Chapter 537: Chapter 537
The dead were many.
The plain still smoked from the wrath of frost and fire, and the air was thick with the smell of burnt blood and iron. Black crows wheeled above, their cries blending with the low chants of the shamans who walked among the fallen.
From the ruined heart of the battlefield, the orcs gathered. They came limping, some dragging the wounded, others bearing their slain upon makeshift stretchers of bone and bark. Where once they had surged like an unbroken tide, now they moved with grim purpose, proud warriors mourning for the fallen, but not broken.
At the center of the camp, a circle of crude banners flapped in the wind — black hides painted with symbols of the Red Fang, Ironblood clans, Black Tree, Rock Bear and other tribes now united under one mark: the face of a snarling wolf. The sigil of Khao’khen.
He stood among them now, silent as the pyres were built.
Khao’khen was no common warlord. Clear-headed than most, his skin bore the green-black hue of the unlucky orcs tainted greatly by the demons, and his tusks were carved were adorned with marks of triumph. His armor was of fine iron produced by the best smiths of Yohan, though broken in some parts, it still serve its purpose. The weapon that he holds was a simple war-spear of the toughest iron that Yohan can produce.
Around him stood his trusted commanders and the chieftains of the different clans, each a leader in his own right, each marked by scars and tokens of battle.
Grak the Iron-Fist, his right hand covered in iron.
Vir’khan the Wise, a shaman whose eyes glowed with ember light.
Dhu’mhur of the Claw, chieftain of the Rock Bear.
And the chieftains of the other tribes.
"Speak," Khao’khen said. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
Grak bowed his head. "The Threians fought harder than we thought. Their defenses broke, but they would not yield. Then the sky turned cold."
"Those giant birds," Vir’khan hissed, spitting into the dirt. "The harbingers of snow."
Grak nodded grimly. "Aye. Those riders came from the clouds. They burned half our siege works with ice and wind. Many of my warriors froze before they even saw their killers."
Khao’khen’s eyes narrowed. "How many did we lose?"
"Five thousand dead," Grak said. "Another two thousand crippled or scattered. But their force lies broken. The Threians fled. They will not return soon."
Silence hung heavy. Even the wind seemed to still.
Then Khao’khen drew in a deep breath and raised his spear to the sky.
"They struck hard," he growled. "They bled us. But the gods test only those they deem worthy."
He turned to the assembled warriors, thousands upon thousands of orcs, battered, scarred, bloodied but standing. "The Threians have their frost and their wings. We have fire and bone! Their dead rot beneath our boots, and their pride burns on our pyres! Let none say we do not honor our foes...for the strong are kin in battle!"
A roar answered him...fierce and proud.
"Raise the pyres!" he commanded. "All...friend and foe alike! Let the smoke carry their names to the war-god’s hall!"
*****
As the sun sank beyond the towering mountains, the plains came alive with fire.
Great pyres, built from the wreckage of siege towers and broken wagons, blazed in a wide circle. The shamans moved between them, chanting in guttural tongues older than any empire.
Each pyre bore its own purpose.
To the west burned the Pyre of Kin where orcish warriors were laid upon furs, their weapons resting across their chests, tusks painted in red ochre to mark their passage to the afterlife. Their clans stood nearby, singing the war-hymns of their ancestors, voices deep and sorrowful.
To the east burned the Pyre of Foes a rarer honor, reserved only for those enemies who had fought bravely. Threian soldiers, gathered carefully from the field, lay side by side. Their bodies were treated not as trophies, but as worthy offerings to the same god who watched all battle, Thug’mukhen, the War God of the Orcs.
When the flames took, the shamans lifted their staffs high.
"Thug’mukhen, hear us!" they cried. "We give you the fallen, strong of heart and blade! Feed upon their courage, and grant us strength to spill more blood in your name!"
Drums began to pound... deep, echoing, rhythmic. Warriors struck their shields, joining the beat. The air filled with smoke, sparks, and the scent of burning fat and pine resin.
And as the pyres roared higher, the orcs began to chant.
Not in sorrow.
Not in despair.
But in triumph.
*****
When the rites were done, the mood shifted.
From mourning to celebration.
The fires that had burned for the dead now cast their light upon the living. Barrels of fermented blood-ale were rolled out, and slabs of meat roasted over open flame. Drummers beat harder. Dancers... both warriors and shamans ... moved through the light, stamping the ground, their shadows writhing like living spirits.
Dhug’mur sat with his warriors, drinking deeply, the bandage on his arm forgotten. He laughed, even as pain wracked his body. "They thought the frost would kill us! Look ... we drink still! We live!"
Grak the Iron-Fist roared agreement. "Aye! Let them freeze their souls in the sky ... we’ll melt their bones in fire when they come again!"
Even Vir’khan, silent as he often was, smiled faintly as he tended a small brazier of sacred coals. "The god is pleased," he murmured. "He tasted valor tonight."
At the edge of the firelight, Khao’khen stood apart, watching. His face was calm, but his mind churned. He knew this victory was fragile ... one battle among many to come. The Threians were wounded, yes, but not broken.
Still, he allowed himself a small measure of pride.
He looked to the north, where the wooden tower ...their new fortress ... rose slowly from the earth, lumber and dirt. Soon it would be complete. From there, the tribes would rally. From there, the war would spread like wildfire.
"Let the frost come again," he said softly. "Let those birds bring the storm."
His tusked grin gleamed in the firelight.
"Fire eats frost, in the end."
The drums thundered louder, the chants rising into the cold night. The orcs of Khao’khen celebrated their dead and their victory both ... for to them, there was no difference.
All who bled in battle were immortal.
And all would burn brightly, before the end.