire, Deramis implied, had resulted in their side being overwhelmed by a significantly larger orcish force. His movements were sharp, agitated; his voice, a low, insistent drone.

Gresham listened impassively, his gaze fixed on the map, his expression unreadable. He made no comment, no encouraging nods, simply allowing Deramis to vent his frustrations.

The silence was punctuated only by the occasional crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the night – the rustle of unseen creatures, the groaning of men tending to their wounds. When Deramis finished, Gresham remained silent for a long moment, then dismissed him with a curt nod.

The Major's gaze returned to the map, his fingers tracing the route of the engagement. He was aware of the simmering rivalry between Deramis and Faris, a rivalry he had deliberately fostered. He believed in the sharpening effects of competition, the crucible of pressure forging stronger leaders.

But the outcome of this engagement hinted at a flaw in his strategy, a potential for devastating consequences if the rivalry spiraled out of control. He knew Faris, a seasoned veteran from humble beginnings, possessed a pragmatic approach to warfare; Deramis, his nephew, on the other hand, often exhibited an impetuousness bordering on recklessness.

The details of the battle, as recounted by Deramis, were grim: a swift, brutal orcish onslaught, a desperate, disorganized retreat; the Threian line shattered under the weight of sheer numbers, men falling in waves, their screams swallowed by the night.

Deramis' description painted a chaotic scene of broken formations, desperate hand-to-hand combat, the chilling clang of metal on metal, punctuated by the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. The absence of the "Thunder Makers" was a gaping hole in the Threian defense, he stressed, a catastrophic failure that had condemned his men.

Hours crawled by. The camp settled into a tense quiet, broken only by the sounds of suffering. The occasional moan of a wounded soldier, the hushed whispers of medics, the rhythmic thud of a hammer as a blacksmith worked to repair broken weapons.

Gresham remained at his post, the map illuminated by the wavering torchlight, awaiting Faris's return. He reviewed the battle in his mind, calculating probabilities, considering various scenarios. The details presented by Deramis lacked objective details, leaving much open to interpretation. Faris's arrival would provide crucial additional context.

Finally, well past midnight, a small, weary group emerged from the darkness. Lieutenant Faris, his face grim, his armor scarred and mud-caked, led the survivors back to camp. His movements were deliberate, his gait steady despite visible exhaustion.

The few remaining members of his detachment, likewise, showed signs of a hard-fought engagement. Some bore visible wounds; others walked with a stiffness that suggested unseen injuries.

Gresham summoned Faris for a private meeting. Faris's report, delivered with quiet efficiency, painted a starkly different picture. He acknowledged the initial success of Deramis' arrangement but stressed that the orcish response exceeded initial estimations, another group of orcs ambushed their attacking position.

Rocks and blazing balls of fire hammered their firing position which resulted in them losing two of the Thunder Makers in a powerful explosion along with its crew. They suffered heavy casualties attempting to maintain their position, and trying to drive off the attacking orcs but to no avail.

His account was far more detailed, providing a chronological record of events, supported by descriptions of terrain and the enemy movements. He lacked the emotional intensity of Deramis's narrative; his presentation was strictly factual, focused on the military aspects of the engagement.

Gresham compared the two accounts, noticing the discrepancies. Deramis's narrative was colored with accusations and personal grievances, while Faris's report was coldly objective, emphasizing tactical considerations and limitations of the situation.

The Major made no immediate judgment. He spent the remaining hours carefully reviewing the available information, studying the map, reconstructing the battle in his mind, trying to reconcile the conflicting narratives. The competition he had fostered had potentially led to a disastrous outcome, highlighting a critical flaw in his leadership.

As dawn broke, painting the eastern sky with streaks of pale orange and pink, Gresham reached a conclusion. The evidence pointed more towards a massive and unexpected orcish force and their cunningness, exceeding both Deramis and Faris's predictions, rather than a blatant failure of support.

This chapter is updat𝓮d by freēnovelkiss.com.

Deramis's accusations, it seemed, were based more on personal animosity than accurate observation. The war was far from over, and the Threian forces faced a strong foe, a foe clouded by misjudgment and secrets.

The rivalry between his two lieutenants, nurtured by his own flawed strategies, now presented a serious threat to the entire campaign. The coming days would require careful consideration, strategic recalculation, and, perhaps most importantly, a reevaluation of his leadership approach. The competition, he realized, had been pushed too far.

Realizing his mistake, he gave the order to the entire Threian camp to moved northwards, towards the mouth of the Narrow Pass. He realized that they were clearly at a disadvantage due to the surrounding terrains. The orcs were far more familiar with the Lag'ranna and Tekarr Mountains than them since these are their lands.

He planned to draw out the "weird orcs" as Captain Baldred called them, in the open. Gresham was planning on fighting them in an open battlefield, where the orcs won't be able to utilized their familiarity with the surrounding terrains to ambushed their positions. And also for their superior weapons to deal maximum damage against their foes where they have nowhere to hide.

By noon, the Threian camp was emptied except for the fortifications of their camp. The Major hoped that the orcs will only figure out about their retreat later if they make it seem that they were still around, but little did he know that their were eyes watching their very movement by the trees and shrubs not so far away from their camp.