Rise of the Horde

475  Chapter 475

The sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the Tekarr Mountains, casting long, skeletal shadows across the Narrow Pass. A chill wind whistled through the sparse, wind-beaten trees, carrying the scent of fresh leaves and damp earth.

From his vantage point atop the small, precipitous cliff, Drok'tagar, Warband Master of the Fourth Warband of the Yohan First Horde, observed the six Threian scouts below. Their armor, polished to a high sheen, glinted faintly in the fading light, a stark contrast to the rough, unkempt appearance of the Yurakks under Drok'tagar's command who are huddled silently beside him.

The Threian scouts, clad in their distinctive silver-grey armor, moved with a practiced efficiency born of years spent patrolling around dangerous lands. Their faces, grim and determined, were etched with the fatigue of a fruitless search.

The previous dawn's feint, a swift surprise by the Fourth Warband, had left its mark. The Threians were on edge, their every sense honed to detect the slightest sign of orcish movement. The effect of the Fourth Warband's surprise, however fleeting, had successfully sowed the seeds of fear and uncertainty in their hearts, forcing a constant state of readiness that was rapidly depleting their resolve.

"Their tracks end here," the lead scout, a veteran marked by a scar that bisected his left eyebrow, announced to his companions. His voice, though weary, held a note of frustrated authority.

A murmur of confusion rippled through the Threian ranks. One scout, younger than the rest, voiced the unspoken question: "Don't tell me they just…vanished?"

Their gazes swept across the steep cliff face before them. The sheer rock, broken by occasional outcroppings of jagged stone, seemed an insurmountable barrier, even for the powerfully built orcs. The thought of the orcs scaling such a treacherous ascent, laden with weapons and armor, seemed ludicrous. They lacked the ropes, the specialized equipment, the knowledge; it was simply unimaginable.

Unbeknownst to the Threian scouts, Verakhs, the specially trained warriors of Yohan, the warriors trained to prowl and excel in jungle terrains aided the Fourth Warband. Before the warband of Drok'tagar made an appearance in front of the Threian camp, the Verakhs were already positioned on the cliff, out of sight, their sturdy ropes securely anchored.

These ropes, a vital element of the Fourth Warband's deceptive tactics, allowed for a swift and silent retreat from their earlier surprise. The seemingly impossible vanishing act was, in reality, a carefully planned and flawlessly executed maneuver.

Below, the Threian scouts continued their futile search, their frustration mounting with each passing moment. The fading light played tricks on their eyes, turning shadows into potential threats. Their once-confident movements became hesitant, their whispers betraying their growing unease. They were becoming prey to their own anxieties.

Amongst the Yurakks, a young warrior, his face barely visible in the shadows, let out a low growl. "Why don't we just jump on them?" he suggested, his voice barely a whisper, yet laced with the aggressive eagerness of youth. He pointed towards the six scouts pacing below, their silhouettes stark against the darkening sky. The urge to strike was undeniable; a chance to revel in the thrill of battle and to deliver brutal, swift justice, a sentiment shared by many Yurakks.

Drok'tagar, however, remained impassive. His gaze never left the scouts, his expression a mask of stoic calm. He responded in a low, gravelly tone, his voice cutting through the silence. "Chieftain's orders."

The simple statement, devoid of any explanation or further elaboration, immediately quelled any further discussion amongst the Yurakks. The warriors, hardened by years of brutal warfare, understood the implicit command.

Impatience and rash decisions were the enemies of success in war, and the Chieftain's orders were absolute. Questioning them was unthinkable, a transgression punishable by the harshest of punishments.

Silence descended upon the clifftop once more, broken only by the rustling of the wind and the distant calls of unseen creatures in the valley below.

Drok'tagar, his eyes fixed on the frustrated Threian scouts, allowed himself a brief, almost imperceptible, nod of satisfaction. The bait had worked flawlessly; the enemy had been lured into a false sense of security, allowing the Fourth Warband to escape undetected, and to avoid a potentially costly confrontation.

The mission was achieved, the warband intact, their strength ready for the next attack under the Chieftain's command, and this small victory was a sign of their unwavering loyalty and their ever-present ability to adapt to the challenges on the battlefield.

This was but one of the many weird battles in a longer, more treacherous war, and Drok'tagar knew that many more such bloodless skirmishes lay ahead. As per the Chieftain's words, "Some battles are fought in the minds of the participants, specially the commanders of the two forces," although Drok'tagar couldn't understand it, he just had to follow the Chieftains arrangements and everything will be well.

The six scouts, their armor dusty and their faces streaked with sweat and grime, trudged into the Threian camp. Hours of relentless tracking through the unforgiving terrain had yielded nothing but exhaustion and frustration.

Their quarry, a band of orcs, had vanished as inexplicably as they had appeared, leaving behind only the lingering scent of woodsmoke and the unsettling silence of the steep cliff face.

"Captain Baldred," the lead scout, a grizzled veteran named Agis, announced, his voice hoarse. He briefly detailed their pursuit, the relentless pursuit, the deceptive trails, and the baffling disappearance at the cliff's edge.

The other scouts corroborated his account, their faces mirroring his weariness and bafflement. The orcs had simply…vanished. No sign of a struggle, no discarded weapons, no bodies. Just an abrupt end to their trail, leaving a void of unanswered questions.

22:01

Unlike the brutish, predictable tribes they had encountered before, these orcs were exhibiting a level of cunning and elusive tactical prowess that was unnerving. Their disappearance near the cliff was particularly troubling, suggestive of a planned retreat or a hidden escape route. But what route?

The terrain was treacherous, seemingly impassable. Half an hour passed, then an hour, yet no solution presented itself. The mystery only deepened, fueling a sense of unease that gnawed at him.

"Their movements... they're unlike anything we've seen," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his greying hair. "Too clever, too… calculated. It's unsettling." The silence of the camp pressed in on him, amplified by the gnawing uncertainty.

He knew he couldn't allow his men to remain exhausted. Fatigue was a far greater enemy than the mysterious orcs. "Sergeant," he called out to a passing soldier, "Gather the men. They need rest, in shifts. We cannot afford to be caught unprepared, however unpredictable these orcs are."

The night settled over the Threian camp, a blanket of darkness punctuated only by the whispers of the wind through the trees and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth.

The Threian soldiers, weary but obedient, settled into their designated rest periods. The tension, however, remained palpable. The unusual nature of the orc's disappearance had unsettled them all.

An hour past midnight, the relative tranquility of the camp was shattered. A thunderous roar ripped through the night, the war cry of the Fourth Warband, Drok'tagar's band of warriors. The sound was unmistakable, chillingly familiar.

The alarm bells sounded, a cacophony of urgent warnings, tearing through the stillness. The resting Threian soldiers scrambled from their slumber, a mix of urgency and disorientation clear in their eyes. They scrambled for their weapons, their movements still clouded by the drowsiness of sleep. A palpable wave of panic began to wash over the camp.

The orcs surged forward, a terrifying tide of muscular figures and uniformed gears, their war cry echoing through the night. But just as the archers were about to unleash their volley, the advancing orcs abruptly halted.

A moment of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by the heavy panting of the roused Threian soldiers. Then, just as swiftly as they had appeared, the orcs retreated. Silence descended once more, heavier, more unnerving than before. The only sound was the rhythmic pounding of hearts, a silent testament to the inexplicable events.

"What in the gods' names...?" Baldred breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes scanned the dark landscape, seeking any clue to explain this bizarre actions of the orcs.

The air hummed with unanswered questions, the unsettling knowledge that these orcs were far more capable, far more unpredictable, than any they had faced before. The night was far from over; this strange orcs were really odd which left Baldred more confused than ever.

The weirdness of these orcs remained, a chilling and dangerous enigma cloaked in the shadows of the Threian camp. Sleep, for Baldred and his men, was a luxury that seemed a long way off.