Chapter 536: Chapter 536
Dawn broke gray and cold.
The Threian remnants moved in a thin, ragged column, winding their way through the war-torn plains of the Orcish Lands. What little warmth the morning offered was devoured by wind, a biting, whispering gale that seemed to carry voices from the dead field behind them.
The Baron of Frost rode at the head, his griffon moving through the plains like a lion through tall grass. Its feathers were matted with dried blood. Its beak clicked idly, impatient, as though longing for another hunt. Behind him trudged the wounded and weary, armor dulled, banners torn.
Major Gresham rode beside him, hunched and pale, every jolt of his horse’s gait a grimace of pain.
"Word from the scouts?" he asked.
"None since dawn," the Baron replied. His tone was clipped, not from anger, but calculation. "They were to check the road up ahead, since it was better than to be sorry less they might get ambushed out of nowhere by a band of orcs lurking in the shadows.
The two leaders of the Threian host were absolutely correct in exercising caution. Up in the mountains, a group of orcs were matching their marching pace as they watch them head north.
Gresham spat to the side. "Then we might meet more than dust up ahead."
The Baron gave a slight nod. "I expect so. The orcs wouldn’t let us go that."
They passed through a stretch of scorched land, shrubs and branches blackened and twisted from the fires of war. The smell of sap and soot mixed unpleasantly with the metallic tang of decay. Crows circled above, their cries echoing like mockery.
As they rode, the Major’s thoughts drifted.
He remembered the first time he’d faced orcs, a skirmish at a small village by the border. They had been disorganized then, frenzied and brutal but predictable. He had slaughtered them by the hundreds.
Now, though... they adapted. They planned.
And at the heart of it was this new leader of theirs.
Though he didn’t know who among the orcs it was, or what was his name, his existence hung in his mind like a curse. He had experienced it himself already, the discipline among the orcsih warbands like a proper army.
He tightened his grip on his reins. The energy within him stirred, a restless chill that hummed in his veins. It wanted to be unleashed.
"Baron," came Gresham’s hoarse voice. "You see it too, don’t you?"
The Baron blinked, looking toward the horizon. A faint plume of smoke curled from the north...not from battle, but campfires. Large ones. Organized.
"By the Light..." Gresham murmured. "That’s no survivor band."
"No," the Baron said, eyes narrowing. "That’s a camp."
*****
By noon, the scouts returned, bloodied, exhausted and terrified.
It’s a warband of fallen orcs.
Upon hearing the term the "fallen orcs", everyone’s face changed.
Among the orcs, there is a category of them that the Threians hated the most, the fallen ones. They are the orcs who knows no honor, unlike the majority of the orcs. They loved to torture any enemy that they see, making them suffer as much as possible until they die. Orcs who succumbed to the demonic influence and follows their demonic path.
The fallen ones would prey on anyone, even their own kind, the strong, the old, or the young, they don’t care. They enjoy inflicting as much pain as possible to any victim that they can get their hands on.
"They captured a hundred of our people, most are the camp helpers that retreated first from our previous battle," an angry snort came from one of the soldiers.
"Damn bastards," another soldier exclaimed.
"They’ve been suffering for days," one of the scouts gave a heavy breath as he dismounted, barely staying upright. "We saw more than ten of our people... their skin pealed from their body. And hanged by their ankle on poles around their camp."
"Anything else?" Gresham demanded.
The scout swallowed hard. "An altar. Eerie one at that. We saw orcs preparing and arranging some sort of ritual."
The Baron’s face darkened. "DEMONS."
"Demonic ritual," the scout added, his voice trembling. "There were markings. Runes. And the air around it... felt wrong. It seems to suck the life out of everything."
The Baron exchanged a look with Gresham. Both men understood what that meant: this was no mere group of fallen ones.
This was one of those troublemakers, who loved to stir chaos anywhere they go. Summoning demonic creatures or creating demonic plagues, and sacrificing lives for more power.
*****
That night, the Threian camp huddled against the wind, ringed by dim lanterns and the glow of cooking fires. Gresham sat beneath a makeshift canopy, staring over a half-burnt map.
"We can’t face them head-on," he said, stabbing a finger toward the inked lines marking the the area. "If that force marches north unimpeded, they’ll reach straight to the path use by our supply lines. Supplies would be cut off to the front lines. Less the Blue Countess discovers them and engages against them."
The Baron remained silent, gazing northward. The wind tugged at his cloak, scattering dust from his cloak.
"I can delay them," he said at last.
Gresham looked up sharply. "You mean suicide."
"I mean strategy," the Baron corrected. "My knights can harass them, strike their camp, slow down their progress. You’ll take the main column north to regroup with General Snowe. And warn the Blue Countess along the way to prepare defenses."
Gresham shook his head. "You’ll be outnumbered ten to one."
A faint smile touched the Baron’s lips. "Then I’ll make them believe I’m an army of ten."
*****
When dawn came again, fog lay heavy over the camp.
The Griffon Knights assembled in full regalia... twenty riders in gleaming froststeel, each mount armored and snarling. Their banners flapped in the wind like shards of frozen sky.
The Baron mounted his griffon, the creature shrieking as it unfurled its wings. He looked down at Gresham one last time.
"Tell the General," he said. "The snowstorm will arrive."
Gresham saluted, though his hand trembled. "And what of you, lad?"
The Baron’s eyes gleamed like moonlight on ice. "I am the snowstorm."
With that, he spurred his griffon upward. The wings beat once, twice... and the sky swallowed him whole. Behind him, twenty more took flight, their shadows sweeping over the land like the ghosts of vengeance.
High above the misty land, the Baron of Frost turned his gaze toward the black smoke rising in the distance.