Rise of the Horde

The acrid smell of burnt Bufas fruit hung heavy in the air, a cloying sweetness mixed with the stench of charred flesh. Khao'khen, his serious face grim, surveyed the erected orcish camp.

A month trapped in the Narrow Pass, a month of simmering discontent, a month that had yielded little more than frustration. The goblins, thankfully, had returned with a substantial harvest of the incendiary fruit – a far cry from the powerful Thunder Makers that he wanted to arm his warriors with.

Zul'jinn's "boomsticks," crude imitations of the Threian muskets, remained unreliable, more likely to maim their wielders than their enemies.

"They're dangerous, Zul'jinn," Khao'khen stated flatly, his tone was soft but carried a lot of weight. He gestured to a pile of broken weapons, splintered wood and twisted metal. Two orcish warriors lay nearby, their limbs grotesquely contorted, victims of the boomsticks' erratic nature, and were being treated by Rakh'ash'ta and the shamans.

Zul'jinn bowed his head. "My craft is still crude... I need more time to make perfect my craft."

"Time is a luxury we don't possess," Khao'khen retorted, his gaze sweeping over the restless horde. Thousands of orcs, trolls, and goblins, a volatile mix of different tribes, chafed under the constraints of the narrow pass. The air crackled with barely suppressed aggression.

"I saw two Blood Fang orcs nearly kill a Razor Toothed orc over a simple misunderstanding," Dhug'mur reported, his voice low. "It took half a dozen of my warriors to pull them apart. They're close to breaking point, Chief."

Khao'khen nodded grimly. He knew it. The alliance was fragile, held together by the common goal of vengeance against the pinkskins. But that goal seemed further away than ever. The Threian defenses, stretching across the plains beyond the pass, were formidable. They had the advantage of superior weaponry, the Thunder Makers amongst them.

"The Bufas fruits are ready for use, Chief," a goblin worker, his eyes twitching nervously, announced. His kind seemed to be unaffected by the dark fumes of the burnt fruit unlike the trolls who became worse than drunks when they inhaled some of it.

Khao'khen sighed. The incendiary ammunition, while effective in limited scenarios, wasn't a substitute for the firepower they needed. "We'll use them to try and keep the enemy's powerful weapons in check."

"What about the catapults, Chief?" Zul'jinn asked. "They might be more useful than the boomsticks.

"The number of catapults are insufficient, they can not keep the Threian's at bay," Khao'khen replied.

"Not that way, Chief. I meant to use the catapults to throw the Bufas Fruits towards the enemy Thunder Makers. If we could hit their stock of explosive powder, then those powerful weapons of theirs would blow up into bits." Zul'jinn explained.

"Eh! Why didn't I think of that..." Khao'khen screamed inside his head. That was one way to try and keep those cannons at bay. "Good idea..." he replied to Zul'jinn. He must've been under to much stress lately and many thoughts running inside his head that he didn't think of such a simple idea.

"Since more time is required to construct more effective weapons," Zul'jinn added, "we can't afford to rush this process again, for it would be an insult to our fallen comrades who are the reason why we are attempting to reproduce their technology."

"I know, Zul'jinn. But our patience is wearing thin," Khao'khen said, his voice heavy with weariness.

That night, under a sky thick with stars, another brawl erupted. This time, it was between the Stonejaw and the Ironhide tribes, a brutal clash of teeth and claws. Khao'khen's warriors struggled to contain the violence, their intervention met with defiance from both sides. Orcs were bleeding and dying and maimed, their injuries mostly inflicted by their own tribesmen.

The next morning, the grim reality of their situation pressed upon them all. The Threian lines were visible now, a wall of fortifications stretching as far as the eye could see, defended by soldiers equipped with advanced weaponry and fortified by impenetrable walls of dirt and wood. The tension within the orcish horde was palpable.

"We march," Khao'khen declared, his voice echoing through the camp. "We establish a new camp north of the pass."

The march itself was a slow and tense affair. Khao'khen knew that every moment was a gamble. A spark of friction between tribes could ignite a war that would consume the horde before they could even reach the Threian lines.

As they set up camp in their new location, the sound of hammer against metal echoed throughout the temporary structure, a rhythmic counterpoint to the underlying anxieties of the chieftains and their warriors.

Zul'jinn had been working day and night, a testament to hiss dedication to his craft. Khao'khen watched him, a flicker of hope rising within him. If Zul'jinn couldn't replicate the boomsticks properly, perhaps he could forge something even better.

The Threian's were just waiting, and Khao'khen was aware that he and his forces couldn't wait any longer to test what Zuljinn would make. The war was not quite upon them, but its shadow was long and menacing.

*****

Agis, his left sleeve empty, stared towards the horizon. The orcish encampment sprawled near the Narrow Pass entrance, a festering boil of crude tents and sharpened stakes.

The memory of the ambush still clung to him, a cold, clammy hand around his chest. He'd seen men – his comrades – ripped apart, their screams swallowed by the roar of the charging orcs. The image of the twin curved blades, slicing through armor like butter, was seared into his memory.

"They're many," a gruff voice broke through his reverie. It was Trever, the other survivor, his face etched with exhaustion and a grim determination that mirrored Agis's own. Trever's right arm hung limp, supported by a crude sling. "More than we reported, I think."

Agis nodded, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene. The numbers were indeed staggering. He adjusted his grip on his sword, the cold metal a small comfort against the overwhelming odds. "The Major...he trusts this reinforcement?"

"General Snowe wouldn't send a pittance," Trever said, spitting on the ground. "Thunder Makers are expensive. Four thousand Threian Marksmen? That's a significant portion of his army."

"Significant enough, hopefully, to break through this," Agis muttered, the words barely audible above the wind whistling through the pass. The air hung heavy with anticipation, the silence punctuated only by the distant sounds of orcish activity.

The sun beat down relentlessly. The heat intensified the smell of decay hanging over the orcish camp, a nauseating mix of sweat, blood, and unwashed bodies. The orcs, thick-necked and brutal-looking, moved with a terrifying efficiency, their movements devoid of any unnecessary flourishes. Agis had no illusions about their savagery. He had seen their cruelty firsthand.

"The Threian Marksmen will have a clear shot from the ridge," Trever observed, pointing to a rocky outcrop overlooking the camp. "But getting them there... that's the bloody problem."

Just then, a distant rumble echoed through the valley, growing steadily louder. Dust clouds appeared on the horizon, marking the approach of the reinforcements. Agis felt a surge of hope, quickly followed by a wave of apprehension. The arrival of the reinforcements wasn't a guaranteed victory.

"Here they come," Agis said, his voice tight with anticipation. He watched as a column of soldiers emerged from the dust, their banners snapping in the wind. The shining barrels of the Thunder Makers gleamed like a finely crafted decorative obsidian in the sunlight; the Threian Marksmen, their movements precise and disciplined, formed a solid line behind them.

As the army drew closer, the sounds of war became more distinct. The thunderous clatter of hooves, the rhythmic march of infantry, the clang of weapons - all combined into a symphony of impending conflict.

Khao'khen told the orcs to have their rest for tomorrow they will fight. His words earned him thunderous cheers from the orcish warriors. He just shook his head after entering his tent, "They are really too easy to read and placate...." he muttered to himself, well it's not like he wanted to complain the orcs simplicity.

He was planning to send out the orcs who were too hot-headed to go and test the Threian defenses and observe.

Early the next morning, the battle that followed was a brutal clash of iron and fury. The Threian Marksmen unleashed a deadly rain of bullets, cutting down swathes of orcs. The Thunder Makers, with their devastating power, tore through the orcish lines. Orcs screamed as the bullets found their marks, their cries drowned out by the thunder of the siege weapons and the clash of metal on metal.

But even with the overwhelming advantage of superior numbers and weaponry, the battle was far from easy. The orcs fought with a savage ferocity that bordered on madness, their desperation fueled by a lust for bloodshed.

The ground became slick with blood, the air thick with the smell of death. Bodies littered the battlefield, a horrifying testament to the relentless violence.