Rise of the Horde-Chapter 512

The sun never truly rose on the third day.

It hovered behind a thick veil of smoke and ash, a pale red eye barely visible through the haze that clung to the battlefield like death's own breath. The scent of blood and rot was very strong. Corpses from the previous clashes still littered the fields, some burnt beyond recognition, others trampled into the mud. No one had time to bury them.

Captain Braedon stood atop the central platform, his armor splashed with grime and dried blood. He hadn't slept in nearly two days. None of them had.

"They're massing again," Lieutenant Marcus said, lowering his spyglass. "A full push. Heavier than before."

"How many?"

"Hard to tell. A lot. More than we've seen."

Braedon turned toward the bastion's inner trench. "Get Odric and Agis to the central line. If the wall goes, they're our last hope."

As Marcus ran to carry out the order, the first of the drums began.

Low. Deep. Rolling like distant thunder across the open plain.

The Threian lines braced. Spearmen moved into formation. Archers loaded arrows. Boomstick gunners checked their fuses. Medics dragged away the last of the wounded from the forward trench.

And then the horns blew.

From the far edge of the battlefield came the orcs…more of them than ever before, almost the same size in numbers as their very first assault or a bit more.

They charged in a tidal wave of muscle, iron, and bone. Their war cries broke across the plain like a crashing storm, and this time, they did not come alone.

Massive creatures…hulking, horned brutes with crude armor plates …charged alongside the main force. Siege towers creaked behind them, flanked by fresh catapults pulled by trolls and humongous war-beasts.

The Threians opened fire.

Cannons roared. Boomsticks flared. Arrows whistled. The first ranks of orcs fell by the dozens, but they kept coming, scrambling over the corpses of their kin.

The wall shook as the first ladders hit.

They climbed in silence, methodical and unrelenting. Atop the fortifications, defenders stabbed and hacked, but for every orc killed, another took its place. Firebombs were hurled up from below, setting parts of the wall aflame.

Then came the breach.

A massive blast from one of the orc catapults struck the central wall dead-on. The explosion cracked the support beams and hurled two guards into the air like dolls. A moment later, the wall gave way.

The orcs poured through.

"Fall back!" Braedon shouted. "Fall to the trenches inside!"

The line fragmented.

Major Gresham, overseeing the battle from the rear bunker, didn't need reports to understand what had happened. He saw the plume of fire. He saw the central standard fall.

"Send Odric and Agis. Now."

*****

In the narrow trench beneath the collapsed wall, Sergeant Odric stood waiting, his battle energy covering his entire being.

He was flanked by a dozen veterans, their faces grim and bloodied, their battle energies also giving off a bluish color. Behind them, Agis crouched low, a short sword in one hand and a throwing knife in the other.

The first orcs dropped into the trench like falling meteors.

Odric met the first one with a boomstick blast to the chest, hurling it backward into the next. He reloaded without looking, ducked a blade, and jabbed a dagger into another attacker's thigh.

Agis moved like a shadow, slipping behind a shield line and cutting throats, disappearing again before any blow could land. He ducked, rolled, stabbed. His world had narrowed to movement, instinct, survival.

"Push forward!" Odric bellowed. "Drive them back into the breach!"

Threians surged from sides, slamming into the advancing orcs. The trench became a blender of gore and desperation. Mud turned red. Limbs flew. Screams echoed off wooden walls.

Above, on the rim of the trench, archers fired straight down, shooting arrows into the backs of orcs caught in the melee.

Odric took a mace blow to the ribs but didn't go down as his battle energy deflected most of the blow. He slammed the butt of his weapon into the attacker's jaw and followed with a thrust that crushed the creature's throat. Blood sprayed across his face.

He didn't notice. There was no time.

Chaos was all over the place as the orcs kept pouring in through the breach while the Threians were doing everything they can to keep them out.

The boomsticks kept ringing one after another, arrows whistling as they pierce on the exposed rear of the orcs.

Agis vaulted over a pile of bodies to save a pinned soldier, stabbing an orc in the neck three times in quick succession before dragging the man free.

"We're holding!" someone shouted.

"For now," Odric growled.

He looked up to see a Threian banner still flying above the trench. Tattered. Burned. But up.

The center held.

Corpses of the orcs were piled up near the breach on the wall.

*****

Back in the command tent, Gresham sat over his tactical map, eyes unfocused.

He had sent everything.

All reserves. All boomsticks. All trained marksmen.

And still, they were barely holding.

He reached for his quill with a trembling hand and began to write.

"Countess,

I now speak not as someone as your equal in standing but as the man holding the kingdom's line.

We have lost the central wall.

We have held it again, but I cannot promise we will do so tomorrow. Your silence speaks louder than any refusal. If this front falls, you will bear as much blame as any coward who fled.

I have sent boys to die today. Old men. Farmers with pitchforks and wounded soldiers who can barely lift a blade. They stood where your soldiers should have been.

If you have any honor, send them now."

He signed it, his hands smudging the ink. He sealed the letter and gave it to his courier without looking.

Outside, the sun had begun to set, though it was hard to tell.

All the light had already gone from the world.