Chapter 63: The March to War

  The cold air of Canindrus was heavy with tension as Marcus, Boruk, and Vira rode hard from the Beastfolk capital. Their departure was not one of triumph, but of urgency—every moment lost was another step closer to the Orc Stronghold falling to Thane Vulgaris' forces.

  King Rathgor had given his final words before they left. "Canindrus does not intervene in the wars of others lightly," he had said, his golden eyes weighing Marcus as if trying to glimpse the future within him. "But should you hold the Stronghold, should you endure the storm, Canindrus will recognize the Orcs as a sovereign force and offer trade support."

  It was as much of a guarantee as they would get.

  Marcus barely had time to process the implications before a fast-traveling messenger Raptor landed on Vira’s shoulder. The parchment tied to its leg bore Thalron’s seal.

  Vira read the note aloud:

  "The Orc Stronghold is already under attack. I'm sending what forces I can spare, but we will not reach you in time to stop the first wave. I have also sent Arixa to locate Vealeth. His motivations remain unclear, but I believe he will aid us in the war effort."

  Marcus nodded, storing the information away. "Good," he muttered. "We’re going to need all the help we can get."

  Boruk exhaled, adjusting his axe on his back. "If we push our mounts hard, we might close the distance."

  Marcus set his jaw. They were still two days behind the Thane’s preemptive war bands. The battle had already begun without them.

  The southern ridges of the Orc Stronghold burned. Flames crackled against the night sky, thick plumes of smoke rising high into the darkness. The first war bands of the Thane’s army had pushed deep into Orc territory under the cover of night, striking with precision and cruelty. Their goal was not immediate victory—but attrition.

  Commander Dresk, a grizzled beast-rider clad in Xenorian steel, stood atop an outcrop overlooking the battlefield. He was not a man of blind aggression but of calculated warfare. He did not believe in wasting men on a direct assault when he could bleed the enemy first.

  He adjusted the heavy bracers on his forearms and turned to his second-in-command, a lean, predatory-looking warrior named Gerric. "Have the mages harass them and keep their forces scattered," he ordered. "Their food, their supplies, their stamina—grind it all down."

  Gerric grinned, baring sharp, wolfish teeth. "By the time the main force arrives, they’ll be too exhausted to fight back."

  With a sharp motion, he signaled the Xenorian fire mages, who had already positioned themselves along the ridgeline. Their staffs and hands crackled with red-hot energy, eyes glowing with the rush of arcane power.

  "Burn them out."

  The air hissed as a volley of fireballs streaked through the night, trailing smoke before crashing down onto the Orc supply wagons below.

  Explosions erupted in succession—wood splintering, flames consuming vital rations, medical crates bursting into fiery debris. The heatwave was intense, licking at the stone walls of the stronghold, turning the ground beneath into a scorched ruin.

  A second volley followed, aimed at key defensive positions. Siege cover, barricades, anything the Orcs could use to fortify themselves—it was all set ablaze. The very landscape was shifting beneath them, forcing the defenders into a reactive state.

  Commander Dresk watched the destruction unfold, his mouth twisting into a satisfied smirk. "That should unsettle them."

  From the highest tower of the stronghold, Chieftain Miran observed the battlefield, his sharp gaze scanning the chaos. He did not yet know what had transpired in Canindrus, but his instincts told him the time for war had arrived. And he had prepared.

  He turned to his lead tactician, Gurak, a massive orc with thick silver bands tied to his tusks. His presence was a mountain of steadiness amidst the flames.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  "Gurak," Miran called, his voice calm despite the carnage. "Where do they focus their pressure?"

  Gurak did not hesitate. His eyes moved over the battlefield like a seasoned predator analyzing its prey. "They're targeting our stamina," he said, voice steady. "They aren’t committing their full force. This is meant to exhaust us before the real fight begins."

  Miran smirked. "Good," he muttered. "That means they still expect an easy victory."

  He turned toward his war captains. "Durmog and his archers are already prepared to handle the frontal assault, but I want Ragn and his scouts to move. Have them slip through the cliffs and strike from behind. If they want to bleed us, let’s make sure they bleed too."

  A low horn sounded in response, signaling the silent mobilization of Ragn’s unit. The orc warrior, his face streaked with black war paint, gave a sharp nod.

  Ragn and his scouts moved like shadows through the high cliffs. Unlike the heavy-armored warriors who stood at the stronghold’s walls, the scouts were built for speed, stealth, and ambush tactics. Their gear was stripped-down, their weapons light but deadly—short sabers, throwing axes, and heavy hunting bows.

  The Xenorian skirmishers below had begun their retreat, believing the Orcs were already losing ground.

  Ragn grinned. "They have no idea what’s coming."

  He raised a fist, signaling to the dozen scouts behind him. They lined up along the rocky overhangs, bows drawn. His eyes tracked the movement of the retreating enemy, waiting—waiting—

  "NOW."

  A sharp whistle cut through the night—the signal to fire.

  A storm of arrows rained down from above, each shot aimed with lethal precision. Xenorian warriors cried out as the first volley struck their exposed backs, piercing armor gaps and striking down unsuspecting troops. Some fell instantly; others collapsed with painful gasps, scrambling for cover.

  Panic spread through the Xenorian forces, their retreat turning into a frantic scramble.

  Ragn did not let up.

  He drew his curved daggers, signaling the second phase of the ambush.

  "Leave none standing!"

  The Orc scouts surged from their hiding spots, dropping from the ridges onto unsuspecting enemy backs. Daggers flashed in the moonlight, cutting throats, slicing hamstrings. Axes buried deep into Xenorian flesh, hacking down those too slow to react.

  A Xenorian sergeant spun, parrying Ragn’s incoming strike with a brutal upward swing of his longsword. Sparks flew as steel met steel.

  "You filth!" the Hyena beastfolk spat.

  Ragn snarled. "You should have brought more men."

  He twisted, kicking the sergeant’s knee inward. The snap of bone was audible even over the chaos. The man fell, screaming, before Ragn’s saber silenced him.

  By the time Dresk and Gerric realized what was happening, the damage had already been done.

  A third of their strike teams lay dead, cut down in the dark by an enemy they had underestimated.

  From his high vantage point, Commander Dresk’s expression darkened. The Orcs had responded faster than anticipated.

  "So, Miran was prepared after all."

  Gerric, nursing a bleeding shoulder from a glancing arrow, cursed. "They weren’t supposed to be this organized!"

  Dresk let out a slow breath. He had a choice—push forward and risk greater casualties, or pull back and report their findings to the Thane.

  "Fall back," he ordered.

  Gerric looked at him. "But—"

  "Fall back," Dresk repeated, sharper this time. "We keep the pressure up, but no unnecessary losses."

  The remaining Xenorian forces withdrew into the darkness, leaving behind burning supply crates, corpses, and a battlefield that had not swung entirely in their favor.

  As the fires died down, Chieftain Miran’s suspicions deepened.

  "This isn’t their full assault," he murmured. "They’re still waiting for something."

  The Orcs had won the first engagement, but Miran knew better than to celebrate.

  "This was a test."

  He turned toward his war council. "We hold the walls. We ration our stamina. The true battle is still coming."

  Ragn returned from the ridges, blood streaking his face, a grin on his lips. "We sent them running."

  Miran gave him a firm nod. "Good work. But this isn’t over."

  A dark gathering took place in the shadowed ruins outside the battlefield. A masked figure, wrapped in a cloak adorned with blackened runes, knelt before a robed envoy from Xenor.

  The envoy, his face hidden beneath a deep hood, spoke first. "The Thane’s forces advance, but our purpose remains unchanged."

  The masked figure responded, voice a mere whisper. "We are patient."

  "The stronghold will be distracted," the envoy continued. "Marcus Elder will return to the battlefield. That is when you move."

  The masked figure did not hesitate. "Once the battle begins in earnest… we take him."

  A spy, hidden within the Orc ranks, sent a discreet signal into the night—the Followers of the Black knew Marcus was still en route.

  All they had to do now was wait.

  The night stretched endlessly as Marcus, Vira, and Boruk pushed their mounts to their limits. The distant scent of smoke reached them—a sign that the battle had already begun.

  Marcus' grip tightened on his reins. They were still two days behind.

  "We’re not going to make it in time," Vira muttered, frustration evident in her tone.

  Marcus exhaled sharply. "Then we make sure that when we do arrive, we change the tide."

  Boruk chuckled darkly. "Hah. Just the three of us?"

  Marcus smirked. "You should know by now—it doesn’t take an army. Just the right kind of fighter."

  Their conversation was cut short as Marcus' instincts flared again.

  A presence. Something was watching them.

  He snapped his head toward the nearby treeline, but whatever had been lurking had already disappeared.

  Vira's hand went to her blade. "What is it?"

  Marcus hesitated. He had felt this before. Not just an enemy. A hunter.

  He narrowed his eyes. "Nothing. Yet."

  Boruk huffed. "Then we ride faster."

  They dug their heels into their mounts, galloping through the open plains.

  Marcus' heart pounded.

  The war had already begun.

  And he was riding straight into the chaos.